Prince of Midnight

by Laura Kinsale

  Leigh breathed in agitated gusts, unnerved, standing powerless amid the ruins of her barricades. She’d allowed this too far; let him take her by surprise; propel her uneasy balance into a tumble of confusion.

  “Je suis aux anges,” he said reverently as the rigid garments fell away, leaving only her petticoat and a sheer chemise that the landlady had provided for her. He made a low sound and pulled her back against his chest, enfolding her breasts in his palms. “Leigh,” he whispered. He gave her throat a silken kiss. “You make me insane.”

  She tilted her head back against him. He stroked her nipples and her lips parted. With a faint, hopeless murmur, she said, “Clearly I do.”

  He laughed low in her ear. The stolen necklace seemed to bum where it lay against her skin.

  He knew how to undress a woman. Her stiffened petticoat presented no puzzle; deftly he released eyelets and allowed the linen cage to fall as her skirt sighed into a pile of silk around her feet. He drew her back against him; she could feel the buttons on his waistcoat and the velvet of his cuffs, the drift of his lace over her exposed shoulders.

  “You’re trembling still,” he said. “Are you cold, mignonne?”

  “I’m afraid,” she cried softly. “I’m afraid!”

  “We’re safe here. There’s no one coming.” He rocked her gently. “Perhaps tomorrow there may be questions, but I’ve answers ready enough.”

  She pushed away desperately, retreating to the other side of the room, holding her arms crossed, shivering in her chemise. “You’ve changed! I don’t like it.”

  “I’m myself. The Seigneur du Minuit.” He stood watching her, all bronze and shimmer in his embroidered velvet. His green eyes lowered. He smiled slightly. “C’est possible… you like it too much, mmhh?”

  She leaned against the bedpost, breathing deeply. He came toward her, and she backed up to the wall. His hands hit the oaken panels on either side of her head, trapping her there. He bent and kissed the base of her throat greedily, searing her skin against the diamond necklace.

  A feeling rolled through her, a deep thumping pleasure. She had experienced this before, felt the rising excitement as she’d bathed him, the desire that threatened to drown her reason.

  It was too much. She shook her head, pressing back against the wall. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t, I can’t.”

  “Why not?” He leaned his shoulder against the paneling beside her and drew his finger up the curve of her breast, watching intently as he stroked the tip. “Because it isn’t ‘business’? Because you’re not so cold as you’d have me think?”

  She tried to shove away, but his arm came up beneath her breasts, an inflexible barrier.

  “Oh, no, my little tease. Your reckoning is upon you now.”

  Her breath came in uneven gasps; her chin lifted and her back arched as he held her, pushing her into the wall, pressing his lips to her bare skin. He seemed larger than he’d ever seemed before, stronger than she’d understood. She strained to break free and could not do it.

  “I loathe you,” she said.

  “Eh bien. I can feel that you do.” His hand cupped her breast, his thumb teasing the nipple, “In truth,” he purred, “it’s remarkable, this loathing you have for me.”

  “Bastard!”

  He only smiled at her vicious epithet. “Aye, ma pauvre, of course I’m a bastard. I’ve said so all along, haven’t I?” He stroked her cheek very gently, kissed her temple softly. As he gazed down at her, the mockery faded from his smile. “But I’m at your feet,” he whispered. “My life is yours.”

  Some protective shield snapped inside her. Her eyes watered. He gathered her up in his arms, holding her hard against his chest. For a moment her breathing was beyond her control, almost a sob. “I hate you.” she said plaintively, her face in his coat.

  “Then come hate me in bed.” There was new tension in his voice. “I want you, Leigh. I can’t—I’ve got to have you now.”

  She shuddered, with his mouth on her chin and her throat and her breasts. He lifted her, took her to the bed, pushing her down before she was halfway on it. His breathing was husky and uneven, brewing passion. His hands fumbled, slid the chemise up above her waist.

  “Leigh,” he whispered hoarsely, moving his palms up and down her naked hips. He stood between her legs, leaning over her, still fully dressed: gold and velvet and emerald, masculine and elegant; his face like something from an ancient dream, like a warrior prince from a forest kingdom. He bent his head and kissed her belly. His fingertips seemed hot; she let him touch her and didn’t pull away.

  He scooped her up, put his knee on the bed, and lifted her; and she realized that he wasn’t going to wait, wasn’t going to undress himself or put out the candles or be civilized; he was kissing her fiercely ad loosening buttons at the same time, and then he was on her, shoving into her with his hands at her hips, pulling her toward him; breathing hard and raggedly and saying her name over and over.

  She put her arms around his neck. His kiss was wide open against her mouth as his body drove into her. The sensation engulfed her: the force of him, his hands pressed into her buttocks, pulling her up into him in his own impassioned cadence.

  She wanted to cry out; she couldn’t seem to breathe deeply enough for the sensation that dilated and spread inside her. She pressed upward and he drove over her, harder and harder, his thrusts pulling something impossible from within her, something crazy and frightening that she could not defend against.

  He gripped her to him. She heard him making low sounds as if words were throttled in his chest, as if he were crying. A deep tremor passed through him and into her, a powerful instant of suspension, with his face pressing into the curve of her shoulder.

  Then, with a harsh rush of air between his teeth, he relaxed. He rested his forehead against her breast, breathing deeply, pulling back a little to put his weight on his hands.

  She felt him trembling with the awkwardness of the position, and it dawned upon her with a shaky, hysterical little spurt of humor that he still had one foot on the floor.

  “What the devil’s funny?” he muttered between his teeth.

  She didn’t know what to do with her hands. Tentatively, she touched his hair with fingers that felt weak and clumsy. “You still have your boots on.”

  He slid his arms beneath her. “Bastards never take their boots off,” he said, his voice muffled against the mattress beside her ear. Then he pushed up, away from her, and stood.

  He tilted his head. Faintly, he smiled at her.

  Leigh felt precarious, painfully shy, sitting up and fussing at her chemise to cover herself. But he reached over and took it by the hem, pulling it over her head in one sweep.

  “Under the bedclothes, chérie,” he ordered, kissing the top of her head. When she hesitated, he flung back the sheets, picked her up bodily, ignoring her faint squeak, and deposited her in a heap upon the pillows. Then he stood back and began to undress, taking no trouble for modesty.

  She watched him pull off the velvet coat, hang it up; and shrug out of his glittering waistcoat. The full-sleeved shirt fell into a white puddle on the floor. He dragged the ribbon out of his hair. In open breeches and bare chest, he stood over the jack, pulling off his boots, looking utterly heathen with his loose hair in a gilded tumble of chocolate shadow across his shoulders.

  Nemo got up and snuffled at his stocking feet. He knelt beside the wolf and embraced and stroked it: long, hard strokes that made the animal lie down and roll over and wriggle with delight.

  Leigh bit her lip. Her lungs felt queer and trembly. She drew a deep breath and pulled the sheet up to her chin.

  As the Seigneur stood up, Nemo bounded to the door, sticking his nose to the crack and then looking over his shoulder hopefully.

  “We’ve had our hunt for tonight, old man,” the Seigneur said. “Time to bask in our well-deserved glory.”

  Leigh put her hand to her throat, recalling the stolen necklace with a jolt.

  “Lea
ve it on,” he said, as she reached for the clasp. He strolled over to the bed and sat down, teasing the sheets away from her. “It’s most becoming,” he murmured, lifting the jewels with his forefinger.

  “Oh, yes. A most flattering noose. I don’t know why you’re so proud of yourself.”

  He traced a line down to the tip of her breast. “Ah, but look what it won me.”

  She dropped her eyes. “You are mistaken.”

  “Am I?” The devil’s brows cocked in interest.

  “Yes. I didn’t—I wasn’t impressed by your so monstrous wonderful necklace. That wasn’t why I let you—” She pushed his caressing hand away. “That wasn’t it.”

  “Oh? But what else is a man to conjecture? Your sex is beyond our poor male powers of logic.”

  “Forgive me. but I find discussing logic with a madman to be a futile exercise.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps more useful than discussing it with a woman.”

  “You didn’t buy me with a diamond necklace!” He leaned over and kissed her cheek gently. “No, did I say so? You are a silly enfant. You understand nothing.” He left the bed and snuffed the candles. She heard him move around the room. When he came back and slid under the sheets, she turned away, but his arms enfolded her, pulling her against him. He was naked and warm, a startling sensation—luxurious, his body as smooth as the velvet of his coat.

  It was all a dream, she knew… she’d finally let herself fall into the dream world that he built and lived in.

  I am the Seigneur du Minuit, am I not?

  Absurd man.

  Charming, witless, dangerous lunatic.

  His breath ruffled her hair. She thought of pulling away, but it seemed fruitless after everything else. There was fear waiting out there in the dark, fear and memories and feelings that she could not bear, but here in his arms ’twas as if her mind had separated from her body, and she did not think farther than physical awareness, the sensual heat of his embrace.

  She didn’t care. She could not think. Dreams were enough for the night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  S.T. made love to her again, just before dawn. He woke up enfolded in warmth, with Nemo lying heavily against his back and Leigh’s body soft and luscious in his arms, all in a heap as if they were a pack of wolves curled together on a snowy night. For a long time he just lay there, enjoying the sensation.

  His own little family, he thought.

  The notion made him amorous. He brushed back her hair and put his arm across her, tasting the bare, cushioned skin of her breast. She turned her head quickly toward him, and he realized that she hadn’t been asleep. She shoved at him a little, as if in protest, but he moved on top of her and pushed easily inside, working slowly, kissing and caressing her throat.

  He came in a rush of pleasure, holding her face between his palms, savoring her mouth. When it was over, he wanted to do it again. He didn’t want to move away, so he lifted himself on his elbows. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he murmured. “I trust you slept well?”

  She didn’t answer. He could feel the small shudders that flowed through her body, the way she shifted and pressed him restlessly. He smiled into her shoulder.

  Ah, the things he had to teach her.

  In the first blush of dawn, the diamond necklace cast a shower of tiny sparks around her neck. He remembered his own business and worked at the jewels until the clasp came open under his fingers. He pulled the necklace free and rolled over, trying to sit up, battling Nemo for space on the bed while the wolf tried to lick his face.

  Nemo won. S.T. finally lay back, sputtering, while the wolf straddled him, holding down his shoulders with huge paws and subjecting his face to a thorough wash. Then Nemo began play biting at S.T. ’s nose and trying to dance around on the bed, which included a heavy strut on S.T.’s stomach. He grunted and shoved, Leigh sat up, and Nemo started back at the sight of her, recoiling as if she were a horrific monster rising out of the sheets.

  The wolf retreated to the end of the bed, standing on S.T.’s feet. For a full minute, Nemo stared at Leigh. It was his thoughtful look: his ears pricked, his yellow eyes holding a penetrating, quizzical stare, his head tilted slightly in concentration.

  She didn’t move. S.T. wondered if she was afraid. That unblinking gaze conjured up the primeval night, eyes glowing in the shadows; all the human dread of what was wild and dark. He wasn’t certain himself what Nemo might do—he never really was—but he contained any move that might frighten or annoy the animal. She made Nemo nervous, and an anxious wolf was an unpredictable one.

  Nemo’s head lowered slightly. He sniffed at S.T.’s leg, and then took a step up the bed. The wolf tilted his head again, staring into Leigh’s eyes. Then he dropped his nose, and with a brute’s complete lack of reserve, began to explore carefully at the sheet over her, paying particular attention to the interesting scents between her legs.

  “You bloody voyeur,” S.T. muttered. “Have a little delicacy.”

  But Nemo wasn’t to be disturbed. He examined Leigh painstakingly, moving farther up the bed, his big paws spreading for balance as the mattress sank beneath him. He looked deeply into her eyes again. Tentatively, he touched her chin with his nose.

  “What should I do?” she whispered, so low that S.T. could barely hear her.

  “Pet the pushy devil,” he said.

  She lifted her hand and stroked Nemo’s ears. He licked her face, and she winced and drew back. Nemo leaned forward and made a little dance on his front paws, tucking his chin against his chest as he lifted his forefoot and started to paw at her in wolfish enthusiasm.

  S.T. reached over and cuffed the wolf’s nose, growling a warning. Nemo quailed back instantly, his tail flagging. He gave up on his short-lived romance and sank down contritely, crawling over to S.T. for reassurance. S.T. stroked him and scratched his ears. The wolf sighed, pressed up against him, and gently took his hand between its teeth.

  “Trying to steal my lady, are you?” S.T. cupped Nemo’s head and gave the wolf a playful shake. Nemo flopped down between them, rolling over as far as he could in the narrow space, his eyes closed in ecstasy as S.T. scratched the furry belly.

  Leigh slowly put out her hand. She rested it on the wolf’s thick ruff, and Nemo stretched his head back and licked her wrist, his long, ardent tongue curling around her arm.

  S.T. looked up at her. “Now you have a pack,” he said simply.

  In the early light, her face was still. She stroked the wolf. When S.T. took his hand away, Nemo scrabbled over toward Leigh, looking for attention where he could get it. At a pause in the rhythmic movement of her arm, he put his paw on her stomach, fixing his solemn, expectant eyes on her.

  She gazed down at him. Her mouth worked. She bit her lips and turned away, flinging back the sheet. “Damn you! Damn you both,” she said, and got up.

  It was almost seven o’clock when the inevitable knock came. The Seigneur turned over in bed and pulled a pillow onto his head.

  Leigh took a deep breath. She’d dressed and finished breakfast hours ago, while he lay abed like the great bag of moonshine that he was, dozing as if there were nothing in the least amiss. With her heart thumping in her throat, she picked up her skirts and turned to the mirror on the dressing table, leaning on her elbow in a negligent pose. “Yes? Come in.”

  It was the landlord, with Mr. Piper at his heels.

  “Forgive me for disturbing you, madam,” the innkeeper said, “I—”

  A groan from the bed interrupted him. They all looked toward the lump amid the bedclothes, where nothing showed but a broad back, one slack hand, and a tangle of brown and gold hair.

  The hand moved, groping. The Seigneur lifted one corner of his pillow and said, “Ummmpf.”

  “Forgive me, sir, for the imposition, but—”

  “Ale.” The voice from the bed had a sepulchral ring. “For God’s mercy.”

  “And put some arsenic in it,” Leigh suggested, smiling sweetly at the landlord. Then she peeped behind him.
“My dear Mr. Piper!” She stood up. “You wish to speak to my husband, of course. It’s so excessively mortifying, but I’m afraid he’s not yet up to snuff. I apologize with all my heart. You can’t possibly know what a painful trial he is to me.”

  Mr. Piper, a small, barrel-chested gentleman with a voice very like a frog, gave a bobbing bow. “Indeed, ma’am,” he said in his low grate, “I do most sincerely feel for you. But I believe I’m owed some restitution, ma’am—I really must insist on indemnification—especially now, when they’re saying ’twas my horse that—”

  “Ale,” the hollow voice repeated. “Oh, God… who the devil’s that… croaker?”

  “That, my darling ass, is poor Mr. Piper. You stole his horse.”

  “Aye, and near ran the poor creature into the ground, too!” Mr. Piper’s rumbling voice rose in indignation. “’Tis by nothing but the grace of God that he didn’t bow a tendon. I’ve had the groom poultice him, just in case, and walk him gently for an hour this morning. They tell me he’s sound, but I’ve a notion there’s a little weakness in that nearside hock.”

  The Seigneur groaned and peered at his accuser from beneath the pillow. “A regular jaw-me-dead,” he muttered, and pulled the corner down. “Go away, before you… kill me.”

  “I will not go away, sir. I’ve been waiting since five o’clock to speak to you—I have business elsewhere, and the constable wants to impound my horse!” Mr. Piper’s color rose. “I’ve been interviewed this morning as if I were a common criminal, and I did not like it, sir! Not one bit did I like it!”

  “Oh, dear—of course you didn’t like it,” Leigh said, in the same soothing tone she’d used all the evening before with him. “Whoever had the impudence?”