The Prince of Midnight

by Laura Kinsale

  Leigh found herself turning scarlet. It wrenched something deep inside her to see him touch Dove in that gentle way, as casually as if they’d been lovers for years. But Dove was what he wanted, of course—all that breathless, unconditional admiration; no matter that a week past she’d been pouring what she’d thought was acid in his ear. Coxcomb! Bloody stupid coxcomb.

  “’Tis late.” Leigh walked over to the candle and blew it out. The smoky scent of tallow enveloped the room.

  “And I perceive that I’m desired to go away,” he said in the darkness. “Give you good night, demoiselles.”

  After the door closed on his back, Leigh shrugged out of her waistcoat and got into bed in her shirt. She held onto the bedpost, facing the window, making sure that she didn’t touch Dove at all when the other girl climbed onto the mattress.

  For a long time Leigh clung stiffly to the edge of the bed, feeling Dove wriggle and shift at intervals until at last her breathing settled into the even rhythm of sleep. The moon hung low, shining in Leigh’s eyes through the window, setting slowly over the northern moors where Nemo hunted alone.

  Leigh turned her face into the pillow. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to make her heart into stone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  At the sound of footsteps outside his door, S.T. sat up among the bedclothes and dragged his arm across his face. The carters had long since gone to bed, the noise from the taproom subsided into silence. He’d left the bed curtains tied open, and strong moonlight frosted everything in the room to black and silver. He squinted, listening.

  The latch rattled, sounding distant to his good ear. He rolled over in bed and put his hand on the hilt of his sword. He hadn’t locked the door, having no key—and abruptly all of his blood was alive, singing danger through his veins.

  The door creaked open. A pale figure, barefoot, stood uncertain on the threshold.

  “Leigh,” he said hoarsely.

  For an instant his grip stayed tight on the sword, as it took his muscles a moment to react to the message of his mind. Then he relaxed, leaning over to prop the weapon back into position within easy reach.

  “Confound you, woman,” he muttered. “You’re like to have a rapier through your belly, creeping upon me that way.”

  She closed the door behind her.

  S.T. hiked himself up onto his elbow. “What is it?”

  She didn’t speak; to his astonishment she came forward and sank to her knees beside the bed.

  “Sunshine.” He sat up in dismay. “What the—are you ill?” He reached out to touch her forehead.

  She caught his hand. A peculiar sound escaped her, like a small and miserable laugh. She pressed her lips against his skin, shaking her head.

  “What is it?” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”

  “I want to tell you something,” she said. Her voice was trembling. As he spread his hand against her face, she pulled away, the voluminous shirt flowing around her.

  Awareness of her flooded him, the shape of her body beneath the linen as she stood. He tossed the bedclothes back and came to his feet in the cold room, uncertain and aroused. “Tell me what?”

  She made that queer small sound again, facing away from him, her hands over her mouth. “You’ll think me mad,” she said dismally.

  In the moonlight, he could see that she was shivering. “You’re cold.” He moved without thinking, almost taking her into his arms. Then he hesitated, unable to draw her against his nakedness, hoping the shadow hid the way his body revealed him.

  She turned suddenly and put her hands against his arms, shaking her head, moving into his embrace silently.

  “What is it?” He cradled her against him, trying to give warmth to her shivering softness, his hands exploring her back and her hair. On his bare shoulder he felt her cheek wet and cold. “Sunshine,” he said painfully. He hugged her hard against him. “Are you crying? Mon ange; ma pauvre petite.”

  Her fingers closed on his arms, clutching as if he might disappear. He held her steadily, enfolding her, stroking her hair while she wept soundlessly, the tears slipping down his shoulder.

  “Little love, little lost one,” he soothed. He rocked her gently, laying his cheek against her hair. “All’s well. I’ll not leave you alone.”

  Her fist curled; she struck it softly against his arm. “Liar,” she whispered. “Liar.”

  She bewildered him. He bent his head, nuzzling her ear. “No, you’ve naught to fear.”

  She didn’t answer, only stood with her face hidden in his chest. He could feel each smothered breath she took.

  Then she raised her eyes to his in the moonlight.

  And he understood. Oh, he understood; he didn’t need words to interpret the direct look, the slight lowering of her lashes, the way her hands kneaded his arms in an unconscious rhythm.

  “Leigh…” he breathed. “My God.”

  She burrowed against him, her shoulders hunched, as if she wanted to hide in his embrace. She had to know the state of his desire; she pressed herself against the whole length of his body.

  He took a deep breath and made the sacrifice: held her off a little and cupped her face between his hands. “Think a moment. ’Tis that you’ve came back to this place. You’ve—memories. You’re unhappy. You’re mourning. You don’t truly want… this.” He kissed her forehead and then added tentatively, “Do you?”

  She lowered her eyes. He thought she would speak: she wet her lips and stared at the base of his throat. The silver trail of tears glimmered on her skin.

  “You don’t want this,” he repeated heroically.

  Her eyes squeezed closed. Lightly, purposefully, she began to draw him toward the bed.

  He surrendered then, tossing scruples to the devil. He wanted to make her one with himself, shelter and solace and protect her. He wanted to drown in her body. He cradled her in silence, undressed her in silence, kissed her bare shoulder and her throat and bore her down on the bed without words.

  “What did you come to tell me?” he whispered against her ear.

  Her lips moved; he felt it on his skin, but he could not hear the words, too soft for his ear or never spoken aloud at all.

  “I love you, too,” he whispered.

  She lay her head back with that aching sound between a laugh and a sob. “Oh, you are cocksure, are you not?” she said in a small, shaky voice.

  He kissed her temple. “Chérie, he murmured, brushing his lips against her cheek. “Tell me what you came here to say to me.”

  Leigh gazed up at him. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I came for.” By the light of the moon, she watched his body: unmarked, strong, with no visible sign of the injuries he’d suffered.

  Alive. Burning like a golden flame in the dim room.

  Fear and despair welled up once more. She thought him beautiful enough for tears.

  He kissed her eyelids as the moisture leaked from beneath her lashes. “Don’t,” he said, as if it hurt him. “Don’t.”

  She reached up. She wanted him inside her, for proof of something: that he was vital and warm and living. The slide of his skin on hers made her shudder. His weight pressed her into the bed, his arousal stiff and responsive to every touch. She opened to let him take her as he had before, in impetuous thrusts, but instead he touched her nipple with his tongue, drawing a sharp breath from her throat.

  She’d thought herself experienced, having lain freely with two men. But he began to do things he had never done before, and she found that she’d only been initiated into a world that her lover had long ago mastered.

  He knew things about her that she hadn’t known herself. Her heart began to pump harder. She arched her head back as he caressed her breasts, circling the tips with his tongue and his forefinger while his hand drifted downward, made a feather stroke up and down the inside of her thigh and tangled in the curling hair there.

  He slipped to the side and pressed against her, gently urging her to turn over away f
rom him. With his chest against her back, his hardness pressed into her buttocks, he leaned over her and nibbled at the tender skin beneath her arm, then bent to suckle and tug at her breast. He enfolded her, encompassed her with himself, hugged her close and drew his thigh up between hers to make an erotic cradle of his body. His hand moved; his fingers slipped deep inside her.

  The sensation was exquisite, a heavy penetration in time to the warm tugging pull at her nipple. Leigh pushed back against him mindlessly, lost in the feel of him all round her, moving in the rhythm he established. She heard herself; from somewhere in the depths of her came small gasps of helpless pleasure.

  He shifted, nuzzling upward, and bit her neck lightly. “I love you,” he whispered fiercely. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  He pushed his body against her back in slow cadence. With each move, his arm brought her closer and his breath came in a rush on her skin.

  She could not contain it; she turned toward him and wrapped her legs around his, pulling him urgently toward her. He moved with a low, masculine sound, mounting her quickly, as urgent now as she. His hair had fallen loose from the black ribbon; it spread over his shoulder; she scooped it up in her fist, tangled her fingers in it, and pulled him down to kiss his mouth.

  His body seemed heavy within her, deep and powerful. She arched beneath him. He shoved slowly, pinning her with each aching, deliberate thrust, using himself to pleasure her. Her head fell back and her breath came harshly. He kissed her exposed throat, sucked the sensitive skin, his whole weight pressing her against the bed. His rhythm compelled her, pushed her, driving harder into her center. She met him and matched him, and passion burst over her, blowing and shattering and throbbing through her body in waves and waves.

  She only realized that she’d slept when she drifted awake. The moon still burned white, casting icy shadows across the plastered walls and low beams. She could see him clearly; he lay on his side with his arm across her body, his face turned a little into her.

  She thought he was asleep. His chest rose and fell gently.

  Without moving, she gazed at him. It felt strange and raw, this terrible love, this wobbly sense of possessing a measure of joy. She feared it, and yet she could not give it up. Worse, it left the rest of her spirit in shambles; she could not seem to resurrect the grim determination that had carried her so far. She hated Chilton, but the emotion seemed academic, distant and illusory in comparison to her intense awareness of the man who lay beside her.

  And when she lost him… when he went away… what then? She was afraid; the terror of it lay waiting somewhere ahead, cold and implacable, real and not quite real, like childhood monsters in the dark beyond the bed. They can’t be there, the child cried plaintively. ’Tis only shadows.

  Oh, but they are.

  They’re there. They exist: Only the fairy-tale princes fade, like shadows, when daylight comes at last.

  She studied the arc of muscle along his outstretched arm, the shape of his jaw, the way the fingers of his other hand curled in the glimmering tangle of his own hair.

  Painfully, beneath her breath, she whispered, “I love you.”

  He opened his eyes.

  A slow smile curved his mouth. He reached up and spread his hand over her temple, smoothing a lock of her hair between his thumb and fingers.

  She saw he was going to speak, put her hand to his lips, and shifted back a little. “No. Don’t say it.”

  He raised himself on his elbow. Moonlight fell across his face, highlighting the upward curve of one eyebrow, making his smile seem gently wicked. “Foolish Sunshine—don’t say that I love you?”

  “Don’t say that you love me. Don’t say you’ve never felt this way before. Don’t say… just—don’t say any of those things.” She bit her lip. “I could not bear it.”

  His eyes dropped. His mouth hardened a little. He moved his fingertips across the skin of her shoulder, down to her breast, barely brushing. “You leave me speechless, then.”

  She stared upward. The light touch drifted over her skin, drawing circles, spirals, hearts.

  “All I wanted was Chilton,” she whispered. “I wanted your help; I didn’t want a lover—I wanted justice for what’s been done to my family. That’s all I asked of you.”

  “You’ll have it,” he said.

  “Oh, aye!” She laughed hopelessly. “You are the Seigneur, are you not?”

  His hand stilled.

  “The great highwayman,” she said. “The Midnight Prince. The legend, the hero, the myth.” Fear made her ruthless. “I threw your diamond necklace in a millpond.”

  She felt the way his body altered, a subtle shift, a tightening of every muscle. He gripped her shoulder, leaned over her, and kissed her mouth, rough kisses at the corners of her lips and in the center, sweet with the heat and scent of him. “What do you want?” The space of a breath separated his mouth from hers. “Do you want me on my knees?”

  She gazed up into his face. “I want to be left alone.”

  “You come to me.” His mouth lowered, but he didn’t quite kiss her.

  “To forget. To not hurt any more—” She bit her lip. “To hurt all my life.”

  “I won’t hurt you,” he whispered.

  She closed her eyes. “You tear me apart.”

  “Leigh,” he said, “I love you.” The intensity in his voice made her turn her face away.

  “Leave me alone,” she said.

  He drew back, pushing up on one arm. “Leave you!” he echoed, the words etched in frustration.

  “I can’t bear it, why can’t you understand that?” Her voice began to break. “Why can’t you have mercy and leave me in peace?”

  He rolled away and stood up, naked and splendid, his hair free and his body cast in shadows. “Why did you come to me?”

  She pressed her face into the warm place where he’d lain. “Leave me alone.”

  “Tell me why you came, Leigh.”

  She crushed the pillow to her.

  “Only let me love you,” he said. “Just let me—”

  “Love!” She threw the pillow aside and sat up, pulling the be clothes around her. “You hypocrite. ’Tis nothing to you to say that, is it? You prate about love and roses and devotion, but you don’t know the meaning of the word. You never have, and I doubt you ever will.”

  He let out a harsh breath. “I don’t understand you. How you can say that, after—” He spread his hands and made a baffled sound. “After this.”

  “This! This is fancy, ’tis infatuation, ’tis a dream. Maybe you love your horses, maybe you love Nemo—all you require of me is a reflection of yourself. You and your bloody mask!” She was crying openly now, her head tilted back, her eyes shut against the tears. “Don’t keep trying to dress it up as love, because I know what love is, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.”

  “Aye,” he said quietly. “This hurts.”

  She felt him come closer. The bed sagged beside her with his weight. He touched her face, and she pulled away.

  “Don’t,” she said. “You’ve had what you want from me tonight.”

  “That isn’t all I want.”

  “Oh, indeed,” she said bitterly. “How could I think it enough? Just my whole self, every inch of my body and soul, that’s what you want.” She opened her eyes and stared into his. “It is not me who demands a lover on their knees.”

  He lowered his gaze, his face sober, troubled. “You said it was you and me, together—and I… it felt so good. I want it that way.” He looked up at her from beneath his lashes and said in a low voice, “I think I know what love is, Leigh.”

  “Go away!” She hugged the pillow to her. “Go away, go away, go away.”

  “’Twas you who came to me,” he said softly.

  “I… hate… you.”

  He bent, resting his forehead on her shoulder. “You cannot,” he whispered. “You can’t hate me.”

  For an instant she sat with her lip trembling, her whole body cold except where he to
uched her. “How many love affairs do you have to your credit, Monseigneur? Fifteen? Twenty? A hundred?”

  He did not look up. ’Tis no matter.”

  “How many?”

  “Some. I never gave my heart, not this way.”

  “I have had one,” she said. “His name was Robert. How many can you name?”

  He blew out a breath and drew back. “Why?”

  “Why not? Name me the last five.”

  “What is your point?”

  She lifted her chin, looking down her nose. “Poor ladies, can you not recall them?”

  “Of course I can recall them. The last one was named Elizabeth, and she was the bitch who turned me in.”

  “That’s one.” She watched him. “Who preceded Elizabeth?”

  He frowned and shifted, pushing away to arm’s length. “I don’t see that it’s important.”

  “You’ve forgotten.”

  “I haven’t forgotten, damn it. Elizabeth Burford, Caro Taylor, Lady Olivia Hull, and—Annie—Annie, uh—she was a Montague, but she married twice—you’ll forgive me if I can’t recall her married name, and Lady Libby Selwyn.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “You move in elevated circles.”

  He shrugged. “I move where it pleases me.”

  “You were in love with all of them.”

  “Ah. Is that the point? No, I was not in love with any of them. It wasn’t at all the same. This time—” He stopped, with an arrested look, and then his gaze evaded hers. “It’s different this time,” he said.

  “Certainly. Do you propose to set up a nursery? Build you a fair manor house upon a hill? Give up your-occupation—and settle in to be an honest country squire?” He stared into the shadows, brooding. “I’ve a price on my head. You know that.”

  She thrust back the blankets. “How fortunate for you.”

  He looked at her sharply. “I don’t find it fortunate at all.”

  “Do you not?” Leigh groped for her shirt, pulling it over her head.

  “Wait.” He reached for her. “Leigh! Don’t go like this.”