Prince of Midnight Read online

  “Damn.” He made a soft, wretched sound. “Damn you.” In the moonlight her skin was as cool and white as the stone columns. He ached to kiss it, to press his face in the curve between her breasts and inhale the erotic scent of her.

  She tugged upward, slowly pulling the shirt. It was deliberate, a harlot’s tease, and he knew it. It made him angry, and it made him desperate. The linen slipped from the smooth swell of her breast. A queer heat seemed to radiate from the back of his throat through his chest and his loins.

  She slid her arms above her head. The languid move lifted her, showed him her body like an offering: a delicious waist, the delicate bounce of her breasts as she stretched. He gazed at their tender, curving underside in fascination. Moonlight made her nipples exotic, the color of shadow.

  He made a rough sound. “I said I don’t want you like this.” He felt taut and helpless, refusing to touch her, unable to turn away. “Don’t do this to us.”

  She merely lay still, eyes closed, prostituting herself. Her body gleamed with the pale fire of the moon, as if she were a pagan goddess caught asleep among the ruins. As if in a moment she might wake and rise to dance with Dionysus, to seduce the reckless god and sink beneath him, entwined in leaves and heathen laughter.

  She opened her eyes and stared into his. He felt his soul slipping away, his reason dim in the rising hunger. In the night, amid the fallen columns, he could not think beyond her body. He felt the satyr in him, the elemental power of lust—so aroused he was trembling for her. He’d not had this for too long. He had no sanity left to master it.

  She watched him coolly, ice-beautiful and exciting. With a sudden groan he reached for her, slid his palms beneath her breasts and around her. The move made him dizzy. She was warm to touch, as if alabaster had come to life beneath his hands. He pulled her breeches free and felt her legs spread submissively beneath him. She seemed smaller then, so female, fragile and vulnerable and overpowering, swamping him with her compliance.

  He kissed her breasts, touched her naked hips and the soft, soft curls between her legs. He spread his bands against the earth and buried himself in her.

  He felt as if he’d lost his humanity and gone to the wild god that ruled this place. He saw it as if it were a painting: he saw himself taking her, in the dark grass beneath the moon, two nameless bodies framed by the ancient pillars. He wanted to stop; he wanted to court her and lure her and beguile her into loving him, but it was all lost in this animal burn; the exquisite dance of love reduced to a savage, glorious rut upon the ground. She moved beneath him, yielding to his urgent thrusts, driving him past coherent thought. When her hands came up to touch his shoulders and her legs lifted around his, he exploded.

  The deep sound of ecstasy echoed among the stones. His body arched in sensation. He held himself pressed hard within her, panting, feeling his blood beat violently through his limbs. She brushed her ankle along his leg. He cried out, jerked and shuddered in fervent reaction.

  Beneath him she lay still. His shoulders trembled.

  He let himself sag against her. With his eyes closed, he felt her belly, smooth and soft on his. He pulled his arms in around her and held himself inside. He knew he was breathing harshly, and that she wasn’t. He knew that she’d won—she’d only accommodated him, relieved his brute hunger to settle a debt, and he’d been so miserably desperate that he’d taken what was offered as if he were a beggar.

  He rested his head on her shoulder, furious and ashamed, and still he didn’t want to let go of her.

  A lock of her hair curled between his fingers. He rubbed it, feeling the dark silk, trying to slow his breathing and bring it under his control. After a moment, he touched the curve of her ear softly, tracing the shape.

  He couldn’t look at her, too aware that she made no move to return the tentative gesture, or even acknowledge it. No tender embrace or gentle hand against his back. Her breasts rose and fell in quiet rhythm, a mortifying contrast to his own.

  He drew in a long draught, pushed himself up, and rolled off of her. He got to his feet, fumbled at his breeches, and walked through the cool grass to the pillars that stood white beneath the moon. On a crumbling foundation stone he sat down and put his face in his hands.

  Some bastard had murdered her family, and all he could do was violate her. He was angry, and humiliated, and lonelier than he had ever felt in his life.

  S.T. slept far away from her, with Nemo curled against him in the grass. In the morning he woke to the sound and scent of breakfast. The wolf was gone. Leigh moved about purposefully, without looking at him, even when she brought him a cup of tea and a chunk of bread toasted over the fire she’d built. He accepted it wordlessly and watched her through the steam as he sipped.

  She loaded her satchel and carefully folded the packet of tea leaves before she put it back in a pocket of her frock coat. After she’d finished, she walked over to him and set his boots down at his feet. S.T. stared at them glumly.

  “They’re not quite dry in the toes,” she said. “You should oil them again to stop the leather cracking across the instep.”

  “Thanks.” He could not lift his face and look at her. She stood before him a moment. He gazed intently at her feet and rubbed his morning beard.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said in a quiet voice. “I believe it’s best if I return to England now.”

  S.T.’s mouth flattened. He looked off into the distance, where the morning mist hung about the edges of the meadow.

  “It isn’t because you can’t teach me,” she said after a pause. “I’ve thought about it. I don’t doubt you could. But it was an absurd idea, that I thought I could learn to be what you were. Even if it were within my power, it would take years, would it not?”

  He sipped the tea and leaned on his elbows. “Is that what you came to me for? To learn to be a highwayman?”

  “Not just a highwayman,” she said slowly. “The Seigneur du Minuit.”

  He shook his head and gave a short, dour chuckle.

  She stood over him, her face turned at a pensive angle as she watched him.

  “You’re a legend, monsieur,” she said suddenly. “My home is as isolated as this place; the people are simple; we see little of the outside world. You came there three times… on behalf of those ill-used and too weak to stand against their tormentors. Perhaps you don’t even remember, but we do. The people looked upon you as the final justice, above the sheriff and the magistrates and even the king—above everyone but God himself.” She stopped abruptly and swung away, frowning at a temple column. “Now they have another authority, and he’s the devil incarnate—but they cannot see it.” She took a deep breath. “I thought to resurrect you. To impersonate the Prince of Midnight and send him against this other—Thing—” Her voice held a faint tremor. “This monster who’s taken over their hearts and minds. ’Twas all I could contrive, monsieur… to make them see again.”

  He sat back and allowed himself to look at her. She’d put on the waistcoat and frock coat again, and stood in the morning sunlight like a vision.

  “Is this the man you want to kill?” he asked at length. “This man you say is a monster?”

  “Yes. But merely to kill him—I don’t know if it will be enough. I’m not given to flights of fancy. Understand that. Perhaps it’s difficult to comprehend, but he’s infected their souls. They’ll do anything for him. I’ll simply kill him if I must, but… I don’t know… what will happen then.”

  “These are your neighbors you’re talking about? You think they might turn on you?”

  “On me, certainly. Even on themselves.” She blew a harsh sigh and spread her hands. “It seems demented, I know! It is—lunacy. Sometimes I wake in the night and I think it must be no more than…” Her voice trailed off. She put her fist to her mouth. “Oh, God… how I wish I’d only dreamed it all!”

  The sun cleared the top of the wooded hills, sending golden light down through the last of the mist. It shone on her hair and caught the color of her e
yes.

  He watched her turn in a sunbeam. “So you thought to pass yourself off as me?”

  “They remember you. They remember that you’ve always been on the side of truth, and they believe in you. If you were seen to take a stand against this—this fiend who guides them, I thought they might turn away too.”

  S.T. bent his head, swirling the tea leaves in his cup. It seemed astonishing to him that he could have inspired enough faith in anyone for this implausible plan to occur to her. Oh, he’d known he had a reputation well enough; he’d relished it in his salad days. He’d lived for it. But when he looked back at himself, at his reasons for the things he’d done, it all seemed so far from truth and justice that he hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry.

  Truth. They’d supposed him on the side of truth. What if he should tell her that he’d chosen which supplicant to champion as much by the subtle shape of a hip and the charming curl of an eyelash as for the justice of the cause? Perhaps the world had seen only the victimized father or the defrauded brother or the persecuted cousin as the motive of the Seigneur du Minuit, but there had always been a woman in it. A woman… and the sweet, stinging flame of a gamble.

  “You shock me,” he said at last. “I’d forgot I was such a paragon.”

  She ducked her head. “You deserve esteem, for the things you’ve done,” she murmured, and then her chin lifted. “But my plan—it won’t work. I see that now. ’Twould take too much time to learn your skills, even if I could. And you—monsieur—I fear I’m not a good student for you; already you say that I make you insane. You want me, and I was willing to make fair payment in that way, but I see that you truly suffer for it.” She regarded him gravely. “I don’t wish to injure your peace of mind.”

  He ran his forefinger along a crack in the carved stone.

  “I think the damage has already been done, Sunshine.”

  She bent her head again. “I’m sorry for it.”

  “Are you?” He snorted. “I think you’ve a cold heart, ma’am, and a devilish supply of arrogance for a chit your age.”

  Her head came up. She scowled at him.

  “Ah, you don’t like to hear that, do you? I’ll wager you’ve had things well enough your way in life until you ran up against this.” He tossed the remainder of his cold tea into the grass and stood up carefully. “Aye, ’twas a silly idea that you could play at being me, not least because I’ve twenty years of hard cuffs and training behind me—with men who’d laugh till they turned blue if they got wind of your aspirations to handle a weapon and a horse.” His mouth curled. “You’re too old to begin and too weak to succeed and too slight to ever hope to pass as me—even mounted. Even in the dark. You walk wrong. Your voice is too soft. Your hands are too small—and a highwayman’s quarry sees his hands, y’know—try slipping a lady’s ruby from her finger with leather gauntlets on.”

  Her lips pursed. “Yes. I said that I was wrong. I didn’t think it through.”

  “Didn’t you indeed? You seem an intelligent little witch to me. You mean to claim you traveled all the way here without thinking it through?” He laughed caustically. “Oh no, you thought it out, Sunshine. You thought it all out. I’ll wager you had a solution for every one of those problems. You had it all planned. Until you got here and saw me and realized I wasn’t what you’d been led to expect.” He held his arms open and turned his face to the sky. “God, you must have been appalled. Finding some poor chap can’t even walk down a road without falling flat. Wouldn’t reckon he’d be any use at teaching swordplay, would you? Wouldn’t reckon he could get on a horse, much less teach you haut ecole. He looked back down at her. “So you’re going to leave—after spouting some noble bosh about it being for my own good and a dim-witted idea anyway.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And am I wrong, monsieur?” She took a step away and looked at him, hands on her hips. “You seem to me like a madman. You talk to the air. You look off at nothing when I address you, as if there were spirits speaking. You fight with the wolf over a scrap of meat like an animal. And yes, you do fall down.” Her voice began to shake. She dropped her hands and faced him. “You’ve fallen down three times, and barely saved yourself ten times that many since I’ve been with you. Do you think I haven’t noticed? I came to you for help. I can’t change it if you’re unfit to aid me. I wish—” She blinked, and her mouth tightened. Suddenly she turned away, standing straight and still. “I wish, I wish, I wish,” she said, staring out over the hills. “God help me. I don’t know what to wish.”

  The echo of her voice died away against the pillars. He let the silver cup fall from his fingers and laid his hands on her shoulders. Beneath his palms he could feel her stiffness, feel the taut shift of her whole body as she swallowed.

  “Sunshine,” he said softly. “Did you never once think of a different plan?” He reached out and touched her chin, drew her back to face him. “Did you never think that I’d go with you if you needed me?”

  She kept her eyes lowered. “There’s a price on your head if you return. I wouldn’t have asked it of you; I decided that from the first.” She bit her lip. “And now… forgive me, I don’t desire to offend you, but—”

  He cupped her face in his hands. “Now you see that I’m useless on all counts.”

  “No.” She strained a little against him. “No, I don’t doubt you could teach me as much as I was capable of learning, given enough time, But I haven’t the time, monsieur—I’ve taken too much already—”

  “You won’t need the time.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips against her forehead.

  “It’s hopeless,” she whispered.

  “Hopeless causes are my calling.”

  “You’re hopeless,” she said, more coldly. “And mad.”

  “Not at all. It’s just my pride. I can’t bear to think of you out there tarnishing my legend with your soft hands and smooth face and puny female efforts with a sword.” He stood back. “If my reputation’s doomed, mademoiselle, I’d just as soon muck it up myself.”

  It was harder to leave Col du Noir than S.T. had ever expected. The biggest part of him wanted to stay, to paint and be prudent, the way he’d been since the explosion that had taken his hearing and balance. He’d walked cautiously, moved slowly, taking care to keep himself well within the safe limits of activity that his unstable equilibrium proscribed. On fête days in the village, he never danced or played at boules, and he wouldn’t have tried to ride even if he’d had the heart to keep another horse after Charon.

  Until Leigh had arrived, he hadn’t realized how instinctively careful and inhibited his motion had become. He was suddenly aware of himself, not only of the vertigo and ensuing stumbles, but the way he calculated and held back in self-protection.

  He had yet to admit his deafness to her. Though he knew she’d noticed some of the signs, she didn’t seem to have fathomed the cause. She just thought he was crazy, because he stared at things she couldn’t see. So he went on trying to hide it, for reasons he couldn’t even explain to himself, the same way he pretended it meant nothing to him to pack up his paintings and his tools and store them under dustcovers and straw.

  Col du Noir was his cocoon, and he found he didn’t want to leave it.

  But there were other passions moving inside him. He kept thinking of Sade and his gold crowns, and the expression on the marquis’s face when he’d looked up and seen S.T. and Nemo in the doorway. He thought of Leigh’s white body in the moonlight. While he sat by the kitchen fire and worked the blade of his long-forsaken broadsword against a whetstone, he remembered the dark highway and the scent of a hard frost at midnight, and his blood beat harder through his veins.

  He would have to mount a horse again. That was the first test. If he couldn’t pass that one, she was right and it was all for naught. She tolerated his intention to go with her as a parent would tolerate a child’s preposterous fantasy, with grave nods and calm, enraging little smiles whenever he offered an explanation of his preparations. The thought of
failure was galling. He ached to stay in his safe cocoon and burned to show her he was still the master of his midnight art.

  He wished she’d start wearing skirts. Slender calves, round buttocks that showed beneath her coattails whenever she bent, damn her; she was turning him into a walking bombshell and she knew it. She used it. He wanted love, he wanted excitement and romance; she offered herself with chilly deliberation, as if that somehow protected her from him.

  And it did. It was a barrier more effective than stone. He understood the message. He could take her body; he’d never touch her soul.

  She read him that well. She offered terms she knew he wouldn’t accept. She offered that travesty at the Roman temple. She mimicked a whore on purpose, talked of payments and what she owed him, knowing that the more she debased what he wanted, the safer she was.

  In the end, all the power was hers. And they both recognized it.

  As he sat honing the spadroon’s glittering blade, his eyes drifted to her body. He tried to keep his lashes lowered, his attention centered on the blue gleam of fine steel, but his glance kept returning to the outline of her legs propped on the fender.

  He was certain it was calculated, that sultry pose. She might appear indifferent and composed, but she wanted to rub his nose in her ability to affect him. She wanted him to break again, make of himself a goatish fool. And even though he knew it, his heart and his reason kept getting confused. She was female, vulnerable and hurt and alone; he wanted to protect her. His whole body lusted for her. He imagined brushing his mouth against the curve of her throat, breathing against her skin, the cool scent and living heat of her in all his senses. Over his rhythmic work on the sword, he stared at her legs and fantasized until she silently stood up.

  She left the kitchen. He could hear her shoes echo on the stone stairs.

  He knew where she was going. Where else was there to go upstairs but to his bed? It was an offer as clear as a perfumed whore beckoning on a street corer. It made him furious. He finished the sword in long, savage strokes of the whetstone and stood up, balancing the weapon in his hand. With an inelegant slash, he attacked his shadow on the wall. Then he laid the broadsword across the table and picked up the colichemarde, made a parry and riposte with the lighter weight weapon, watching the tip of the blade catch the firelight like blood.