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I’d seen how fast he was. If he decided I was the enemy, he’d have me dismembered before I could even beg for mercy.
    â€œA coffin? Why?”
    Really? “Because you’re a vampire? That’s where vampires sleep.”
    His mouth curled into a handsome smile, and my heart pounded. “Is that so?”
    â€œYou tell me,” I said defensively. “You’re the vampire.”
    â€œI have been upyri for two hundred years, and I have never slept in a coffin.” He seemed amused.
    My eyes widened. “Is that how old you are? Two hundred years old?”
    He shrugged. “Once, I was.” He looked around the room, rubbing his chin. “But these things here, the walls, the stairs, the roads, the people . . . they are unfamiliar to me.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, roads and people? Did you leave while I was unconscious?” Not that I could have stopped him, but the thought of freeing a vampire to roam the canals of Venice bothered me. It felt irresponsible.
    He gave me an impatient look. “I am not a prisoner. What is the year?”
    â€œWhat year do you think it is?” I asked, curious. Some of my fear was fading out of curiosity for his story. Well, as long as he wasn’t biting my neck again.
    He studied the room thoughtfully, then me. “When I last slept, the year was 1386. Judging by the changes in the city, I would say it is perhaps . . . 1586? Am I correct?”
    I held my fingers up in a pinch. “Wee bit off.”
    His brows went up. “1650?”
    â€œKeep going.”
    His expression flattened. “1800. Truly?”
    Poor guy. “Um. So what would you say if I told you that the year is actually 2015?”
    His lips parted. “Truly?”
    â€œâ€‰â€™Fraid so. Hope you weren’t late for something. Like the Renaissance.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œNever mind. I’m just talking.” I waved a hand in the air. “Carry on.”
    â€œDid the Christians ever retake Jerusalem, then? Did they continue to crusade in later years?”
    Oh Lord. Talk about ancient history. But I forced a bright smile to my face. “You know, that’s a darn good question. I’d have to consult a history book and check. Why don’t I just go upstairs and look it up . . .” I trailed off as his expression darkened.
    â€œYou will not leave me behind, wench. I can find you by scent.”
    He could? And wait, what was this “wench” stuff? “Wench? I’m going to let that slide, since you’re medieval and all, but I have a name. I’m Lindsey Hughes.”
    â€œI am Sir Rand FitzWulf,” he told me. “Of the Lionheart’s Crusade.”
    â€œOh, um, okay. Nice to meet you. Actually, it’s not. You drank from me without asking. Not nice to meet you at all.”
    The vampire—Rand—looked at me curiously. “You are a peasant, are you not? Why would I ask? You are at my disposal as an overlord.”
    I pinched the bridge of my nose, because a headache was forming. “I’m not a peasant, and you’re not going to make a lot of friends with that kind of attitude.”
    â€œI am not interested in friends,” he told me coldly, “but vassals. And I have claimed you as my own, so tell me who your lord is so I can tell him I have chosen you.”
    I stared. He was joking, right? Did he really think he could just own me because he’d decided it? This guy was insane. I had to get away from him. “As your vassal, then, perhaps I should prepare your chambers upstairs before we go any further?”
    He appeared to consider this.
    But I pounced on the idea as an escape route. “You should let me,” I gushed. “I need to make amends. And a lord such as yourself must be befitted in the proper rooms, don’t you think? It’s tradition now to let a woman—a wench—go upstairs and fix your room for