The Prince of Midnight (9 page)

She slipped the book into her coat pocket.

"You do not read it?" He gave her a disappointed frown.

"Perhaps later. It's too rough now."

"Yes, of course. Later." He smiled at her. "We shall read it together, These
English words, I was not certain of them all."

The count sat back and began to speak rapidly to Latour. He made several
reverent references to a Mademoiselle Anne-Prospere, and Leigh gathered that he
was to be reunited with his lover somewhere on his journey, but for now was
without companionship beyond the valet. With the aid of a full moon, they
traveled on at their snail's pace long past dark, but on the report of a
rockfall in the road ahead, Mazan decided to halt for the night at a tiny inn.
Leigh swung out of the coach and stood in the yard. While Latour and Mazan
followed the landlord inside, she looked up at the steep, moon-drenched valley
walls that rose on all sides, throwing the river and narrow road into gloomShe
walked a few yards down the roadway. It was wild and empty country, closer into
the mountains than La Paire. The sound of the river seemed muffled by the
overhanging rocks, strangely subdued, as if the mass of stone above pressed down
on them all. Over the top of the precipice behind the inn, she could see the
full moon hanging above the black flanks of a ponderous height.

If she walked away from here, she'd be sleeping on the open ground. They
hadn't passed a light for three hours.

"There you are!" The Comte de Mazan gripped her arm. "Come, come, we've
arranged a nice bedchamber and a fire for ourselves. Morning will be upon us
before you know it." He shivered and grinned at her. "We must put our rest to
good use."

He drew her forward with a bit more force than necessary. Leigh allowed it.
She planned to get her supper out of these two, at least, before fading quietly
into the darkness.

The inn had no private parlor, only a single bedchamber with two beds and a
tiny closet that contained a cot and a window protected neither by oil paper nor
glass.

Mazan waved toward it negligently. "We won't even make Latour sleep out
there. We can all share." He grinned again. "He's already found us a girl."

This development was a challenge to Leigh's French. Unable to construct a
more subtle answer, she simply said boldly, "I don't like girls."

Mazan lifted his eyebrows.
"Mon dieu.
A boy of your age. What does
the world come to?" He sat down on one of the beds. "That's all right. I despise
women, myself. But wait until you see what I have in mind. Come and be
comfortable." He patted the bed beside him.

Before Leigh could marshal her French grammar again to answer, the door
opened. Latour pushed a plump, red-cheeked young maid inside.

"My lord," the
fille de chambre
whimpered, trying to set her feet.
"My lord—please—I'm a good girl!"

"Nonsense," the count said. "You expect us to believe that in a place like
this? You're just trying to raise your price."

"No, sir!" She shook her head. "Ask the hostess; I'm to be married—ow!" She
cringed at Latour's hard pinch.

" 'Twas the hostess recommended you," Mazan snapped. "Said you were slut
enough to do anything for a guinea, which I don't doubt for a moment. Come
nowhere it is . . ." His voice changed to gentleness. "Put it in your pocket
right now—ah, are you crying, poor child?" He drew her toward him and caressed
her cheek as he slipped the coin into her apron.

"Please, sir! I don't want it." She tried to hand the coin back.

He caught her wrist and twisted it. The girl cried out and dropped to her
knees.

"Oh, don't," she sobbed. "Leave me alone! Please leave me alone."

"Hold her down, Latour. There—tie her hands, that's it. Oh, yes, do cry, do
cry," he crooned, as the valet twisted the girl's arms roughly behind her with a
length of linen. With Latour's help, Mazan shoved her face down on the bed,
pushed her skirt above her knees and bound her feet to the bedpost while the
maid wailed and begged to be released.

Leigh moved toward the door.

"My lord," Latour said sharply.

The count glanced up and saw her intent. He sprang from the bed and stepped
forward to stop her, blocking the door.

Leigh met him with the lethal blade of her silver dagger at ready. He
stopped, staring at it.

"I've been watching her," Latour said. "She's a woman. I'm sure of it."

Mazan threw him a startled glance, and Leigh took the chance to dive past
him. He grabbed at her, roared a curse as she sent a slash across his palm, and
brought up his other hand, walloping the side of her head.

Leigh had never been struck before in her life. She staggered against the
door, bent over, her head ringing and her stomach wrenched with the unexpected
pain. She gripped the knife and dragged herself upright to deflect the next
blow, but the sound in her head changed, grew strange and louder—and Mazan
wasn't even looking at her; he was standing transfixed, staring toward the
window, listening open-mouthed to the deep, inhuman howl that rose slowly to a
haunting peak outside.

"What the devil is that?" he cried.

Another wail joined it, and another and another, a sound that made the hair
rise on the back of Leigh's neck. It was like nothing she'd ever heard before in
her civilized, safe existence—and yet her body knew it, her spine tingled and
her throat closed as the low-pitched, throbbing ululation ascended to an
unearthly caroling on the night. She closed her eyes and leaned against the
door, listening to the eerie concert that filled the air and drowned the muffled
shouts of surprise from downstairs.

She felt the closed door shake under the thump of feet in the stairwell. The
howling suddenly fell silent.

"
Diable
," the count muttered.

The door handle turned beneath Leigh's fingers. She instinctively stepped
back, waking from the frozen bemusement and aware of a chance to escape. The
door swung inward.

From the shadows of the hall, wolf-eyes reflected candlelight with red fire.

"
Jesu Christ
," Mazan ejaculated.

The wolf's deep-throated growl erupted into a snarl as he spoke; it crouched
with hackles raised, staring into the room with bared white fangs. Beside the
great beast, half in shadow, stood a man.

The light caught his hair in a shimmer of dull gold. His sword made a
graceful arc, flashing as he lifted it. "Monsieur de Sade," he said softly. "As
amusing as you appear with that expression on your face, I would advise you to
lower your eyes."

"What?" the man who'd called himself the Comte de Mazan demanded
breathlessly.

"I do not wish for your blood," the Seigneur said in the same mild voice.
"High-minded of me, don't you think? But my friend here hasn't quite mastered
his emotions at this spectacle." The rapier made a fluid dip toward the floor.
"He sincerely feels he should kill you on my behalf. Look down slowly, if you
please, and you will be a small degree safer."

The aristocrat obeyed, breathing in deep, uneven gulps. The wolf continued
growling and took a step forward in his menacing creep, spreading one huge paw
on the bedchamber's wooden floor. His teeth glittered, sharper than any
domesticated dog's.

"Avec soin,"
the Seigneur commanded in clear, simple French, "Leigh.
Untie the girl." Then he added in English, "If she's likely to make a fuss,
you'd best use that linen to gag her first. Do not on any account allow her to
scream."

Leigh obeyed him, whispering reassurance to the terrified girl. From her
position on the bed, the maid had not seen the wolf, but she could hear it.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, wetting the linen. Leigh had to lift her bodily
from the bed, and her plump legs buckled as soon as she glimpsed the beast.

"Stand up," Leigh hissed. "Stand up, you foolish chit!"

The maid moaned and let her weight fall heavily against Leigh. She staggered
under the burden, but supported the wilting girl with an effort, glancing across
at the Seigneur in impotent impatience.

He shook his head. "You damsels do choose the most inconvenient moments to
swoon." He smiled faintly. "What's your pleasure, Sunshine? Shall we save her or
let her lie?"

Leigh stepped back. "Let her lie," she said.

The maid's legs suddenly stiffened as she lost her prop. A muffled
"non!"
came from behind the linen gag as she reached out blindly. The wolf moved,
darting toward to snarl malevolently and snap at the nearest victim: the
marquis. He swore and the maid squealed. The wolf glided back to crouch beside
his companion while the girl clutched at Leigh, squeaking.

"Stand up, then," Leigh said. "Stand up and do as you're told."

"
Oui, madam
!" came the muffled cry. The maid clung to Leigh. "
Mais
oui
!"

Leigh looked toward the Seigneur for direction.

He stepped inside the room, fully illuminated now, the candlelight burning
cold tawny fire on his hair and long lashes. The wolf moved with him, dashing
forward into another savage pass at the marquis and his valet, pressing them up
against the fireplace. The Seigneur nodded at Leigh. She grabbed her cloak bag
and pushed the maid ahead of her through the vacated doorway.

Outside, she shoved the girl at the stairs. The
fille de chambre
wasted no time in fleeing; she was down the stairwell and gone before Leigh had
reached the banister. Leigh heard a vicious burst of snarling from the room
behind. As she turned, the Seigneur appeared at the lighted door, raised his
sword in a salute, and bowed to the occupants.

"
Bon nuit
, Monsieur de Sade," he said cheerfully. "Do have pleasant
dreams."

The marquis cursed. The wolf slid out the door, shrank away from Leigh, and
thudded down the stairs with a heavy tread.

"Come along," the Seigneur said in English, turning toward her and lifting
his hat from the newel.

She went, crossing the lower parlor without bothering to glance at the
paralyzed landlord and his wife where they stood cringing behind a settee. The
wolf also ignored them, vanishing silently out the open front door. But the
Seigneur stopped, made a polite apology to the mute couple, and helped himself
to the bread, salad, and a trio of capons cooling on a tray that had been loaded
to take upstairs. He tied the food into a serviette, stuffed the bundle into
Leigh's satchel, and packed the wine bottle and cruet of salad oil on top.
Assuring them that my lord the marquis would pay for it, he slung the strap over
his shoulder and bade the proprietors a civil farewell before he took her arm,
pulling her with him out the door.

She could feel the tension in his grip as they strode into the yard. Without
stopping, he threw back his head and howled, sending a wild slide of sound into
the sky like a song of victory.

From all around came the enthusiastic answer of lupine voices, a long-drawn
serenade of excitement and support. The Seigneur's wolf bounded around them in
large circles, stopping to howl with its tail held high and its muzzle lifted.
Then it ran behind him, giving Leigh a wide berth, and leaped up to rest its
giant paws on his shoulders for an instant before it dropped down and
disappeared into the dark trees.

The chorus stopped as suddenly as it had begun, as if the unseen pack had
come to the end of its song in prearranged unison. The Seigneur kept his hand on
Leigh's elbow, leading her down the road through moonlight and shadow.

"Is that Nemo?" she asked.

"Certainly," he said. There was an undertone of elation in his voice.

"Where was he?"

He looked toward her. There was just enough light to see the way his eyebrow
lifted. "With his own kind, Miss Strachan. Haven't you heard them?" His stride
lengthened. He still carried his rapier in his hand. It glinted silver as he
moved.

She walked with him in silence for a few moments. He tripped on something,
and his grip on her nearly pulled them both over as he swayed, a motion out of
all proportion to the stumble.

He swore. She set her feet, allowing him to steady himself against her.

He straightened and let go. "Sorry," he said in a tight voice.

Leigh reached out and caught his shirt sleeve as he took a wavering step.
Without speaking, she molded his fingers around her arm again: a silent offer of
support.

He stood still. Abruptly, he sheathed his sword. "I had an accident," he
said. "At times my balance isn't—overly reliable." He kept his eyes fixed on the
ground. "Today has been . . . difficult."

"Lean on me."

He slowly lifted his head and stared at her a moment. The moonlight turned
the gold in his hair to frost, molded his face in silver and jet.

"I don't care," she said. "I'm accustomed to it."

"Thanks." He moved his hand away. "I don't need your help."

Stupid man. Proud, absurd man.
"How did you ever catch up with us?"
she asked pointedly.

"The road follows the river. It skirts the mountain flank," he said. "To come
over the top is shorter." He shrugged. "I knew you'd be here—there's nowhere
else to shelter. I'd already come most of the way, looking for Nemo."

"In the dark? And how did you do it in your condition? Fall down and crawl?"

He took deep offense; she could see it in the way he set his jaw and looked
away. She started walking. After a moment she heard his footsteps behind her.

"Really, 'twas nothing," he said dryly. "I've robbed coaches on my hands and
knees."

"Just try to plummet in my direction when you stumble again."

"My eternal gratitude, Miss Strachan, but—"

She heard him skid on the rocky track. He collided with her from behind, his
hands grabbing for purchase. She tottered an instant, then stood steadily while
he held her by the arms and cursed between his teeth.