On her first nights in the Croft, she had often wandered the halls in a sweet fog, as if in the grip of some subtle yet powerful drug. She was intoxicated with this place, a gothic fantasy come true. The half-ruined and abandoned halls of the old castle that Angus was working to restore, the ancient paneled rooms of the manor, seemed to draw her in and welcome her, recognizing her as one of their own. In return, she found a deeply satisfying beauty and peace in the ancient stones, the overgrown gardens, the sight of stars through a ruined tower.

Occasionally she would come across Angus as he worked in the high-ceilinged library, or in the dining room, or perhaps simply sitting in the great room staring into the fire. No matter what he was doing, though, he would look up at her and smile with pleasure, his gray eyes shining with appreciation, the charming and rueful smile he gave her a sweet apology for his staying up so late over his never-ending work. His smile was the one thing that broke through the fairy spell that made everything so unreal to her. It touched her heart with sweet pain to see him smile like that. From the first she had wanted him badly.

And even in those early days Anne had fancied that they were already like lovers. Though nothing had been said, nothing had been done to acknowledge this, their lives had intertwined to such a point that only a word need be said to make public what she knew already existed between them and tangle their lives together as the ivy tangled with the holly in the forest close by. She carried her memories of his numerous signs of affection for her like charms on a bracelet, each one so simple and perhaps insignificant, but together they were her adornment: the long conversations by the fire or walking the grounds, or the times she helped him with his painstaking restoration work. They were almost as man and wife.

And yet, he had never touched her. Had never confessed his feeling for her, feelings she knew he must have. Nights she had waited in the big canopy bed, door and windows open to the breeze of the sea, waiting for the sound of his step on the stair, the feel of his weight on her bed, the intoxicating smell of his body next to hers as he took her in his strong arms. Hours it seemed she spent watching her curtains flutter in the breeze, dreaming of his touch, yet nothing had ever come of it.

She had come here as an eager and naive graduate student doing her thesis on the Border poets of the late 18th century, the most famous of whom was the Laird Brian Tinne McConnachie, Angus's direct ancestor. Little remembered now, they had at one time had moderate success with their sensuous and mystical verse, poetry dealing with subjects not considered suitable in that era of pre-romantic rationality. At the end, their poetry had sunk to a level of blatant sexuality and paganism that scandalized even their most vocal supporters, and the Border poets quickly sank from view. Their remaining few books of poems were self-published and studiously ignored by their peers.

Laird Brian had been the acknowledged leader of this circle, but his papers and manuscripts had never been reviewed by a knowledgeable scholar. Anne, in fact, though still shy of her master's degree, was apparently the world's expert on the work of the Border poets, a sign more of their current academic neglect than of any outstanding scholarship on her part, and when after prolonged correspondence Angus had extended to her an invitation to come and examine his ancestor's works herself, she jumped at the chance.

She had intended to stay for two weeks. She didn't want to be a bother. But she hadn't expected Laird Angus to be so young and so handsome and charming either. Where she had expected a 60 year old in heavy tweeds and a calabash pipe she found Angus in jeans and a tee shirt with a scarf around his neck. Where she had expected a paunch and thin arms she found an athlete's body, strong and hard. And where she had expected a thick Northumberland accent and English reserve she found just a trace of a burr and a natural charm that immediately melted her heart.

Her infatuation only deepened as they spent long hours together alone in the baronial manor house known as the Croft, poring over Laird Brian's papers and eating the sumptuous dinners that Mrs. Travis prepared for them in the ancient kitchen. Warmed by the fire in the enormous hearth and fueled by wines from the Croft's own cellars, these dinners stretched into the night, as Angus delighted Anne with his tales of his bawdy ancestors and his own adventures. In the gloomy and ancient halls of the Croft, he was like the sun that brightened her days and turned the manor into a palace rich with life.

He had spent much of his life in America, which is where he made his fortune in bond trading. He came back to the Croft because he had had enough of New York, and had enough money to have a go at restoring the old pile before it was turned over to the National Trust. By a geographical and historical oddity, the Croft was neither in England nor in Scotland and so escaped the crushing taxes that had ended private ownership of the other Great Houses of Britain, and as long as Angus could afford the army of barristers who kept things this way, he was truly the Laird of the Croft and of the little village of Glendree down the road as well.

Things were almost perfect, Anne thought; almost. So close to perfect she was afraid to hope for more. She had her work, she had the kind of gothic castle she had fantasized about but never even expected to see let alone live in, and she was madly in love with Angus and was certain that he loved her as well. But why hadn't he done anything?

Each night he retired to his rooms, and she to hers. All the signs she gave him, all her flirtations, seemed to be have no effect. She wondered if he might be afflicted with what the French knew as the English Disease, and that he was secretly gay. But there was no sign of this. Or perhaps it might be a British class problem, of which she knew so little. If there was another woman, he'd never mentioned her. What was it then? Every night as she climbed the massive staircase to her room, so distant from his, and as she removed her clothes, preparing for another night in that huge and empty bed, she asked herself, what was it?

It was Angus's custom to celebrate whenever he finished a piece of reconstruction on the Croft, and on one particular night he took her to dinner in Dumfries. Anne had looked forward excitedly to this outing for days, for she was certain that that something special would happen. She went into Glasgow on her own and dipped into her savings to buy an entirely new outfit, down to her imported French stockings and under things. She had her hair and nails done, and she took extra time in her bath, wanting everything to be perfect.

She put on her brand new bra, panties, and stockings, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her brick red hair was arranged to frame her face, her green eyes sparkled, set off by her makeup. Her hands slipped down her body and she touched the slight bulge of her mons behind the sheer, shimmery fabric, fabric so thin that she could clearly feel every hair in the small puff of pubic hair she had left lest Angus think her too loose and wanton. She experimented briefly with her looks of love and surrender, and she wondered whether this would be the night that Angus would see her in her under things, whether they might in fact go further, and whether perhaps she would at last feel his hard lean body lying atop her own. The thought dizzied her, and she finished dressing in a romantic and sexual high.

Dinner was exquisite, the restaurant dark and romantic, and Angus seemed in high spirits, his laugh easy, his compliments sincere and accompanied by a look that told her of his sheer joy at being in her company. It was all she could do to keep from fidgeting like a school girl.

After dinner he wanted to go somewhere else, a disco a few blocks down the cobbled street. Anne's jacket was too little against the Dumfries chill so Angus took off his own and put it around her shoulders, enveloping her in his warmth and traces of his warm and exciting scent. She hugged the jacket to her and he put his arm around her as they walked.

As they reached a corner and stood in the shadows of the overhang of an old, medieval house, she turned to him. "Kiss me," she said, surprising herself.

Angus looked at her in surprise just for a second, but before she could blush at her rash words, the twinkle returned to his eyes and he pressed his warm lips softly to her own. It was a sweet and tender kiss. He held her face in his strong hands and gently tasted her mouth for the first time, and his tenderness made her knees weak.

"I'm sorry, Anne," he said. "I should have done this long ago. Forgive me."

"Oh Angus," she said, slipping her arms around him and pressing herself to him.

He embraced her and they stood there like that. She just reveled in feeling him so close to her.

Finally he laughed. "Look at us! What must we look like?"

She remembered that she still was wearing his coat, looking like a waif or runaway, he in his shirtsleeves. She laughed back the tears in her eyes.

"Angus," she said, unable to stop her words, "be with me tonight."

He buried his face in her hair, kissing her head. "Oh Anne, Anne! D'you have any idea how badly I want to? How I've though o' nothing else for weeks now? Don't you know you're driving me mad?"

She detected some reluctance she didn't understand and looked at him.

"There's something I must tell you," he said tenderly.

She wasn't surprised. She knew there had to be some reason that he had made no advance to her yet. Now she would at last find out why.

"Come," he said. "Walk with me."

She took his arm and they started down the quiet cobbled streets. She became aware that the fog was rolling in, puffy clouds of vapor came gliding up from the river in ragged shreds, growing thicker as they walked.

She gave him the silence he needed to collect his thoughts, and he didn't speak for some long minutes.

Finally he said, "I'm not like other men, Anne. Nor was my father, nor his father, nor his father before him. Nor was your beloved poet before them. In fact I think it started with him."

She gazed at him expectantly, holding his arm tight.

Finally he drew himself up and took the plunge. "You've no doubt heard of vampires?"

She felt a chill run over her arms.

He glanced at her and laughed sourly. "Nay, it's not like that. Like Dracula and Bela Lugosi and drinking human blood and all. Not like that at all. Maybe it was once, but no more. I'm flesh and blood, not the walking dead, I'm afraid. And I have the passions of a man, as I hope to show you. I have them in full, and more than my share."