The Prince of Midnight by Laura Kinsale
He lay like a lion stretched on the bed, tawny and masculine. The silence grew. He made a moody sound, staring at the pendant.
“I thought it was beneath you,” she said. Her voice came out wrong, too husky, a little fractured. “You’ve hardly touched me since the first time.”
“Aye,” he said bitterly. “I’ve wanted you to ask.”
She would never give him that. She wouldn’t stumble into the kind of absurd emotional maze he lived in. Daft, he was. Sentimental, daft, devastating. She could imagine him with her sisters. He would laugh at Emily’s jokes even when she couldn’t remember the punch lines. He would tease Anna into tantrums. He would… no, not would… would have, would have…
Sometimes she thought she heard them, heard their voices, somewhere just beyond sight. Just beyond reach, fading into dreams.
But all that was gone.
Gone, gone, gone… as if it had never been.
Reality was an unfamiliar room and a highwayman. He was magnificent, his green eyes, gold dusted: his knee lifted and his body relaxed, as beautiful in its own way as the wolf’s. She knew the strong shape of his hands and wrists and the sudden, beguiling shock of his devil’s grin. It felt like drowning, to be this close to him. It felt like pain: the deep ache and anguish of heat applied when all her limbs were frozen. She didn’t want it; she couldn’t survive it.
“I won’t ask,” she said. Her voice sounded crystalline, brittle in the silence. “I need nothing of what you call love. What you want is your own affair.”
He looked away with a grimace. He held up the pendant and watched it twist in the light.
“Did I speak of love?” His jaw was set. His mouth looked forbidding. “I thought I spoke of debts.” He opened his hand and allowed the pendant to slide slowly from his fingers, one silver loop after another. “My bed. My food. My money,” he said softly. “Ever since La Paire.” There was just the faintest trace of scorn in his voice. He lowered his hand and rested it against hers. “What of that? You’d have it all business between us-so you’ve told me.”
Leigh grew taut. She remembered him, again, with the sword on the beach-the rapier’s wicked song as it cut the air. .
He slipped his fingers about her wrist, sliding his hand up her arm and slowly down again. The twist of his mouth held a sardonic challenge. “So…” he whispered. “Pay me.”
She breathed deeply, like a deer frozen in alarm.
Did he think she would shy from it now? She stared at him, at the moody smile, the lowered lashes that hid his intent.
Her eyes narrowed.
Let him. Let him believe it was in his power to move her in any way.
He shifted his hand to the buttons on her waistcoat and began to flick them open, one by one, deliberately. He reached the last. “You’re strangely passive for a whore,” he said. “Don’t you know your business?”
She felt a flush rise in her face. But she wouldn’t give him anything, not even shame.
Without lifting his head, he caught her chin between his fingers, caressing. There was still that scornful curve to his mouth. “If I’m buying this, I don’t expect to undertake all the exertion.”
“There’ll be servants coming.”
“Tamed up shy?” he murmured. “They won’t stay long.”
She fought the alarm, sought for the shield of resentment. She thought of the way he’d struck the sword from her hands as if her fingers had no strength in them. She wanted redress for that, and for other things: the way he drew her in and made her afraid for him and what he might do.
She thought of the scenes in the marquis’s little book, the erotic stories. Her lip curled.
Let him think he could shake her this way.
She turned her head and brushed her lips over his hand. Delicately, she closed her teeth on the tip of his finger and lowered her eyes. “I’ll bathe you then, monsieur.”
S.T. lay on the bed as the maid finished pouring the last pail of hot water into the bath. Rye’s preeminent tailor had not been behindhand in offering his wares. S.T.’s new coats, brought by the shop boy, were spread for inspection on the clothespress amid their paper wrappings: bronze velvet trimmed with dark green frogging, midnight blue satin decorated in gold, along with a hopeful offering of matching breeches, heavily embroidered waistcoats, and fresh linen shirts that dangled discreet lace at the cuffs.
The maidservant gathered her empty pails and left on the heels of the dismissed shop boy. S.T. sat up on the edge of the bed. He reached for the platter of cold meat and ate a slice of beef on bread, tossing another portion to Nemo, who consumed it in one swallow.
All the time, he watched Leigh.
Her hair was tied back again, revealing tender skin, snowy and silken. He kept his lashes lowered, kept a check on himself, just watching, like a hunter in the trees.
She moved around the room—arranging towels, laying out soap, and making little feminine sorts of preparations, the kind of things he’d never seen her do before.
It made him hot to watch her in the boots and breeches, her head bent in quiet attention to the tasks. The effect was maddening, sublimely exotic. She was doing this for him, all these little meek rituals, these maidenly things, while he wanted to rape her-she’d driven him that far.
He’d not intended it this way. He’d tried to impel her to refuse him, to shame her into it.
She won. He lost… lost the bluff, the whole stake, the entire war, every scrap of conscience and restraint-and took painful, inglorious, mortal pleasure in it.
He sipped at a glass of brandy, feeling it warm his throat and chest. He was disturbed to find that his hand wasn’t steady. The drink did not blunt the hunger in him, or the self-contempt.
She moved to the bath, tested the water, and turned to him. “Monsieur?”
Her eyes were lowered, her tone polite and reserved, as if she were a docile servant. He felt bound; unable to stand up and take her in his arms in the usual way of things. He just sat there, violent inside, his hands shaped to the edge of the bed.
She came to him, stood beside the bed. “You wish me to undress you, my lord?”
His lips parted a little. The husky voice was seductive, her manner grave. He thought she must be mocking him, calling him by a deferential title, as if she were truly a servant. She dropped her eyes in a sort of courtesy, her dark lashes curving against her cheek, inflaming him beyond logic with this offer of service.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, surrendering to the erotic promise of it.
He’d been attended by servants a thousand times. He’d never thought about it in his days of living high. He was a gentleman; he had a valet when circumstances permitted. But not this. Not this tantalizing female who lifted his shirt, trailing her hands over his torso and chest, touching him in places he had not been touched in three years.
Her fingers stroked him, moved up his ribs and outlined the curve of muscle on his chest. She caressed his nipples until he lifted his chin and drew in a heavy breath. She pulled the linen over his head, moving away to lay the shirt across the chair as if everything were commonplace routine. Then she came back and paused in front of him, her gaze still lowered modestly, like an attendant awaiting his pleasure.
He stood up. She touched him without hesitation. The back of her hand pressed him leisurely as she unbuttoned his breeches. He was having trouble breathing. He wet his lips as she pushed the material aside and released him.
He felt as if he were sinking into a dream.
Her fingers closed around him intimately, warm and stroking. He sucked in his breath, put his hand on her shoulder, and arched his head back. His whole body seemed to reach for her, to fuse and center on that touch. She slid her palm down the side of his hips, bent to unfasten the buckles at his knee bands. He stepped to one side, freed of breeches and stockings, standing naked and aroused while she made a neat pile of the clothes and tested the water again.
“Monsieur,” she said gravely. “Your bath is at a pleasant war
He looked at her. His brain did not quite accept this scene: his own nakedness; her demure downcast eyes, her figure in the provocative breeches, the shirt, all covered and all flagrantly in view. His mind disowned it, but his body beat a hot and ready song.
He stepped into the bath. The steamy water flowed around his calves. On his bared back, he could feel his queue brush softly when he turned his head, like cool silk while he simmered all over.
She held a washcloth and soap, waiting, but somehow he could not bring himself to sit down. His knees would not bend, his shoulders would not relax. All his muscles seemed taut with pleasure. He flexed his hands as he stood with the warm water caressing his feet.
She waited a moment, her gaze steady at the level of his chest. When he made no other move, she folded back her sleeves to the elbows, knelt, and doused the washcloth and soap in water. She was so beautiful, she made every move delicate, gracious. He wanted to hold her face between his hands and drive his tongue deep into her mouth. As she rose, she drew the scented bar and cloth up the back of his leg, up his thigh and his loins, cascading warmth down his body.
He bit the inside of his mouth and tilted his head back, feeling her hand move on his skin, slowly massaging.
She began to soap his chest. The water ran down in heated rivulets. He heard himself breathing, rough and uneven, the only sound beyond the swish of water in the tub.
She knelt again and brought a fresh soapy flood of sensation, washing his throat and his shoulders, taking each of his arms in turn and working gently down to his fingers. Her skin felt slick and hot against his; he caught her wrist, but it slipped from his hand as she turned away. She filled the pitcher and lifted it above his shoulders to rinse.
He closed his eyes as the water poured down over him. She knelt again and began to soap his legs, running her hands over the hard muscle of his calves, and then upward.
She stroked the back of his thighs and caressed him provocatively. He could not believe it; he couldn’t speak; there was a sound caught in his throat, a blocked whimper of ecstasy. He touched her hair, thrust his fingers through it, and held her-head between his hands as if she could keep him standing when his braced legs felt as if they would give way.
She let the cloth fall and brushed the inside of his thighs with satin-slick fingers. Then, while he stood trembling, she slipped her hands around his hips, leaned forward as she knelt, took him in her mouth and kissed him.
His back arched; he clenched his teeth and panted through them as she stroked the most unbearably sensitive part of him with the tip of her tongue. Sweet flashes of agony sent tiny spasms through his frame. He began to move; he couldn’t help himself, his hips pressed forward into the rhythmic strokes and his hands slid down to her shoulders to lift her.
He wanted to drive her backward onto the bed, to bury himself in her instantly. But she slipped from his grasp, twisting free with a shrug.
His eyes opened. She stepped back as he reached for her. She had a faint wry smile, a strange brightness to her eyes as she surveyed him.
“You’re a very beautiful man, monsieur,” she murmured. “But I think our ledger is in balance for now.”
Before he could adjust to the sudden change in the direction of events, she pulled down her sleeves and slipped out the door, leaving him standing alone and soapy in a hip bath.
He heard the latch clunk. For a long moment he simply stared at the door, confounded. He sent a wild look around the room, breathing fiercely.
He could not believe it. His body rejected it entirely, demanding completion. He let out a shout of rage that sent Nemo scrambling under the bed.
The door stayed closed.
“Leigh!” he roared.
There was only the sound of the slow, worried thump of Nemo’s tail.
“Jesus,” he said. “You little bitch. You vicious little… God!” He broke off, beyond words. An inarticulate snarl was all that passed his throat.
He shoved one fist into the other. His body ached and burned. He stared again at the door, had a wild thought of snatching one of the coats and going after her; realized what an unutterable ass he would look if he tried.
“God damn you, what do you want?” he shouted.
“What do you want; what do you want? Cold-blooded bitch—is this it?”
No answer.
With a furious splash, he sat down in the tub. He put his hand over his face and chewed his fist. He was breathing hard, panting through his nose in harsh gusts. Over, he thought. Over. That’s it. No more.
He grabbed the extra bucket and poured ice-cold water down on his head.
Two hours later, he stood before the mirror on the dressing table, glaring at himself. He wore the bronze velvet, because that was the first thing on top of the pile, with blond lace and a waistcoat of gold tissue embroidered in green silk and silver thread. The whole rig gave him a metallic shimmer, picking up the gilded gleam of his hair, which he left unpowdered for just that reason. He thought he looked well. He hoped he looked damned good. He snarled at his image and saw a golden satyr sneer back.
He drew in a deep breath. He swung off the stool and kicked the damp towels out of the way, banged open the door, and signaled for Nemo, who came reluctantly, his tail between his legs. S.T. took an extra minute to get down on his knees and reassure the animal, but although Nemo licked his face and put his paws on S.T.’s shoulders, he still moved with the half-creeping posture of a worried wolf as he followed S.T. down the corridor—another crime to place at Leigh Strachan’s door.
When he reached the front hall, the landlord looked up from his ledger and smiled. S.T. had a notion that the state of his marital tranquility was known throughout the inn, but the man made no sign, simply directed him to a private parlor, where the innkeeper said Mrs. Maitland was awaiting her husband.
He stepped inside the opened door. In a pleasant salon warmed by candlelight on rich linen-fold paneling, a young woman sat by the fireplace, reading.
He hardly recognized her. She rose as he entered and curtsied to him, bending low, spreading a fan and the skirts of her gown, so that the familiar Prussian blue birds showed clearly. Her hair was dressed and powdered to the palest hint bluer than her pearl choker, falling in short ringlets against her throat and curling gently around her face. She wore a tiny beribboned flower in it. Even her brows were different, plucked into perfection, with an arch that seemed unnatural and delicate, like the tiny black patch placed at the corner of her lips.
He looked at the exquisite sable kiss against her soft skin and felt crazy, all the heat coming back in a rush.
She closed the fan with a skillful snap as she rose and held out her hand to him. Fully aware of the landlord still standing in the door behind him, S.T. allowed her to pose there for a noticeable moment before he turned around and shut the door in Lady Leigh Strachan’s face.
Chapter Twelve
He rode under the stars, fast and hard, on a horse he’d stolen right out of the stable yard. The wind beat his eyes; blew the moisture from them, so that he saw nothing clearly. He’d walked out of the Mermaid and seen the animal standing there saddled, grabbed the reins, and mounted it.
He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care.
The devil had him, the old devil that drove him to act on the razor edge of chance. He rode in a fury, intoxicated by the feel of a galloping horse beneath him, enraged with himself, with his needs and his weakness. He left behind him all the indignant shouts and civilized rules, plunging down a road too dark to see.
A shadow hunted beside him, a dark shape that made the horse snort and shy when it drew too close. Without deigning to use some unknown gentleman’s absurdly short stirrups, he rode out the fitful bucking, relishing the sensation, the ability to find his center and hold to it. All those nights when he’d painstakingly mounted the blind mare were nothing now, all that light-headed, cautious practice rendered immaterial. Without the dizziness, the skill was simply there, the way
He urged the animal on through the night. The elation of the race consumed him, fueling the fury, burning it up until he was a bonfire. The direction meant nothing, the pounding gallop was all that mattered, until in the blackness ahead something flickered—a smear in his blurry eyes.
He pulled up the horse and stared. The light glimmered and swayed, moving slowly downward. He passed his hand over his eyes and blinked to clear them, turned his head to listen with his good ear. Above the horse’s rhythmic blowing, he could hear the sluggish thunder of a trotting team and the creak of wheels.
Close already. Nemo had disappeared into the gloom. He felt the horse draw a breath and lift its head to whinny a greeting. He used his leg to push it violently to the side, off the road. The horse lunged up a low bank that he hadn’t realized was there.
As the carriage lantern came into view, he broke into a ruthless grin. His elevated position gave him an unexpected advantage, putting him above the unsteady pool of light that wavered along the road.
He reined the horse around, facing it the way the carriage was coming. He drew his sword and bent deeply over his mount’s neck, clamping his free hand across the animal’s nose to catch a whinny before it was born. The horse sidled beneath him. Over his shoulder, he could see the murky bulk of the team, catch the scarlet of the driver’s liveried arm and the glint of lantern light off harness brass. He refrained from looking directly into the lantern itself, to keep the light from dazzling him.
The slowly trotting team rattled toward him, the leaders passing with their heads at the level of his mount’s belly. They could smell his horse; he could see by the way they lifted their heads and blew nervously, but the blinkers kept them uncertain and silent. The coachman spoke softly to steady them as he passed.