In the beginning falling in love with her had absolutely appalled him, for he knew very well what he was. He had tried to save Samantha by pushing her away, time and again, only to realize he had not the slightest desire to live without her. Her own love had never wavered, even when Samantha had finally discovered the truth about him, and faced the monster inside the man. She hadn’t quailed or run away from learning she loved the most lethal killer among all the Kyn; she had stayed. She had demanded better of him.

For his part, Lucan had learned exactly what he would do to preserve and protect the love that had saved him. When Samantha had been shot and lay dying in his arms, he had ruthlessly dragged her back from the next life by pumping Kyn blood into her veins.

While Samantha rested, Lucan usually went down to his office to work until dawn, but tonight he felt little inclination to attend to business. He’d managed to keep his temper in check when she’d told him about the flowers, but the mysterious gift and her lack of concern over it still aggravated him. No doubt she was right and there was nothing to it, but he wouldn’t be able to relax until Garcia made certain of that.

There was one place in the stronghold where he could work off some of his frustrations and assess the new arrivals, and that was where he headed.

At Burke’s suggestion Lucan had purchased the five-level parking garage behind the stronghold’s main building. After enclosing the open-sided floors with concrete walls, Lucan had been able to do as he liked with the interior. The contractor he’d hired to cover the paved floors with many truckloads of earth had been puzzled, but no more than the lighting designer, the cabinetry installer, or the architect who had designed several auditoriums as venues for professional boxing.

Once the bare bones had been put in place, Lucan summoned his own men, who had oiled and packed down the dirt, adjusted the lighting, stocked the cabinetry, and designated the areas to be used for training and practice bouts. While walking through the completed lists, Lucan doubted any other suzerain or seigneur under Richard Tremayne’s rule could boast of having five stories of wide-open fighting spaces for his garrison’s use.

Tonight the men who were not on duty or out hunting had gathered on the first level, where training evaluations customarily took place. As Lucan entered through a side door, the guard standing inside straightened and bowed.

“Wait,” Lucan said as the guard prepared to announce his presence. He studied the rows of broad backs directly blocking his view of the demonstration area. “Has someone issued a formal challenge?”

“Aye, my lord,” the guard said. “’Twas from the visitors’ side.”

Warriors in strange territory seldom picked fights on their first night among the jardin’s garrison. Whoever had started this had plenty of nerve—or was an utter fool. “Which one made the challenge?”

The guard looked uncomfortable. “Their leader, my lord.”

Lucan’s brows rose. “How interesting. He must have been on his best behavior when I received them.” He reached for a hooded cloak hanging beside the door and pulled it on. “Stay here and say nothing of my presence. And for Christ’s sake, do not bow when you agree.”

The guard’s eyes widened before he composed his features and nodded. “As you say, my lord.”

With the cloak and the shadows obscuring much of his appearance, Lucan was free to join the crowd of men observing the bout. In the center of a rough, wide circle drawn in the dirt battled two warriors with short copper-clad swords. Both had stripped to the waist, their bodies blooded from glancing wounds that had already closed and vanished. From what Lucan saw, neither had gained an advantage; with their Kyn strength and ability to heal spontaneously they could fight for hours.

His men and the visitors had divided themselves on either side of the circle, and cheered loudly whenever their comrade struck or evaded a blow. Although such bouts were generally fought with some reserve to avoid the infliction of serious injury, the two men hacked at each other with the kind of ferocity seen only on the battlefield.

Sutton, a halberdier who had joined the jardin shortly after Michael Cyprien had granted Lucan the territory, displayed his expertise with the short blade by delivering a series of punishing parry and thrust combinations.

The visitors’ man, the bullish warrior who had introduced himself to Lucan as Vander, moved with surprising agility for his size. It spared his neck from being skewered by the blade, and lent him the speed and position required to deliver a sideswipe that bit deep into the guard’s thigh.

Several of the visitors cried out in one of the old languages for Vander to finish the work, but instead of pressing his advantage, the warrior stepped back and lowered his blade. “Is there no one among this herd of boys to match me?” He scanned the scowling faces of Lucan’s garrison. “Or do you all waste your nights swilling wine and swiving wenches while your lord tag tails after that fickle female of his?”

As angry mutters grew loud around him, Lucan turned to Piel, the warrior nearest to him. “Give me your blade.”

“Before I have a go at him? Piss off.” Piel glanced down at the black velvet glove Lucan extended, and cleared his throat. “Ah, forgive me, Suzerain, I did not see—”

“Blade. Now.” While Piel drew his bastard blade from its simple hip sheath to pass it to him, Lucan stripped off his gloves. The blade had some decent weight to it, and had been maintained with a razor-sharp edge. “Nicely balanced. Turner’s work, I presume?”

“Aye, my lord.” Piel appeared ready to choke. “Do you mean to kill the braggart yourself?”

“I wouldn’t need a sword for that.” Lucan pushed his way through his garrison to the front. Before he stepped into the circle, he spoke in a low voice to two of his guards. “Graydon, McNeil, come and take Sutton to the infirmary.”

The two men hurried out to lift the wounded Sutton between them and carry him away. The rest of the garrison, now aware of Lucan’s presence, fell silent.

“Look at this brave brute here,” Vander called to his comrades in the same old language they used. “Twice my size, he is, yet he won’t show his face.” As the visitors laughed, Vander craned his head, trying to see inside Lucan’s hood. In English, he asked, “Come to give me more to carve up?”

Lucan picked up Sutton’s sword and tossed it to one of his men before thrusting Piel’s sword into the earth at the center of the ring.

Vander looked over at his crew. “Ho. We’ve a warrior-priest among us, brothers.” He sauntered to the center and jabbed his blade into the ground a handspan from Lucan’s before glaring over it. “Best you pray for him.”

Lucan stepped back to the edge of the circle, and there waited until Vander mirrored his position.

Men on both sides shouted the count in the traditional Latin: “Tres, duo, unus, ineo.”

Lucan reached his blade in three strides; Vander’s shorter legs made it in four, but as soon as he grasped his hilt, he tumbled out of the way of Lucan’s attack and came up on his right to deliver a side sweep.

Lucan parried as he pivoted to face the man, who artfully dodged a riposte as well as a boot to his leg.

“The Temple never taught you that,” Vander said, grinning as he edged out of striking range. “Can’t bow before God on a shattered knee.” He feinted to the left before he lunged right.

Lucan, who regularly trained in private with his seneschal, had no difficulty defending himself from Vander’s sly attacks. The shorter man displayed some limited skill with the blade, but he had no form to speak of, and depended too heavily on deception and close-quarter strikes as he sought to gain the upper hand.

Amused, Lucan permitted his opponent to come within a breath’s width of wounding him before he drove him back again and again. As his frustration mounted, Vander grew more reckless, hacking at Lucan with no regard for his stance or position. At the proper moment, Lucan hooked the man’s ankle and sent him sprawling to the ground.

As Vander sputtered and cursed, Lucan stepped over him and kicked his blade out of the circle. He brought the tip of Piel’s blade to rest against the back of the man’s thick neck, pressing just enough to draw blood.

Both sides of the circle fell silent, and Vander quickly held out his hands in surrender. “You prevail, warrior.”

Lucan lifted the blade and nudged the man over onto his back. Only then did he pull back the hood. “As you see, Mr. Vander, I do not spend all of my waking hours swiving my wench.”

“Forgive me, my lord. Fighting always loosens my tongue.” He grimaced. “The match is yours.”

“So is this garrison, and they are not accustomed to being challenged by those who enjoy my hospitality.” He took in the dismayed faces of the visitors. “While you are welcome to train with my men, you will not pick fights with them.”

“Apologies again, my lord,” Vander said quickly. “We have been fighting for our lives for so long that we know little else.”

Lucan didn’t care for mewling sycophants, but he knew too well how it felt to have no place in the world to call home. He held out his bare hand, and after a slight hesitation Vander reached up and grasped it.

“You and your men will report to Captain Aldan for training at tomorrow sunset,” Lucan said as he helped him to his feet. “Single-handed combat form to begin. I expect to see some genuine progress within the week.”

Vander offered a bow of respect. “As you say, my lord.”

“One more thing.” Lucan brought the tip of his sword to Vander’s throat. “Speak ill of my lady again, and you’ll not have a tongue to flap during a fight.”

Vander gave a tiny nod of his head.

As Lucan returned the blade to Piel, the men of the garrison parted and formed two-column ranks. Instead of bowing when Lucan walked down the center to leave, they drew their daggers and tapped the hilts against their chest armor, a show of respect usually reserved for a fellow warrior who had distinguished himself in battle.