The Prince of Midnight (35 page)

The low clouds and winter brought a gloomy evening in mid-afternoon. She led
her little band along the wall until the rampart disappeared, broken down over
centuries to a level with the earth. She knew this country with all the
familiarity of an adventurous child, knew Thorney Doors and Bloody Gap and Bogle
Hole, knew better than to stop and ask for shelter at the lonely house called
Burn Deviot where sheep stealers took resort.

Nemo ranged ahead, but not far, returning frequently to press up against her
and lick any part of her hands or face he could reach. The wind blew hard at
their backs. Leigh trudged along in the mud until she found a fallen stone to
use as a mounting block.

Beyond Caw Gap the wall rose again, and from the height of Winshields she
could peer through the fat snow-flakes at the long basaltic ridges of Peel Crag
and High Shield, their slopes rising to black cliffs that faced north, sullen
and silent, like the shades of Roman sentries.

What if he was dead?

Anger and apprehension warred in her. Stupid man, stupid man! foolish beyond
permission, beyond logic, beyond any sane sense of jeopardy. As if it were a
game.

What if he was dead? What if?

Leigh thought of Chilton—what he'd done; what he could do. She put her arms
around the chestnut's neck and pressed her face into its mane. The warm, thick
smell of horse filled her nose. The heavy scent enveloped her, made her think of
the Seigneur's voice, quiet and steady, telling her to touch the battered face
of the gray rogue.

Suddenly her mount's head came up, bumping her hard in the nose. She sat
back, blinking against the snowflakes and the blur in her eyes. Beside her, the
rogue gave a little snort and trotted forward, ears pricked. Leigh squinted
along the spine of the wall.

Across a defile, where the stone fortification curved over the next hill, a
mounted black horse stood facing them. She couldn't make out the rider. The gray
reached the bottom of the cut and broke into a canter, mounting the ridge. Nemo
made a curvet of excitement. He looked back at her, his tongue lolling.

Leigh's heart squeezed with sudden premonition. She allowed the restless
chestnut to go plunging down the snowy slope.

She thought it was surely the Seigneur who gazed down at her from beneath a
moisture-darkened tricorne, though he made no sign of recognition. The rogue
scrambled up the opposite hill, stopped, and touched noses with the black. Nemo
hung back with Leigh, trying to test the adverse wind, his tail lowered in
uncertainty. The horses sidled, and the other rider controlled his mount as the
gray danced and blew clouds of steamy breath.

The black sidestepped, silhouetted in profile against the dull sky, and Leigh
suddenly realized that it carried two people. She reined in, hesitating at the
base of the hill, her heart beating hard.

The foremost rider swung a leg over the black's mane and dismounted, leaving
the other a huddled, featureless shape in the saddle. Nemo suddenly loped
forward, springing from stone to stone up the steepest side of the defile. At
the top, the wolf leaped to greet the man, and then Leigh was sure.

She sat frozen in joy and fury, feeling absurdly defenseless. As if the
slightest touch would break her.

The Seigneur held Nemo on his arms, allowing his face to be washed before he
pushed the ecstatic animal away. The big flakes of snow tumbled and floated
between them on the wind. He stood still, looking down the slope at Leigh.

Alive. Quite alive.

And no doubt as impossible and pleased with himself as ever he'd been. The
winter air rasped in her throat and burned her eyes. She clamped her teeth
together.

The chestnut carried her up the ridge with lunging steps. When she came
abreast of him, he held the black's rein and gazed at her, not speaking.

"Good afternoon," she said coldly. "How very pleasant to meet you again."

His face seemed still. No teasing smile, no cocky lift of those wicked
eyebrows. "Sunshine," he said in a strange, flat voice.

The dead sounds of it made her fingers tighten on the chestnut's reins.
"What's amiss?"

He stared at her, and then lowered his eyes. "I should have reckoned you'd
make it somehow." He swung away from her questioning frown. For a moment he
rested his fist on the black horse's shoulder, and then leaned his forehead
against it, as if he didn't want to face her.

"Are you a friend?" asked a feminine voice. Leigh's head jerked up. The
figure on the saddle pushed back a dark veil. Blue eyes, red-rimmed, peeked
warily out.

"Who are you?" Leigh demanded.

"Are you Mr. Bartlett's friend?" the other girl asked again. "Can you help
me? We escaped, and I'm cold, and I don't know where we're going. Is there a
house or something nearby?"

"What happened?" Leigh repeated roughly.

The girl looked furtive. "Nothing," she said. "Nothing happened. We're
looking for shelter."

Leigh ignored her. She slid off the chestnut and grabbed S.T.'s shoulder,
pulling him back. "Tell me what happened!"

"He can't hear you," the girl said.

S.T.'s jaw worked, as if he were going to speak. He scowled ferociously, and
then suddenly flung off Leigh's hand instead and walked around to the other side
of the horse. He pulled a rope from his saddlebag, caught the gray rogue, and
looped the lead into a makeshift halter. With an easy spring, he mounted the
gray bareback and began to lead the other horse.

Leigh scrambled onto the chestnut and kicked it around to follow. "What do
you mean, he can't hear!"

"He can't." The girl wriggled herself into the center of the saddle and
looked over her shoulder. "He's deaf."

Leigh sucked in a sharp breath. "Completely?"

The girl nodded. "It wasn't my fault," she said.

"Chilton did it!" Leigh ejaculated.

"Yes." The girl bit her lip. "It wasn't my fault."

Leigh would kill the beast. She would rip him apart, tear his heart out,
murder everything he loved in front of his eyes.

"I had enough faith," the girl mumbled. "Truly I did. But Master Jamie's a
devil. He made me believe in him because he's a devil, and he made me do the
devil's things, and the devil can't turn acid into water."

"
Acid
," Leigh whispered in horror. "In his good ear?"

"I wouldn't have done it if I'd known. But I couldn't tell. I thought he was
holy and wise, and he's the devil."

"You
did it?" Leigh cried. She dug her heel into the chestnut and
lunged, grabbing the girl's hair and dragging at her. "You misbegotten bitch!"

The girl screamed. Leigh leaned over and hit her so hard that a lock of
blonde hair tore free in her gloved hand. She heard S.T. raise his voice, but
she wasn't listening. She backhanded the screeching girl again.

"Malicious little gutter garbage! Get off his horse!" Leigh drew breath on a
furious sob. "Get off!"

The girl was already toppling, and Leigh shoved with both hands. The horses
shied at the girl's shriek. She landed in the mud, a sprawl of black veil and
white legs.

Leigh circled the chestnut back. She'd have been glad to trample the wretch,
but she held the horse and spat on her instead. "I hope you freeze."

The girl lay in the slop, crying. Leigh turned her mount and rode up to the
Seigneur. She caught his arm. He looked at her with an alarmed expression.
"Leigh," he said, and shook his head. "I'm—"

She leaned over and stopped the confession with her mouth. She held his
shoulders between her hands and kissed him hard, as if she could draw him into
her and make him whole again.

His skin was cold, his back stiff. He lifted his hands as if to push her
away. Leigh wouldn't let him; she gripped his arms and held him as close as the
horses would allow.

"You're alive," she whispered against the warmth of his breath. " 'Tis all
that matters."

She put her hands on either side of his face and kissed him again. He made a
sound in his throat, halfway between objection and surrender. His hands wavered
and came to rest at her waist.

The gray sidestepped nearer. The Seigneur's mouth opened to her offer. He
responded, tasting her tongue, mixing cold and warmth. His hold grew tight on
her body. The wind blew his cloak against her, a heavy dampness that enveloped
them together in the falling snow.

He drew back a little and looked at her from beneath his gold-tipped lashes.
"Leigh," he said uneasily.

She squeezed his shoulders. " 'Twill be all right," she said. "I'll—I'll make
a powder."

He seemed to understand that: his mouth flattened and he bent his head. Then
he looked up with a wry smile, a strange tenderness, and touched her under the
chin.

Leigh put her fist over her heart and then laid it against his. " 'Tis you
and I," she said, slowly and clearly. "Together."

His eyebrows lifted. "You and I?" he repeated. His voice had a husky
unevenness in it. She nodded and smiled, because he'd understood.

Tentatively, he leaned toward her and brushed the corner of her lips with his
mouth. It was like a question, and she answered, giving herself fully to the
kiss. His hands came up and tangled in her hair. He kissed her cheeks and her
eyes, savored her mouth, his touch coaxing and sweetly seductive.

"Leigh," he whispered against her temple. He made a peculiar little whuff,
like an embarrassed laugh. "I can hear."

She turned abruptly, bumping her chin hard against him.

He sat back and looked at her warily.

She stared at him, speechless.

He flicked his gloved fingers against her cheek. His smile was the old smile,
kindling mischief and flirtation. "I tried to tell you," he said. "But you
were—" He lifted his hand, "—abstracted."

"You lied," she breathed. "You lied to me."

"Well, I didn't precisely—" He reached out to catch her as she wrenched at
the chestnut's reins. "Leigh—wait; just wait a moment, damn you—ow!"

He jerked away from her striking hand.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she cried. "Why did you let me mink it was true
even for a moment?"

He rubbed his arm over his forehead. "I don't know."

Leigh made a little sob of fury. "You don't know!" Her voice quavered. "You
don't know!"

"All right!" he shouted. "I didn't want to tell you! I don't want to tell you
anything; what the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Rye."

"You surely didn't think I'd stay in
Rye!"
Leigh bent forward,
shouting herself. "Darning your stockings, I vow!" She pressed her lips together
on a surge of tumbled emotions. Behind her, the girl was whimpering. Leigh
turned in the saddle and watched her struggle to her feet covered with muck.
"There's a carriers' inn down there. The Twice Brewed Ale." Leigh pointed toward
the south. "You can walk."

But S.T. had dismounted. He started toward the weeping girl and hauled her up
off her knees. She fell into his arms, whimpering and clinging. "You can really
hear? You're cured?"

"I can hear," he muttered.

"Oh, thank God," she wailed. "Thank God, thank God!" She clasped her hands
together, as if in prayer.

"Save it, if you please." He gave her a little shake and led her to the black
horse. "Get up," he said, offering his cupped hands.

"Who
is
this?" Leigh demanded, eyeing the muddied figure.

He didn't answer. After the girl had tumbled into the saddle and arranged her
skirts as well as she could astride, he led the black over to Leigh. "Dove of
Peace," he said, with a little inclination of his head. "Lady Leigh Strachan."

The girl bobbed and sniffed. "I'm pleased to meet you," she said, as if they
were being introduced in some genteel drawing room, and then gave a small gasp.
"Strachan? You're oot—not from Silvering?"

"Silvering belongs to me," Leigh said. "I intend to have it back."

The girl twisted her hands together. "Master Jamie can make you do things you
don't want to do," she said anxiously. "Terrible things."

Leigh gave her a cold stare. "Mayhap he can," she said, "if you're so
miserable and weak that you allow it."

Dove of Peace shuddered and began to cry again. S.T. grabbed a handful of the
gray rogue's mane and remounted, leading the black.

Leigh moved the chestnut up beside him. "She's one of them." She glanced
toward Dove of Peace. "One of his."

"Not any longer," he said.

Leigh blew out a skeptical breath. "Is that what she claims?"

" 'Tis true!" Dove cried. "I've been praying and praying, and the blindness
has been lifted from me. Master Jamie couldn't do the miracle after all; he
couldn't turn the acid into water. Mr. Bartlett knew. He knew it all along. I
should have listened to him instead." Then she frowned suddenly. She looked at
S.T. "But now you
can
hear."

His mouth set. He looked out across the landscape. "The man's a charlatan.
Can't you see it, Dove? He planned the whole thing. I'd no mind to give him his
convenient 'miracle.' "

"But the acid—"

"For the love of God, 'twas no more than ice water in that pitcher. He'd have
had the acid somewhere else—up his sleeve, I don't doubt."

Dove stared at him. "But then . . . you were never hurt at all!" His forehead
wrinkled. "All that time, you could hear! Whilst Chastity and Sweet Harmony and
I took such care of you. That was five days, and you never told us. "'Twas
unkind, not to tell me! I thought it was my failing. I thought I hadn't faith
enough for the miracle."

"Unkind!" Leigh cried fiercely.
"Unkind?
Who could blame him if he
didn't tell you? Why should he trust
you?"

"He could have trusted me!"

"With his life? You silly, selfish chit—'twas no nursery game to thwart that
pious madman in his den. Do you think your precious Master Jamie didn't know
full well that he could hear? That it was a pretense, and only to discredit him!
Do you suppose he can let that pass unanswered? He lives off just your sort.
Fatuous ninnies, the lot of you!"