And yet, he could still smell burnt flesh and spilled blood. The blood’s aroma was strong, heady, so much richer than the synthetic blood he was used to drinking. Against his will, his body reacted. His gums tingled as his fangs sought release.

He clenched his jaw. The poor woman had just been attacked, and he was tempted to bite her? What a coldhearted bastard he was. He ventured closer, circling around to examine her from the back.

He gasped. Holy Christ Almighty. Burn marks crossed her lower back, red and ugly welts. Higher up, across her shoulder blades, blood oozed from gaping wounds. She must have run, and the bastard had attacked her from behind.

“My lady.” He leaned over her. “I’ll take you to a healer.” Roman could help her.

No response. He couldn’t see her face. Her long hair was a tangled mass, covering her face and shoulders. The ends were singed and dark with blood, but he detected a glint of gold in the curls that tumbled over her face.

“Lass?” he whispered, and brushed the hair back from her face. The locks felt silken against his hand. As fine as the hair on a newborn babe.

His chest tightened at the sight of her face. In five hundred years, he’d never seen such loveliness. Such fragile elegance. There was a pearlescent luster to her skin as if she was glowing with beauty from the inside out.

Raindrops fell on her face, and she flinched.

“Doona fret,” he said softly. “I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

She moaned and shook her head.

He unpinned the length of tartan that he wore over a shoulder, then draped it over her hips.

Her eyes flickered open, then widened with horror. “No!”

He straightened. “Lass, I willna harm you.”

She shook with a sudden tremor. “Don’t touch me!” She kicked her legs, attempting to scramble away from him. When she rolled onto her back, she cried out in pain.