The Prince of Midnight (10 page)

"I said you needed me," she murmured.

" 'Tis this damned shadow on the road." He righted himself and stood with his
hands on her shoulders. "I do well enough when I can see properly."

"You need me," she repeated patiently.

His hands tightened. "I want to kiss you."

She glanced at him sideways. He grinned.

"Please," he said, blowing a soft breath against the curve of her neck.
"S'il
vous plait beaucoup, mademoiselle.
We rescued you and everything."

Leigh scowled, standing stiffly while he caressed her throat. "I agreed to
sleep with you if you wished it."

His light touch ceased. He stood still behind her for a long moment, and then
his hands dropped away. "I only asked for a kiss," he said tautly. "And I'd
rather hoped that you would wish it also."

"I don't. But you may indulge yourself in the matter."

He made a low sound of disgust and pushed her forward. "Never mind. The
offer's not that tempting, Sunshine."

It
was
tempting, though. S.T. didn't touch her again, but he was
burning up with passion and excitement and temptation.

He'd done it. By God, he'd done it: delivered his damsel from the dragon's
lair in spite of his vertigo, in spite of his deafness—with no horse and no mask
and no weapon but a rapier.

And the look on Sade's face—
ah, mon dieu
—that sight alone had been
worth it.

Sweet fortune, sweet victory: it only needed what Leigh would not give him.

The devil fly away with her. He didn't care.

Nemo came back and padded along at his side, providing a convenient cushion
if he fell, but S.T. took heed where he put his feet and managed to stay
vertical. It was the moonlight that saved him; if it had been full dark he would
have been crawling sure enough. As long as he could focus on a stable object and
didn't trip he could keep his equilibrium. This spell was already fading,
mercifully shorter than the first.

The wolf pack shadowed them, moving somewhere above along the ridges. He
could tell by Nemo's pricked ears and frequent looks and the way the wolf would
break into an occasional caper of excitement, bounding forward and twisting back
to bow and dance playfully. S.T. headed away from the nearest town, choosing an
eastern fork in the road. Some wild cousin had already paid with its skin for
Nemo's aborted attempt to make human contact, no doubt trapped and killed and
displayed with the wig Nemo had lost so the Gypsies could claim they'd destroyed
the devil's beast. S.T. hoped the rest of the pack would return to higher and
safer elevations.

A melodic howl drifted from the heights, and Nemo sat down and answered
gleefully. He leaped up and mobbed S.T. again, pushed off and loped up the bank
of the road, vanishing into the gloom beneath the trees.

"Will he come back?" Leigh asked suddenly.

It was the first thing she'd said for a quarter hour. S.T.'s elation at
rescuing her had been slowly fading, but it lingered still, pumping a low,
steady throb through his blood. He was aware of her beside him every instant.

"If he gets lonely enough," he said shortly.

She stopped, looking up the hill. "He won't run away with the others?"

"I don't think the pack's accepted him."

"He didn't come back before," she said. "Maybe you should make a leash."

"A leash!" S.T. swung around and stared at her. "You don't understand
anything, do you?"

She met his glare in silence. For a moment he thought the sharp contempt in
his voice had hurt her, but she only said, "It seems practical."

He took a deep breath and shook his head. "You don't understand."

"I understand. You're a foolish man," she said. "You live in dreams."

He absorbed that cut, trying to avoid looking at her face in the moonlight,
so beautiful and so cold. He looked down at her hands instead, imagined touching
one, cupping it between his palms and warming it with his mouth.

Dreams. He lived in dreams.

Too true,
he thought, and turned away. "I know a place we can stay
the night—if you're planning to honor me with your captivating presence," he
said. "It's not far ahead."

She nodded briefly, which perversely cheered him, thereby proving she was
entirely right and he was definitely a first-rate fool. He walked along, trying
to think of some way to slip past her icy shield.

Nemo came panting out of the darkness, still carefully keeping his distance
from Leigh. He seemed calmer, ranging ahead down the road and returning to stick
his nose beneath S.T.'s hand. It was comforting, a silent point scored against
practicality and leashes. S.T. rubbed the wolf's ears and smiled to himself.
He'd charmed wilder things than a dour girl, after all.

The steep gorge that contained the road opened into a little valley, a
moon-bathed meadow that stretched away to the dark hills. He left the road at a
ford in the stream. Nemo splashed through the water and shook himself,
scattering shining droplets, but S.T. hesitated. He thought of gallantly
carrying her across and dismissed it as too risky. Decisive humiliation if he
lost his balance. Instead he pulled the cloak bag and his sword belt over his
shoulder and waded in without ceremony.

"You'll ruin your boots," she said.

"Rehearsing for married life?" He held out his free hand as cold water
swirled around his feet. "Ah, no, forgive me—you're just being practical, aren't
you? Step on this stone here, and I'll give you a boost across."

For a moment he thought she'd refuse the offer. He could tell she wanted to,
but her precious practicality won out. She made a leap onto the rock, and he
gripped her arm and gave her a propelling lift that landed her safely on the
other side. He waded out, squishing water between his toes.

"Thank you," she said stiffly.

"Pray don't choke on it," he muttered, rearranging his sword.

Ahead, he could see the Roman ruins, three pillars that stood alone in the
meadow, dim smudges of white in the moonlight. He squelched along the path that
led to the remains of the temple and unloaded the satchel on a fallen block. "We
can sleep here." He sat down to pull off the sodden boots.

Leigh picked them up as soon as he set them down. She rummaged in the satchel
and found the bottle of salad oil. S.T. slanted a look sideways and watched for
a moment as she pulled off her cravat and used the end of it to begin rubbing
oil into the wet boots.

He wiggled his cold toes. "You don't have to do that."

"They'll stiffen else."

He leaned over and pulled out the bundle of food. Nemo trotted up and sat,
staring. S.T. tossed the wolf a chicken leg, which disappeared in one bite. He
sheared the wax off the wine bottle and pried out the cork, took a savoring
sniff, and then offered the bottle to Leigh.

"I don't take spirits, as a rule," she said.

Naturally not.

He swallowed a deep draught and sighed. Nemo inched closer, gazing intently
at the capon. S.T. sat up straight and growled. The wolf stopped, his ears
dropping submissively, but as soon as S.T. took another drink, Nemo tried to
slink forward again.

S.T. waited, setting down the bottle as if he didn't see the wolf advancing
one stealthy step at a time. Then suddenly he reached out and grabbed Nemo by
the ruff, launched himself on top of the wolf, and gave him a hard shake and a
good snarl. Nemo instantly shrank to his belly and rolled over with his tail
tucked, whining and wriggling. The moment S.T. let go, the wolf retreated
hastily, ears pasted down in dismay. He took up a position a few yards away, put
his head on his paws, and stared soulfully while S.T. ate half of the capon.

He looked down at Leigh where she sat cross-legged on the grass, oiling his
boots in the moonlight. "Aren't you hungry?"

She didn't even look up. "I'll eat when I've finished this."

S.T. spread the napkin across the antique block and arranged the bread and
meat for her. He reached for her cloak bag and dug toward the bottom, intending
to retrieve the silver cup and fill it at the stream for her.

"Don't," she snapped. "I don't want you pawing through my things."

"Why not?" He didn't stop rummaging. "One dress with matching slippers, a set
of bone stays, one pearl choker, sketchbook, two gold buckles, a lady's fan,
some medicinal powders, miscellaneous muslin, cup, spoon, three livres and
twenty pence. Estimated value four guineas—not counting the seed pearl on the
silk stomacher. I pawed through it all a long time ago."

"While I was ill?" She glared at him. "You are not a gentleman."

"Haven't got a jot of virtue in me." He smiled. "What can you expect? I'm a
highwayman." He found the cup and stood up in his stocking feet, picking his way
carefully back toward the water. Nemo rose silently and trotted ahead of him,
keeping a respectful distance. When S.T. knelt at the stream he looked toward
the wolf and called quietly. A soft whine answered him, but Nemo still seemed
dubious about his welcome.

S.T. lowered himself all the way onto the ground and called again. "Come on,
old chap—you know better than to try to steal dinner. Come here."

Nemo sat down, unresponsive.

S.T. held out his hand. "Do you think I don't love you anymore? What's got
into you?"

The wolf tilted his head quizzically, staring into S.T.'s eyes.

"It's her, isn't it?" S.T. sighed. "Afraid she's going to join the pack?" He
tugged at a clump of grass and shook his head. "The thing is, Nemo—I'm a
blockhead when it comes to women. Can't resist them." He glanced back toward the
temple. "Have you looked at her? I mean . . . hell and damnation, do you really
blame me?" He put his hands in his hair. "I can feel myself going. I try to stay
rational; I know I'm a bloody dunce to fall in love. It never answers. It never
comes to anything. I don't even like her. Lord, she's got all the sensibility of
a fence post." He closed his eyes. "It's just been so long, Nemo. So ... damned
. . . long."

He sighed again, and drew it out into the canine version—a whine. Nemo
pricked his ears. He trotted forward, placed his big front paws carefully on
S.T.'s knees, and licked his chin and face in sympathy.

"That's better." S.T. stroked Nemo's ruff and scratched his ears and fussed
while the wolf pressed up against him and wagged its tail. "Friends again?" Nemo
made a mock swipe and S.T. responded, turning the reunion into a playful tussle
on the damp ground.

When they returned, Leigh was still hunched over the boots. S.T. sat on the
grass, leaning against the stone. The light breeze fluttered the pages of the
sketchbook where he'd left it on the block. He reached up and pulled it down.

"You're an artist," he said, holding it in his lap.

"I merely sketch. And I have not invited you to view my work."

He slid the book back into her satchel, thinking of papa asleep in his
library and Anna with her tall captain. S.T. liked the idea of her family. It
made him smile, nostalgic for things he'd never actually experienced. He
wouldn't have minded looking at them again, but it was too dark anyway.

"Where were you trained to paint?" she asked.

He looked up, surprised by the question. She examined the boot she was
holding and set it beside the other.

"You really want to know?"

She stood up and brushed at her breeches. "I was curious—your style is
romantic, of course, and you make extensive use of chiaroscuro, but I was unable
to identify a particular school."

"The Venetian Academy. I studied under Giovanni Piazzetta." He glanced at her
from the corner of his eye to see what she would make of it.

"I see," was all she said.

"And Tiepolo," he added, unable to help himself. "I assisted in Maestro
Tiepolo's studio for three and a half years."

She took a helping of food and sat on the ground, breaking the bread in her
lap. Quietly, she said, "He would be proud of you, I think. Your paintings are
very luminous."

S.T. let out a soft breath. He closed his eyes and looked away before she
could see the rush of pleasure that made his mouth curve upward without his
permission.

She liked his paintings. She thought they were luminous. God.

He yearned to kiss her. He wanted to hold her body close and drown in her.
"Let me paint you," he said hoarsely. "Come back to the castle . . .I'd paint
you like this ... in the moonlight, with the ruins. You're beautiful."

She shook her head. "No."

He leaned on his knees and buried his face in his crossed arms. "You're
making me insane." He lifted his face. "You want me to teach you the sword? Come
back and sit for me, and I'll do it."

She gave him a long, steady look. "I don't believe you can manage it."

He shoved himself to his feet. "Why? Because I can't fight anymore?" He
blinked away the dizziness from the sudden move and walked to one of the
pillars. He leaned against it. "My fencing master was eighty-eight years old
when I began, Miss Strachan, and he taught me to be the bloody best there was."

'Twas true, of course: his master had been the finest teacher on the
continent, but there had been a hundred other students and officers and dueling
virtuosos at hand to hone S.T.'s skills in practice. But she was looking at him
thoughtfully, and he reckoned he could take her through the novice exercises
well enough, which were all she could handle and then some. He'd been educated
in a formidable school.

"An artist and a blade," she said pensively. "Who are you, Monseigneur du
Minuit?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"Pardon me." She looked away. "I did not mean to pry."

" 'Tis no great secret. My mother ran away from her husband and produced me
upon arrival in Florence. I'm a bastard, almost certainly, but I suppose the
dates were doubtful enough for him to acknowledge me. Poor fellow—what else
could he do after my elder brother killed his man in eighteen duels and then
broke his neck falling out of a whorehouse window?" S.T. smiled. "No doubt the
old chap was praying I might display the firmness of character so unhappily
lacking in the rest of the family." He tilted his head back against the pillar.
"He was sadly mistaken, but I go by the honorable English name of Maitland
anyway."