The Prince of Midnight (25 page)

It was too much. She shook her head, pressing back against the wall. "I
can't," she said. "I can't, I can't."

"Why not?" He leaned his shoulder against the paneling beside her and drew
his finger up the curve of her breast, watching intently as he stroked the tip.
"Because it isn't 'business'? Because you're not so cold as you'd have me
think?"

She tried to shove away, but his arm came up beneath her breasts, an
inflexible barrier.

"Oh, no, my little tease. Your reckoning is upon you now."

Her breath came in uneven gasps; her chin lifted and her back arched as he
held her, pushing her into the wall, pressing his lips to her bare skin. He
seemed larger than he'd ever seemed before, stronger than she'd understood. She
strained to break free and could not do it.

"I loathe you," she said.

"Eh bien.
I can feel that you do." His hand cupped her breast, his
thumb teasing the nipple. "In truth," he purred, "it's remarkable, this loathing
you have for me."

"Bastard!"

He only smiled at her vicious epithet. "Aye,
ma pauvre,
of course
I'm a bastard. I've said so all along, haven't I?" He stroked her cheek very
gently, kissed her temple softly. As he gazed down at her, the mockery faded
from his smile. "But I'm at your feet," he whispered, "My life is yours."

Some protective shield snapped inside her. Her eyes watered. He gathered her
up in his arms, holding her hard against his chest. For a moment her breathing
was beyond her control, almost a sob. "I hate you," she said plaintively, her
face in his coat.

"Then come hate me in bed." There was new tension in his voice. "I want you,
Leigh. I can't—I've got to have you now."

She shuddered, with his mouth on her chin and her throat and her breasts. He
lifted her, took her to the bed, pushing her down before she was halfway on it.
His breathing was husky and uneven, brewing passion. His hands fumbled, slid the
chemise up above her waist.

"Leigh," he whispered hoarsely, moving his palms up and down her naked hips.
He stood between her legs, leaning over her, still fully dressed: gold and
velvet and emerald, masculine and elegant; his face like something from an
ancient dream, like a warrior prince from a forest kingdom. He bent his head and
kissed her belly. His fingertips seemed hot; she let him touch her and didn't
pull away.

He scooped her up, put his knee on the bed, and lifted her; and she realized
that he wasn't going to wait, wasn't going to undress himself or put out the
candles or be civilized; he was kissing her fiercely and loosening buttons at
the same time, and then he was on her, shoving into her with his hands at her
hips, pulling her toward him; breathing hard and raggedly and saying her name
over and over.

She put her arms around his neck. His kiss was wide open against her mouth as
his body drove into her. The sensation engulfed her: the force of him, his hands
pressed into her buttocks, pulling her up into him in his own impassioned
cadence.

She wanted to cry out; she couldn't seem to breathe deeply enough for the
sensation that dilated and spread inside her. She pressed upward and he drove
over her, harder and harder, his thrusts pulling something impossible from
within her, something crazy and frightening that she could not defend against.

He gripped her to him. She heard him making low sounds as if words were
throttled in his chest, as if he were crying. A deep tremor passed through him
and into her, a powerful instant of suspension, with his face pressing into the
curve of her shoulder.

Then, with a harsh rush of air between his teeth, he relaxed. He rested his
forehead against her breast, breathing deeply, pulling back a little to put his
weight on his hands.

She felt him trembling with the awkwardness of the position, and it dawned
upon her with a shaky, hysterical little spurt of humor that he still had one
foot on the floor.

"What the devil's funny?" he muttered between his teeth.

She didn't know what to do with her hands. Tentatively, she touched his hair
with fingers that felt weak and clumsy. "You still have your boots on."

He slid his arms beneath her. "Bastards never take their boots off," he said,
his voice muffled against the mattress beside her ear. Then he pushed up, away
from her, and stood.

He tilted his head. Faintly, he smiled at her.

Leigh felt precarious, painfully shy, sitting up and fussing at her chemise
to cover herself. But he reached over and took it by the hem, pulling it over
her head in one sweep.

"Under the bedclothes,
cherie,"
he ordered, kissing the top of her
head. When she hesitated, he flung back the sheets, picked her up bodily,
ignoring her faint squeak, and deposited her in a heap upon the pillows. Then he
stood back and began to undress, taking no trouble for modesty.

She watched him pull off the velvet coat, hang it up, and shrug out of his
glittering waistcoat. The full-sleeved shirt fell into a white puddle on the
floor. He dragged the ribbon out of his hair. In open breeches and bare chest,
he stood over the jack, pulling off his boots, looking utterly heathen with his
loose hair in a gilded tumble of chocolate shadow across his shoulders.

Nemo got up and snuffled at his stocking feet. He knelt beside the wolf and
embraced and stroked it: long, hard strokes that made the animal lie down and
roll over and wriggle with delight.

Leigh bit her lip. Her lungs felt queer and trembly. She drew a deep breath
and pulled the sheet up to her chin.

As the Seigneur stood up, Nemo bounded to the door, sticking his nose to the
crack and then looking over his shoulder hopefully.

"We've had our hunt for tonight, old man," the Seigneur said. "Time to bask
in our well-deserved glory."

Leigh put her hand to her throat, recalling the stolen necklace with a jolt.

"Leave it on," he said, as she reached for the clasp. He strolled over to the
bed and sat down, teasing the sheets away from her. "It's most becoming," he
murmured, lifting the jewels with his forefinger.

"Oh, yes. A most flattering noose. I don't know why you're so proud of
yourself."

He traced a line down to the tip of her breast. "Ah, but look what it won
me."

She dropped her eyes. "You are mistaken."

"Am I?" The devil's brows cocked in interest.

"Yes. I didn't—I wasn't impressed by your so monstrous wonderful necklace.
That wasn't why I let you—" She pushed his caressing hand away. "That wasn't
it."

"Oh? But what else is a man to conjecture? Your sex is beyond our poor male
powers of logic."

"Forgive me, but I find discussing logic with a madman to be a futile
exercise."

He smiled. "Perhaps more useful than discussing it with a woman."

"You didn't buy me with a diamond necklace!"

He leaned over and kissed her cheek gently. "No, did I say so? You are a
silly
enfant.
You understand nothing."

He left the bed and snuffed the candles. She heard him move around the room.
When he came back and slid under the sheets, she turned away, but his arms
enfolded her, pulling her against him. He was naked and warm, a startling
sensation—luxurious, his body as smooth as the velvet of his coat.

It was all a dream, she knew . . . she'd finally let herself fall into the
dream world that he built and lived in.

I am the Seigneur du Minuit, am I not?

Absurd man.

Charming, witless, dangerous lunatic.

His breath ruffled her hair. She thought of pulling away, but it seemed
fruitless after everything else. There was fear waiting out there in the dark,
fear and memories and feelings that she could not bear, but here in his arms
'twas as if her mind had separated from her body, and she did not think farther
than physical awareness, the sensual heat of his embrace.

She didn't care. She could not think. Dreams were enough for the night.

S.T. made love to her again, just before dawn. He woke up enfolded in warmth,
with Nemo lying heavily against his back and Leigh's body soft and luscious in
his arms, all in a heap as if they were a pack of wolves curled together on a
snowy night. For a long time he just lay there, enjoying the sensation.

His own little family, he thought.

The notion made him amorous. He brushed back her hair and put his arm across
her, tasting the bare, cushioned skin of her breast. She turned her head quickly
toward him, and he realized that she hadn't been asleep. She shoved at him a
little, as if in protest, but he moved on top of her and pushed easily inside,
working slowly, kissing and caressing her throat.

He came in a rush of pleasure, holding her face between his palms, savoring
her mouth. When it was over, he wanted to do it again. He didn't want to move
away, so he lifted himself on his elbows.
"Bonjour,
mademoiselle," he
murmured. "I trust you slept well?"

She didn't answer. He could feel the small shudders that flowed through her
body, the way she shifted and pressed him restlessly. He smiled into her
shoulder.

Ah, the things he had to teach her.

In the first blush of dawn, the diamond necklace cast a shower of tiny sparks
around her neck. He remembered his own business and worked at the jewels until
the clasp came open under his fingers. He pulled the necklace free and rolled
over, trying to sit up, battling Nemo for space on the bed while the wolf tried
to lick his face.

Nemo won. S.T. finally lay back, sputtering, while the wolf straddled him,
holding down his shoulders with huge paws and subjecting his face to a thorough
wash. Then Nemo began play biting at S.T.'s nose and trying to dance around on
the bed, which included a heavy strut on S.T.'s stomach. He grunted and shoved,
Leigh sat up, and Nemo started back at the sight of her, recoiling as if she
were a horrific monster rising out of the sheets.

The wolf retreated to the end of the bed, standing on S.T.'s feet. For a full
minute, Nemo stared at Leigh. It was his thoughtful look: his ears pricked, his
yellow eyes holding a penetrating, quizzical stare, his head tilted slightly in
concentration.

She didn't move. S.T. wondered if she was afraid. That unblinking gaze
conjured up the primeval night, eyes glowing in the shadows, all the human dread
of what was wild and dark. He wasn't certain himself what Nemo might do—he never
really was—but he contained any move that might frighten or annoy the animal.
She made Nemo nervous, and an anxious wolf was an unpredictable one.

Nemo's head lowered slightly. He sniffed at S.T.'s leg, and then took a step
up the bed. The wolf tilted his head again, staring into Leigh's eyes. Then he
dropped his nose, and with a brute's complete lack of reserve, began to explore
carefully at the sheet over her, paying particular attention to the interesting
scents between her legs.

"You bloody
voyeur
," S.T. muttered. "Have a little delicacy."

But Nemo wasn't to be disturbed. He examined Leigh painstakingly, moving
farther up the bed, his big paws spreading for balance as the mattress sank
beneath him. He looked deeply into her eyes again. Tentatively, he touched her
chin with his nose.

"What should I do?" she whispered, so low that S.T. could barely hear her.

"Pet the pushy devil," he said.

She lifted her hand and stroked Nemo's ears. He licked her face, and she
winced and drew back. Nemo leaned forward and made a little dance on his front
paws, tucking his chin against his chest as he lifted his forefoot and started
to paw at her in wolfish enthusiasm.

S.T. reached over and cuffed the wolf's nose, growling a warning. Nemo
quailed back instantly, his tail flagging. He gave up on his short-lived romance
and sank down contritely, crawling over to S.T. for reassurance. S.T. stroked
him and scratched his ears. The wolf sighed, pressed up against him, and gently
took his hand between its teeth.

"Trying to steal my lady, are you?" S.T. cupped Nemo's head and gave the wolf
a playful shake. Nemo flopped down between them, rolling over as far as he could
in the narrow space, his eyes closed in ecstasy as S.T. scratched the furry
belly.

Leigh slowly put out her hand. She rested it on the wolf's thick ruff, and
Nemo stretched his head back and licked her wrist, his long, ardent tongue
curling around her arm.

S.T. looked up at her. "Now you have a pack," he said simply.

In the early light, her face was still. She stroked the wolf. When S.T. took
his hand away, Nemo scrabbled over toward Leigh, looking for attention where he
could get it. At a pause in the rhythmic movement of her arm, he put his paw on
her stomach, fixing his solemn, expectant eyes on her.

She gazed down at him. Her mouth worked. She bit her lips and turned away,
flinging back the sheet. "Damn you! Damn you both," she said, and got up.

It was almost seven o'clock when the inevitable knock came. The Seigneur
turned over in bed and pulled a pillow onto his head.

Leigh took a deep breath. She'd dressed and finished breakfast hours ago,
while he lay abed like the great bag of moonshine that he was, dozing as if
there were nothing in the least amiss. With her heart thumping in her throat,
she picked up her skirts and turned to the mirror on the dressing table, leaning
on her elbow in a negligent pose "Yes? Come in."

It was the landlord, with Mr. Piper at his heels.

"Forgive me for disturbing you, madam," the innkeeper said, "I—"

A groan from the bed interrupted him. They all looked toward the lump amid
the bedclothes, where nothing showed but a broad back, one slack hand, and a
tangle of brown and gold hair.

The hand moved, groping. The Seigneur lifted one corner of his pillow and
said, "Ummmpf."

"Forgive me, sir, for the imposition, but—"