Prince of Midnight

by Laura Kinsale

  At his decree, they walked toward Rye. Leigh didn’t care which way they went. She stared out across the high chalk downs and desperately wished she were alone.

  This was not why she’d traveled to France, not to come back shepherding an erratic Robin Hood half as wild as his wolf. He’d been bad enough with his romantic mooning about and making up to anything in skirts. But there was a new anticipation in him now, an intensity shimmering just behind his satyr’s grin. Her hands still stung from the jarring impact of his blade against the sword she’d held.

  That had been an extremely enlightening moment.

  With the sword in her hand, she’d felt… effective. She’d known she wouldn’t shrink from killing Chilton, and for an instant, just an instant, she’d had the means to do it. She’d held a blade, honed and balanced to kill.

  And then he’d taken it from her.

  There were moments of humbling in life that one did not soon forget.

  She felt bleak and afraid. Not for herself, but for making a mistake, a fatal overestimation of her ability to carry out her chosen course. For death she cared nothing—’twas failure that she could not contemplate.

  All along the road through France, she’d known she should leave the Seigneur behind. She thought about him too much. She hated finding herself tangled in his frivolous little peccadilloes. She hated worse than anything moments like that one at the French farmhouse—finding herself mistaken in her presumptions, in matters that were none of her concern.

  And then the way he watched her… as if everything inside him were at a slow boil.

  She doubted if he was quite rational. Truly, she’d thought he’d have given up on the journey long since. Between the dizzy spells and the risk of returning with a price on his head, she’d been certain he’d turn back at the Channel. And then, after the crossing itself…

  That was why she’d waited for him there on the shingle: it had seemed only fair to make that small gesture, because she’d been certain he’d give up after that.

  And see what that moment of sentiment had gotten her. She watched his back moodily. “Twas maddening, the way he could draw her into things that she didn’t want to be drawn into, make her find herself offering to treat his dizzy spells, or boiling fern root for him, or giving her opinion on whether a senile old tinker was capable of managing a blind mare with a small repertoire of silly tricks. The thought of the mare brought on that dangerous hot sting behind her eyes, and he made it worse by stopping again for the thirty-second time to tolerantly unwrap Nemo from around a tree while the wolf leapt all over him and licked his face.

  “We haven’t any money left, have we?” she snapped.

  Nemo took off in a lope forward, pulling the Seigneur along. He set his feet, hauled the wolf back, and said, “Two guineas.”

  His calm answer just aggravated her more. “Veritable nabobs, in fact!”

  He shrugged and ducked a branch as Nemo tugged him along.

  It was worse when he wouldn’t rise to her baiting. With silky mockery, she said, “Perhaps you should hold up the next coach.”

  “Oh, aye!” he said. “I had my eye on that hay cart we outstripped a mile back. Couldn’t make up my mind between that and the brewer’s wagon.”

  “So you helped push him out of his mud hole. Quite the scourge of the high Toby.”

  He hiked the pack and saddle higher onto his shoulder.

  His tricorne was cocked rakishly down over his eyes, while the hilt of the broadsword slung across his back glinted in the weak December sun. He looked like a hell-born rogue.

  “At least the man showed a grain of common gratitude,” he muttered. “You didn’t have a sou when you came to me; I don’t know why you’re on about it now as if I’d gambled away your entire dowry.”

  “I’m being practical,” she said, in a tone she knew would provoke him.

  He slanted her a hot glance beneath the golden satanic brows. Nemo entangled himself in a hedge. She felt better—colder and steadier—satisfied to build a wall of annoyance between herself and them.

  She followed the two of them down the slope of the hill, walking on the grassy hump between the wagon ruts. Below lay the marshes and Rye—a medieval pile of gray walls and patchwork roofs perched on high ground overlooking the spread of wasteland. The marshes stretched toward the sea from the very foot of the city, scintillating with bright, icy ponds amid the winter’s drab.

  At the foot of the slope, a slow river flowed between banks laden with long grass. The road widened at a stone bridge, blocked for repairs, and on the other side a ferry rested against the bank under the bare branches of a large tree. The ferryman began poling the barge off with one hand and hauling on the cable with the other.

  Leigh and Seigneur boarded as the ferry touched their side, Nemo for once drawn close to the Seigneur’s legs. The ferryman gazed at the wolf warily.

  “It don’t bite, do it?” he asked.

  “Certainly not,” the Seigneur said, and grinned. “Only on order.”

  “Huh. Looks like a blinkin’ wolf.”

  The Seigneur leaned against the rough-hewn wooden rail and laid his hand on Nemo’s head. “Aye. Rather daunting, don’t you agree?”

  “Huh,” the ferryman said again, thrusting the pole into the Seigneur’s hands and taking hold of the cable.

  The Seigneur put his weight into the rod, his shoulders flexing powerfully beneath his buff-colored coat. When they pulled up to the bank, Leigh stepped ashore, leaping over the muddy spot, and turned in time to see the Seigneur press one of the two guineas into the ferryman’s hands.

  “Good God,” she exclaimed, “are you—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m coming!” He broke into her furious protest, giving her a sharp quelling glance. “Here—take the cloak bag, will you?” He stared to hand the traveling case across to her, but the ferryman hustled forward.

  “Allow me, m’lord! Here now, watch your feet in the mud.” He hauled the bag across the low spot and dumped it unceremoniously in Leigh’s grasp. “I’ll give you me arm, sir-watch your step. There you are, m’lord, safe as houses. Thank ye, m’lord. Thank ye!” His face could barely be seen for the forelock tugging.

  Nemo had already bounded past Leigh and hit the end of the rope. The Seigneur was apparently ready for the jolt, for he only set his feet and endured it before turning back to the ferryman. “Maitland,” he said, with a slight nod. “S.T. Maitland.”

  “Very good, m’lord. I’ll remember, I will. Lord bless ye, sir. I wish ye luck with the wolf-dog.”

  The Seigneur relieved her of the satchel. He slung it onto his shoulder with the saddle. The ferryman followed them halfway up the bank, still tugging reverently at his forelock.

  “You’re mad!” she hissed, as soon as they were out of earshot. “You gave him a guinea! You told him your name!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my damned name. Did you ever see a handbill with my name on it?”

  She gritted her teeth, glaring at him. “Why on God’s earth did you give him a guinea? We’ve hardly enough to fetch dinner as it is.”

  “We might pass this way again.”

  “That’s all very well, but I’d like to know how we’re to go on!”

  He only smiled that seductive, unholy smile of his and walked ahead. Leigh watched him move—all the promise of easy grace fulfilled, no more little stagger or hesitation or quick reach of a hand for balance as he turned his head. He seemed tougher… more distant… transforming right before her in ways that she couldn’t seem to fathom.

  Chapter Eleven

  Halfway up an ancient side street in the walled and cobblestoned city of Rye, the sign of the Mermaid hung over a half-timbered inn nearly choked by vines. Without an instant’s hesitation that Leigh could see, the Seigneur strode up the steps and ducked into the low doorway of the venerable edifice, bade a skittish Nemo to sit himself down, dropped the saddle and baggage in the middle of the hall, and asked a passing waiter to see if the landlord could
spare him his usual room.

  The man paused for a moment, staring, and then his face brightened with recognition. “Mr. Maitland! We ain’t ’ad the honor for some time, sir!”

  The landlord himself appeared, and it was quickly apparent that at the Mermaid Inn they had not the least objection to sinister guests and their ill-assorted parties. Mr. Maitland received the warmhearted welcome accorded to a familiar and gratifying visitor. The innkeeper only glanced at Leigh and Nemo, and made no protest at all about the animal as he led them along a bewildering maze of corridors to the Queen’s Chamber, where a tremendous dark four-poster dominated the tiny room.

  The place smelled of age and beeswax, pleasantly musty, with a new fire laid ready in the grate. Green-dyed light from the window streaked the polished, uneven planks of the ancient floor. Nemo immediately leapt into the middle of the bed and lay down. The Seigneur made a sharp move with his hand, and the animal stood up obediently and jumped off, its nails clicking on the bare wood.

  “I’d best warn the maids,” the landlord said benignly. “We wouldn’t want them to think a wolfs got in.”

  The Seigneur looked over his shoulder. The half light of sunset through the leaded window emphasized the upward curve of his eyebrow, casting him in dramatic glare and shadow. To Leigh he seemed positively Machiavellian, like a Renaissance prince, a subtle assassin considering his prey.

  “But that’s why I bought him.” He leaned against the windowsill. “Shame he’s such a pudding-heart! Paid a pretty penny for him, too. I thought I’d try to breed the devil and see what I got.” He looked down at the wolf affectionately. “Do you think he’ll pass along his yellow eyes?”

  The landlord considered. “What of those tall Irish hounds with the rough coats? Ye might try that cross.”

  “There’s a notion. You don’t object to having him inside?”

  The landlord didn’t seem to notice the faint smile. “Not a tall, sir; you should know we don’t mind the dogs, sir, if you can vouch for he’s house-trained. Will your man be staying belowstairs?”

  “My man? Oh—you mean this fellow here, do you?” The Seigneur’s face grew rueful. “Rot me—does no-one at all see through her? That’s my wife, old chap. I’ve gone and got myself leg-shackled.”

  The landlord’s mouth dropped open, quite literally. He looked at Leigh and blushed crimson.

  She glared at the Seigneur and flung herself into a chair. “You faithless brute!” she said viciously.

  He turned away from the window and held his hat behind his back, giving an excellent imitation of staring bashfully down at his toe. “We’ve only been married a week.” He looked up with a moonling smile. “She still calls me ‘Mr. Maitland.’”

  “Toad!”

  “Well, sometimes she calls me ‘Toad.’” He put his hand over his heart. “You’re charming, my love Adorable.”

  The landlord had begun to grin.

  The Seigneur winked at him. “We had a wager,” he said. “She claimed she could come all the way from Hastings without anyone the wiser.” He gestured grandly with his hat. “We’re on a walking tour. I wished to view the terns.”

  “A walking tour,” the landlord said faintly, and nodded in Leigh’s direction. “You’re very intrepid, ma’am.”

  “Pluck to the backbone.” The Seigneur slapped his hat on the bedpost. “You should see her handle a sword.”

  “Indeed, sir.” This news seemed less astonishing to the innkeeper than the wedding itself. “You will have that interest in common, then. Please accept my sincere congratulations, Mr. Maitland, and every best wish to your lady. Will you be needing anything else?”

  “M’lady’s gown is in that bag. Take it away and have it pressed, will you? We’ll both want a bath and a tray. Cold meat will do. And a spot of the Armagnac, if the Gentlemen brought you anything worthwhile on their last run.”

  The landlord nodded and picked up the cloak bag. “Will you want the boots, sir?”

  “Aye, send him along. My coat could use a brushing-no, wait, you’ve a decent tailor hard by, don’t you? Take this to him and see if he’s got something fit for town made up in my size. Velvet or satin.” He unstrapped the broadsword from his back and shrugged out of his buff coat. “I dare swear m’lady’s had her fill of terns for the moment. We’ll let her promenade about Rye on my fashionable arm a while, shall we?”

  The landlord took the coat and bag and bowed himself out. Leigh sat staring at the Seigneur. There was an uncomfortable sensation at the base of her throat. She thought of that single remaining guinea, and the cost of all the services he’d ordered.

  He was taking off his waistcoat. As he pulled it free of his broad shoulders, a small package dropped from the inner pocket. He smiled as he picked it up. “I’ve never had a wife before.”

  “You don’t have one now,” Leigh said inflexibly. In the shadowed room, the evening light seemed to gather around him, shining dull gold off his hair and his lashes, giving his full-sleeved shirt a pale glow. He broke the string on the little packet and opened it, held out his hand and asked gravely, “Would you do me the honor of wearing this anyway?”

  She looked down at the delicate silver pendant that flashed in his palm.

  “What is that?”

  He met her eyes. “Something I wanted to give you.”

  She frowned, and tightened her hands. “Is it yours?”

  “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean.”

  She stared at the necklace. It was pretty—dainty and feminine, like something her father would have chosen for her. A peculiar burning tightness in her chest made her breath grow harsh.

  “I bought it for you,” he said quietly. “In Dunkerque.”

  “Dunkerque!” She seized on that fact and propelled his hand away furiously. “Of all the shatter-brained, sapheaded, romantical foolishness!” She thrust herself out of the chair. “How much did you spend?”

  He took a step back. His expression made her turn away, unable to bear it while her lower lip trembled so painfully.

  “Never mind,” he said, and she heard him move across the room.

  She turned back abruptly. “We’ve a guinea!” she cried. “One single guinea, and you bought a silly necklace in Dunkerque that’s worth three pounds if it’s worth a penny!”

  He sat down on the bed and glanced at her slantwise, his green eyes shuttered beneath the golden demon’s brows.

  “You’re going to rob a coach, aren’t you?” she demanded. “Oh, God—we’ve barely landed and you’re going to go right out and risk it.”

  The ghost of an ironic smile touched his mouth. “Now, why the devil would I want to do that?”

  She looked around the private chamber. “Perhaps to pay for this!”

  He shook his head. “Really, you disappoint me.

  Where’s your practicality? What if I could take a coach even without a mount? I don’t have a fence here for jewelry, and we wouldn’t want to risk spending any cash we’d just prigged in the neighborhood. On the whole, I think it far more prudent to make a withdrawal from the bank.”

  “From the bank!”

  “Well, it’s not that shocking, after all. It’s really considered quite the thing.” He dragged up the jack with his toe and began to pull off his boots. “You just go in, tell the fellow you wish to withdraw a reasonable sum, and he’s most honored to obey.”

  “You’re going to rob a bank, she cried.

  As he bent to yank off a boot, his burnished queue and its long black ribbon curled together, falling over his shoulder against his shirt. In his stocking feet, he lay back on the pillows with his hands beneath his head. “I hope it won’t come to that,” he said, gazing at the canopy. “I’m sure I’ve at least a thousand quid here. I never let the dibs fall below nine hundred on any of my accounts.”

  In the quiet room, Nemo stretched out on the wooden floor and put his head on his paws with a sigh. Leigh stared incredulously at the relaxed figure on the bed. “Do you mean to say yo
u’ve an actual balance in a Rye bank?”

  He rolled over onto his elbow. “Yes.” She wet her lips. “So you won’t have to—steal anything to pay for all of this?”

  “No.”

  The threatening weakness quivered behind her eyes. “Curse you, then!” she snapped. She strode to the window and thrust it open, staring past the leaded green glass into the stable yard below.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said dryly. “I didn’t realize your heart was set on it.”

  “It’s not,” she said. “You may believe me, it’s not.”

  There was silence behind her.

  “Could this possibly be concern for my neck?” he asked softly.

  She turned away from the window, ignoring that. “We should have a plan, should we not? You arranged this. Why are we here? If you have a plan I want to hear it.”

  His gaze rested on her for a long moment. “Close the window,” he said.

  She looked at him sharply, and then obeyed.

  “Come here.”

  Drawing a deep breath, she sat down on the edge of the bed, so that he wouldn’t have to raise his voice for what he had to tell her.

  He held up his hand, the silver pendant dangling against his palm. “It’s been six weeks,” he murmured. “Six weeks I’ve wanted you. I know how you move, and how the sunlight makes a shadow on the curve of your cheek, and the shape of your ear. I know what you look like under that bloody waistcoat.”

  “What has that to do with a plan?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Not a damned thing.” He chuckled harshly, then turned his head on the pillow and looked at her. “I’m dying,” he said. He dropped his fist against his chest. “Right here, you’re killing me.”

  “That’s not my fault,” she said stiffly.

  He closed his eyes. She suddenly realized that his body had grown ready for her, that he lay with his shoulders taut, breathing deeply. “Merde, he said in a low, impassioned voice. “Tell me, Sunshine. Do you still have any debts to me outstanding?”

  “Is that all you want?” She tilted her head back and sighed angrily, feeling shaky, all nerves, staring up at the red damask folds of the canopy. Her fingers curled into her hands until her nails cut into her palms. She was afraid he was going to reach for her, and she didn’t know what she would do then.