The Prince of Midnight (24 page)

When he was close enough to see a few late lanterns burning in the cottages
at the edge of town outside the old walls, S.T. turned off into a sidetrack and
threaded his way through the empty alleys to the gate he and Leigh had entered
that morning. The brewer's dray he recalled was still there, loaded with empty
kegs. He stopped his horse and leaned over, opening taps experimentally until he
found one with a few dregs left in it. Having anointed his neckcloth with the
unmistakable aroma of stale beer, he began to lean heavily on his horse's mane
and sing a drunken little song.

By the time he reached the stable yard of the Mermaid, he was so sloshed that
he lost his stirrups as he tried to dismount and fell off, hanging with his arms
around his patient horse's neck. His feet slipped out from under him as he
swayed, and he landed with a gusty
whoof
at the feet of a stable boy.

Nemo whined and licked his face.

"Oops," he mumbled, staring up from his back at the ostler. "Los' m' reins,
shir. Gi' me back m' reins, will-ya?"

"Yes sir," the boy said. "But this ain't yer horse, sir."

S.T. rolled onto his elbow, pushing Nemo away. "Yes, i'tis. Jus' got off it."

"No, it ain't. Belongs to Mr. Piper, sir."

"Pi—Pi . . ."S.T. dropped his head back on the pavement. "Dunno th' shap."

"Well, ye took his horse, sir, right enough."

"Lis'n," S.T. said. "Lis'n here—you got somethin' for a man t'drink?" He
sighed deeply. "M'wife don't like me."

The ostler grinned. "Yes sir, Mr. Maitland. They got punch an' beer and an'
any thin' ye want inside."

S.T. held up his arm. "Fine thing, when a man's . . . bloody . . . wife . . .
don' like him. Damn fine thing, I sh-ay. Calls me 'Toad,' does she?" He waved
his hand slowly back and forth in the air, staring at it. "Wha' d'ye think o'
that, hmmm? Bloody . . . bitch."

"Aye, Mr. Maitland. Look here—we're gonna take ye inside now." The young
ostler grabbed S.T.'s arm at the same time another groom grabbed the other.
Together, they hauled him to his feet. He hung heavily on the shoulder of the
nearest.

"Eggstra oats," he mumbled, and gripped the ostler's arm. He put his face
against the stable boy's neck and fumbled for his purse. "Rub 'im down, you
hear? Good ol' horse. An' give him a' egg . . . eggstra measure. Here—thas f
you, m' fine fellow." He put the whole purse in the ostler's hand. "Take
whatever ye want."

"Yes sir. But he ain't yer horse, I'm sorry, sir."

S.T. lifted his head. "Yesh he is."

"No, he ain't, sir."

S.T. stared Wearily at the animal in question. "Yesh he is. Best ol' horse I
ever . . . had."

" 'E ain't yours, Mr. Maitland."

S.T. pushed himself off the stable boy and swung around to face him, with
both hands on the youth's shoulders. "How d'ye . . . know he ain't m' horse?" he
asked earnestly. "How d'you know?"

"Ye don't have a horse, sir."

S.T. considered that. He stared into the ostler's face, swaying slightly. "I
'us ridin' him, washt I?"

"Aye, ye were ridin"im right enough. Took 'im without even a by your leave,
sir. Put us all in dustup, ye did. Rode right off in the dark on Mr. Piper's
horse so fast we didn't even know which way to go after."

"Did?" S.T. hiccuped and frowned. He closed his eyes. "Must'abeen ..."

He reeled, and put his arms around the ostler. "Must'a been . . ."

He groaned into the ostler's ear, breathing hard.

"...
drunk,"
he proclaimed, and slid down into a senseless heap on
the ground.

Leigh started up at the heavy pounding on her door. She'd been listening to
the thudding commotion in the corridor outside, expecting it to pass by. After a
long evening of trying to soothe the hapless Mr. Piper, making endless promises
of restitution and agreeing wholeheartedly with his every muttered curse, she
opened the door with considerable trepidation.

The sight that met her eyes did nothing to reassure her. Behind the landlord,
who carried a hat and a damp cloak over his arm, two puffing stable boys held
the Seigneur hung between them. The one in front dropped his feet, and the one
in back tried to haul him up by his armpits. He mumbled unintelligibly, sliding
back down to the floor.

She closed her eyes, able to smell the alcohol from inside the door. "For
God's sake." With a furious shift of her skirts, she stood back. "Bring him in,"
she snapped.

The ostlers picked him up again and waddled forward with their burden swaying
between them. Nemo slipped past them and jumped onto the bed. They shouldered
the limp body up onto the mattress beside the wolf, and then the younger of the
two put the Seigneur's purse on his chest. " 'E said to take what we wished,
mum—but I don't think maybe he might mean it in th' mornin'."

The Seigneur held out his arm, and let it drop, hanging off the side of the
bed. "Give ish—" he muttered, and lifted his arm again, groping with his gloved
hand at the purse. He spilled Rye banknotes all over his fine velvet coat, and
closed his fingers around a thick roll. "Vela good . . . fellow . . ." He held
out the notes toward Leigh. "Give ish—plenty . . . madam."

She plucked the money from his slack fingers. "Good God—where did all this
come from?"

The landlord smiled amiably, hanging the hat and cloak in the wardrobe. "I
advanced him a bit from the till this evening, 'ere he could make a call at the
money shop. 'Tis all in order, Mrs. Maitland. Would you like me to send someone
to—ah—ready him for bed?"

"No," she said, and began to rummage in the purse. "He can sleep in his
boots, for all I care."

"Fishteen," the Seigneur mumbled. "Fishteen . . . pounds. Fine fellow." He
lifted his lashes. "Shtole his horse."

She blew out an explosive breath. "You besotted ass."

He started to giggle. "Fishteen pa—pounds . . . madam!"

She pressed a half crown apiece into the stable boys' hands.

The Seigneur rolled onto his side, still giggling. He listed an instant at
the edge of the bed, and then fell over with a crash. He lay on the floor,
glaring fuzzily at her. "Gish 'im fishteen . . . y'silly bitch."

"Oh, certainly, you drunken cod's head." She turned to the first ostler and
counted out the extraordinary fortune of fifteen pounds in a loud voice. "You
may split it and retire in luxury," she snapped, and looked over her shoulder.
"Satisfied?"

The Seigneur didn't answer. His eyes had closed. One hand twitched, and he
emitted a soft snoring sound.

Leigh looked up at the landlord. "That will be all," she said with
magnificent stiffness.

"Certainly, madam." He hardly cracked a smile as he made a deep bow. He
turned away and shepherded the ostlers out of the room. She heard them break
into whoops before they were halfway down the stairs.

She put her hands over her eyes and lifted her face toward the ceiling. "God,
how I hate you!" she cried. "Impossible beast! Why did you come back at all?"

"I had a mind to finish what you started," said a soft, lucid, and perfectly
distinct voice.

She jumped back, dropping her hands and staring down at him.

He pushed up on his elbow and lifted a finger to his lips. "Don't screech, if
you please," he murmured.

It was almost as startling as seeing a corpse rise up and speak. She stood
with her hand over her breast, her heart pounding.

He hiked himself to his feet, quite steadily, and motioned Nemo off the bed.

"What are you about?" she hissed.

He pulled off his neckcloth, sniffed at the linen and grimaced. "Alas! I
smell like the parlor carpet in Mother Minerva's bawdy house."

"For the love of God—where have you been? What's the meaning of this?"

He tossed the offending fabric on the floor and reached out to catch her
elbow in one gloved hand. He drew her to his side and bent his head near her
ear. "Why, 'tis a gift,
ma petit cherie. "
His voice was low and
mocking. Turning over his hand, he slipped a finger inside his glove and drew
out necklace that flashed and shimmered in the candlelight. "You didn't care for
the expense of the first one," he said against her ear. "So I've brought you
another . . . with a price more to your taste."

The magnificent jewels dangled, shedding prisms of diamond light.

She closed her eyes. "Oh my God," she said softly.

"What think you, my lady?" His breath caressed her throat. "Have I pleased
you at last? I was told it was a lover's bauble, worthy of a lady's tears." He
lifted his hand and traced his forefinger in a curve beneath her eyelashes, as
if to brush away a drop. "Will you weep for me?"

"All too soon, I'm afraid," she whispered. The glove felt hot and supple,
heated by his hand. The suspended stones grazed her skin. "When you hang for
this."

"Oh, no," he murmured. "Have a little faith." He passed his other hand
beneath the nape of her neck and spread his gloved fingers on her cheek,
pressing her to turn her face toward him. "Weep for delight." He smiled darkly
and kissed the corner of her mouth. "
Ma perle. Ma lumiere. Ma belle vie.
Weep because I've made you happy."

"You have not made me happy." She bit her lip and turned her face away.
"You've made me afraid."

His hand tightened, drawing her back. She resisted, but he had somehow caught
control of the moment. His suppressed energy seemed to inflame the quiet room.
She couldn't defend herself; couldn't find the antagonism amid her dismay. He
moved behind her, pulling the gauzy lace fichu from her bodice, baring her
shoulders.

"I don't want it," she exclaimed. "I'll not have it."

He slipped the necklace around her and clasped it. His hands cupped her
throat, slid upward, holding her steady as he kissed the nape of her neck. "Do
you spurn the Seigneur's token, sweet?" he breathed. " 'Tis a gift. An emblem of
my passion for you." His touch compelled her; his soft voice smoldered with an
uncanny force. "Take pleasure in it with me."

"No. Remove it." She put her hands to her mouth.

"Non, non, petite chou—
why should I do such a foolish thing? I
brought it for you. I love you. I wish to see you admired and beautiful. But you
tremble,
cherie. "
He caressed her leisurely, nibbling and playing,
touching her with his tongue. "Of what are you afraid?"

You
, she thought.
What have you done
?

What are you doing to me?

The heat of his kisses went through her in little jets of sensation. She bent
her head. He caught her around the waist and pressed his mouth to the slope of
her bared shoulder. His hands pulled her back into him.

She bit hard on her lip. "You're a reckless fool."

He shook his head against her throat. "My absurd chick—I am the Seigneur du
Minuit, am I not? To delight you I would hazard any peril."

"They'll catch you," she whispered.

He laughed softly. "Not this time." He began to work at the ribbons that
laced the front of her bodice. "And why should you care, cold heart? I thought
you wished me well gone."

She held herself stiff. " 'Tis not your neck that concerns me, but my own,"
she said cruelly. "I'll not swing with you. Not for this."

"No—I wouldn't like that. Love me instead." One by one, without letting go of
her, he pulled off his gloves and dropped them. With experienced assurance, his
fingers worked open her embroidered stomacher. All the time, he kissed and
fondled her, his golden tinged head bent to her shoulder and her throat, his
black ribbons trailing down between them. The gown drooped off her arms. He
pushed it down and pulled the shoulder ties and eyelets on her corset free.

Leigh breathed in agitated gusts, unnerved, standing powerless amid the ruins
of her barricades. She'd allowed this too far; let him take her by surprise;
propel her uneasy balance into a tumble of confusion.

"Je suis aux anges,"
he said reverently as the rigid garments fell
away, leaving only her petticoat and a sheer chemise that the landlady had
provided for her. He made a low sound and pulled her back against his chest,
enfolding her breasts in his palms. "Leigh," he whispered. He gave her throat a
silken kiss. "You make me insane."

She tilted her head back against him. He stroked her nipples and her lips
parted. With a faint, hopeless murmur, she said, "Clearly I do."

He laughed low in her ear. The stolen necklace seemed to burn where it lay
against her skin.

He knew how to undress a woman. Her stiffened petticoat presented no puzzle;
deftly he released eyelets and allowed the linen cage to fall as her skirt
sighed into a pile of silk around her feet. He drew her back against him; she
could feel the buttons on his waistcoat and the velvet of his cuffs, the drift
of his lace over her exposed shoulders.

"You're trembling still," he said. "Are you cold,
mi-gnonne
?"

"I'm afraid," she cried softly. "I'm afraid!"

"We're safe here. There's no one coming." He rocked her gently. "Perhaps
tomorrow there may be questions, but I've answers ready enough."

She pushed away desperately, retreating to the other side of the room,
holding her arms crossed, shivering in her chemise. "You've changed! I don't
like it."

"I'm myself. The Seigneur du Minuit." He stood watching her, all bronze and
shimmer in his embroidered velvet. His green eyes lowered. He smiled slightly.
"C'est possible .
. . you like it too much, mmhh?"

She leaned against the bedpost, breathing deeply. He came toward her, and she
backed up to the wall. His hands hit the oaken panels on either side of her
head, trapping her there. He bent and kissed the base of her throat greedily,
searing her skin against the diamond necklace.

A feeling rolled through her, a deep thumping pleasure. She had experienced
this before, felt the rising excitement as she'd bathed him, the desire mat
threatened to drown her reason.