The Prince of Midnight (23 page)

He wanted to drive her backward onto the bed, to bury himself in her
instantly. But she slipped from his grasp, twisting free with a shrug.

His eyes opened. She stepped back as he reached for her. She had a faint wry
smile, a strange brightness to her eyes as she surveyed him.

"You're a very beautiful man, monsieur," she murmured. "But I think our
ledger is in balance for now."

Before he could adjust to the sudden change in the direction of events, she
pulled down her sleeves and slipped out the door, leaving him standing alone and
soapy in a hip bath.

He heard the latch clunk. For a long moment he simply stared at the door,
confounded. He sent a wild look around the room, breathing fiercely.

He could not believe it. His body rejected it entirely, demanding completion.
He let out a shout of rage that sent Nemo scrambling under the bed.

The door stayed closed.

"
Leigh
!" he roared.

There was only the sound of the slow, worried thump of Nemo's tail.

"Jesus," he said. "You little bitch. You vicious little . . .
God!"
He broke off, beyond words. An inarticulate snarl was all that passed his
throat.

He shoved one fist into the other. His body ached and burned. He stared again
at the door, had a wild thought of snatching one of the coats and going after
her; realized what an unutterable ass he would look if he tried.

"God damn you,
what do you want?"
he shouted. "What do you want;
what do you want? Cold-blooded bitch—is this it?"

No answer.

With a furious splash, he sat down in the tub. He put his hand over his face
and chewed his fist. He was breathing hard, panting through his nose in harsh
gusts. Over, he thought. Over. That's it. No more.

He grabbed the extra bucket and poured ice-cold water down on his head.

Two hours later, he stood before the mirror on the dressing table, glaring at
himself. He wore the bronze velvet, because that was the first thing on top of
the pile, with blond lace and a waistcoat of gold tissue embroidered in green
silk and silver thread. The whole rig gave him a metallic shimmer, picking up
the gilded gleam of his hair, which he left unpowdered for just that reason. He
thought he looked well. He hoped he looked damned good. He snarled at his image
and saw a golden satyr sneer back.

He drew in a deep breath. He swung off the stool and kicked the damp towels
out of the way, banged open the door, and signaled for Nemo, who came
reluctantly, his tail between his legs. S.T. took an extra minute to get down on
his knees and reassure the animal, but although Nemo licked his face and put his
paws on S.T.'s shoulders, he still moved with the half-creeping posture of a
worried wolf as he followed S.T. down the corridor— another crime to place at
Leigh Strachan's door.

When he reached the front hall, the landlord looked up from his ledger and
smiled. S.T. had a notion that the state of his marital tranquillity was known
throughout the inn, but the man made no sign, simply directed him to a private
parlor, where the innkeeper said Mrs. Maitland was awaiting her husband.

He stepped inside the opened door. In a pleasant salon warmed by candlelight
on rich linen-fold paneling, a young woman sat by the fireplace, reading.

He hardly recognized her. She rose as he entered and curtsied to him, bending
low, spreading a fan and the skirts of her gown, so that the familiar Prussian
blue birds showed clearly. Her hair was dressed and powdered to the palest hint
bluer than her pearl choker, falling in short ringlets against her throat and
curling gently around her face. She wore a tiny beribboned flower in it. Even
her brows were different, plucked into perfection, with an arch that seemed
unnatural and delicate, like the tiny black patch placed at the corner of her
lips.

He looked at the exquisite sable kiss against her soft skin and felt crazy,
all the heat coming back in a rush.

She closed the fan with a skillful snap as she rose and held out her hand to
him. Fully aware of the landlord still standing in the door behind him, S.T.
allowed her to pose there for a noticeable moment before he turned around and
shut the door in Lady Leigh Strachan's face.

He rode under the stars, fast and hard, on a horse he'd stolen right out of
the stable yard. The wind beat his eyes; blew the moisture from them, so that he
saw nothing clearly. He'd walked out of the Mermaid and seen the animal standing
there saddled, grabbed the reins, and mounted it.

He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care. The devil had him, the old
devil that drove him to act on the razor edge of chance. He rode in a fury,
intoxicated by the feel of a galloping horse beneath him, enraged with himself,
with his needs and his weakness. He left behind him all the indignant shouts and
civilized rules, plunging down a road too dark to see.

A shadow hunted beside him, a dark shape that made the horse snort and shy
when it drew too close. Without deigning to use some unknown gentleman's
absurdly short stirrups, he rode out the fitful bucking, relishing the
sensation, the ability to find his center and hold to it. All those nights when
he'd painstakingly mounted the blind mare were nothing now, all that
light-headed, cautious practice rendered immaterial. Without the dizziness, the
skill was simply there, the way it had been all his life that he could remember,
ingrained in him as deep as simple breathing.

He urged the animal on through the night. The elation of the race consumed
him, fueling the fury, burning it up until he was a bonfire. The direction meant
nothing, the pounding gallop was all that mattered, until in the blackness ahead
something flickered—a smear in his blurry eyes.

He pulled up the horse and stared. The light glimmered and swayed, moving
slowly downward. He passed his hand over his eyes and blinked to clear them,
turned his head to listen with his good ear. Above the horse's rhythmic blowing,
he could hear the sluggish thunder of a trotting team and the creak of wheels.

Close already. Nemo had disappeared into the gloom. He felt the horse draw a
breath and lift its head to whinny a greeting. He used his leg to push it
violently to the side, off the road. The horse lunged up a low bank that he
hadn't realized was there.

As the carriage lantern came into view, he broke into a ruthless grin. His
elevated position gave him an unexpected advantage, putting him above the
unsteady pool of light that wavered along the road.

He reined the horse around, facing it the way the carriage was coming. He
drew his sword and bent deeply over his mount's neck, clamping his free hand
across the animal's nose to catch a whinny before it was born. The horse sidled
beneath him. Over his shoulder, he could see the murky bulk of the team, catch
the scarlet of the driver's liveried arm and the glint of lantern light off
harness brass. He refrained from looking directly into the lantern itself, to
keep the light from dazzling him.

The slowly trotting team rattled toward him, the leaders passing with their
heads at the level of his mount's belly. They could smell his horse; he could
see by the way they lifted their heads and blew nervously, but the blinkers kept
them uncertain and silent. The coachman spoke softly to steady them as he
passed.

ST. lifted his sword.

"Stand to!"
he roared, and drove it into the lantern, shattering
glass and plunging everything in darkness. He spurred his horse down the bank,
shouldering into the offside wheeler to slow it, and then grabbed in the pitch
black for the leader's rein with one gloved hand. In the bruising tangle, the
driver was shouting and S.T.'s own horse was attempting to plunge right past the
team without his restraining hand on the reins. In desperation he threw his
weight back and down in the saddle as he hauled on the leader's rein, hoping
against hope he had a well-trained mount.

It worked. Whether by training or a desire to stay with the other horses, his
mount thudded to a halt as the team did. The coachman's whip cracked, stinging
S.T.'s arm and cheek. He grunted, lashing out instinctively with his sword arm.
He couldn't see, but he felt the thong curl around his wrist above his glove.
His body reacted before his mind formulated the plan: with a quick jerk, he sent
the whip flying into the night.

He groped for his reins and legged his horse around in front of the leaders.
"Stand to!" he yelled again. "I've a pistol primed and ready!"

This was a blatant lie, but safe enough in the ink-black circumstances.
Someone inside the coach had lighted a taper, which cast just enough glow to
show him the coachman's silhouette frozen on the box and the equally immobile
outline of a footman perched up behind. S.T. had thought someone might produce a
blunderbuss, which was why he'd stayed close to the team for cover, but the men
seemed unwilling to risk such a move.

A sudden silence descended, with only the metallic jingle of the harness to
break it.

"Very good," S.T. said, in a congratulatory tone.

He urged his mount back up onto the bank, careful to avoid even the dimmest
glow of light.

"Come down off the box," he said to the driver. He watched as the coachman
dropped the reins and slowly obeyed. "Get inside. Your footman, too."

A low sobbing broke out in the interior of the coach. S.T. bent a little as
the driver opened the door. He caught sight of a white-faced couple of middle
age and a young woman with her face bent into her hands before the taper was
snuffed.

"Light it again," he said. "I don't want to kill your servants. If they stay
where I can't see them, I will."

The sobbing increased. After a little shuffle, the taper flickered again. The
servants climbed inside. S.T. sat leaning on the pommel of his saddle, studying
his huddled victims.

They were clearly returning home from some party. Diamonds flashed at the
neck and wrist of the younger woman while she bent her head into her palms. The
man wore a fine watch fob and huge ruby stickpin; his wife had a set of matching
rubies in her hair and draped around her plump neck. They weren't driving far;
they'd never have risked such jewelry with so little protection on a ride of any
distance.

He nearly let them go. There was no reason—no justice to take, no downtrodden
soul to reimburse. But the young woman lifted her face. Tears were streaming
down her cheeks; she was crying as if her heart would break, and he thought of
Leigh suddenly—who never wept.

"Bring me the diamonds," he said.

She let out a wail of despair and bent over, shaking her head.

"Coachman," he said. "Take them from her."

"No!" She scrambled back, her hand at her throat. "Thief!" she cried. "Horrid
thief!"

"Give them up, Jane," the older woman said in a low voice. She fumbled at her
own necklace. "For God's sake, give him all of this jewelry—'tis nothing but
stones."

"I only want the diamonds," S.T. said. "Keep your rubies, madame. I
compliment you on your wisdom."

"You're only going to take my diamonds?" the girl cried. "Oh
why?
That's not fair!"

"Do you care so much for stones, my lady?" He tilted his head. "Were they a
gift? A lover's token, perhaps?"

"Yes!" she said, staring blindly toward the sound of his voice. "Have mercy."

"You're lying."

"No-my fiance—"

"What's his name?"

She hesitated, just a beat. "Mr. Smith," she said wildly. "John Smith."

He chuckled. "Pretty feeble, m'love. I find I'm not in a romantic mood
tonight. Bring 'em here."

She shrieked and pushed at the coachman as he reached toward her. S.T.
spurred his horse right up to the door, staying above it on the bank. He
extended his sword with a shift of his wrist, palm downward, and then slowly
turned it until the point came up into the open door. He held the blade there,
allowing the dim light to slide up it arid down.

"Diamonds aren't such a terrible thing to lose, my lady," he said softly.

She stared at the sword, and broke into sobs again. He waited silently. After
a few moments, she fumbled at the clasp. He saw what she was about and shifted
suddenly, catching the necklace on his blade as she threw the diamonds toward
the door.

He lifted the tip and let the jewels slide down to the hilt. "
Tres
charitable, mademoiselle."

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the necklace into the air and caught it
in his other hand. Then he drove his heels in, sending his horse in a lunge
forward and a great bounding leap off the bank. He bent his face into the
stinging flare of its mane and let it carry him at full gallop into the dark.

The horse sprinted for a spell, and then, having no idea it was now a
fugitive from the king's law, began to slow. S.T. allowed the pace to ease to a
canter and then a trot. Jogging along alone, he sheathed his sword and slipped
the necklace inside his glove. He set his back, and his mount obediently dropped
to a walk. It shied a little as Nemo loped up behind them, the sound of his
panting loud in the quiet night.

S.T. halted the horse and sat considering.

He frowned pensively as he lengthened the stirrups to his own measure and
took them up.

Slowly, a smile of awful mischief spread across his face. He couldn't stop
himself. He turned the horse around and began to post leisurely back toward the
scene of his crime.

He halted frequently and turned his head, listening intently. Long before he
heard anything, he could feel his mount's head come up alertly. Though he
couldn't see it, he knew the horse's ears were pricked toward the sound and
scent of its erstwhile companions. He allowed his mount to walk slowly ahead,
until finally he caught the furious voices and sharp slam of a coach door.

Knowing his own imperfections, he judged that the coach must be quite close,
though it sounded a good distance away to his attenuated hearing. He held up his
fist, chewing on his glove and grinning. When he detected the sound of the
coachman's bark and the rumble of the wheels and hooves, he set his horse along,
following his agitated victims at an innocent distance all the way to the town
gate at Rye, delighting in the farce of it.