The Prince of Midnight

by Laura Kinsale

  Mazan waved toward it negligently. “We won’t even make Latour sleep out there. We can all share.” He grinned again. “He’s already found us a girl.”

  This development was a challenge to Leigh’s French. Unable to construct a more subtle answer, she simply said boldly, “I don’t like girls.”

  Mazan lifted his eyebrows. “Mon dieu. A boy of your age. What does the world come to?” He sat down on one of the beds. “That’s all right. I despise women, myself. But wait until you see what I have in mind. Come and be comfortable.” He patted the bed beside him.

  Before Leigh could marshal her French grammar again to answer, the door opened. Latour pushed a plump, red cheeked young maid inside.

  “My lord,” the fille de chambre whimpered, trying to set her feet. “My lord—please-I’m a good girl!”

  “Nonsense,” the count said. “You expect us to believe that in a place like this? You’re just trying to raise your price.”

  “No, sir!” She shook her head. “Ask the hostess; I’m to be married—ow!” She cringed at Latour’s hard pinch.

  “’Twas the hostess recommended you,” Mazan snapped. “Said you were slut enough to do anything for a guinea, which I don’t doubt for a moment. Come now, here it is… His voice changed to gentleness. “Put it in your pocket right now—ah, are you crying, poor child?” He drew her toward him and caressed her cheek as he slipped the coin into her apron.

  “Please, sir! I don’t want it.” She tried to hand the coin back.

  He caught her wrist and twisted it. The girl cried out and dropped to her knees.

  “Oh, don’t,” she sobbed. “Leave me alone! Please leave me alone.”

  “Hold her down, Latour. There—tie her hands, that’s it. Oh, yes, do cry, do cry,” he crooned, as the valet twisted the girl’s arms roughly behind her with a length of linen. With Latour’s help, Mazan shoved her face down on the bed, pushed her skirt above her knees and bound her feet to the bedpost while the maid wailed and begged to be released.

  Leigh moved toward the door.

  “My lord,” Latour said sharply.

  The count glanced up and saw her intent. He sprang from the bed and stepped forward to stop her, blocking the door.

  Leigh met him with the lethal blade of her silver dagger at ready. He stopped, staring at it.

  “I’ve been watching her,” Latour said. “She’s a woman. I’m sure of it.”

  Mazan threw him a startled glance, and Leigh took the chance to dive past him. He grabbed at her, roared a curse as she sent a slash across his palm, and brought up his other hand, walloping the side of her head.

  Leigh had never been struck before in her life. She staggered against the door, bent over, her head ringing and her stomach wrenched with the unexpected pain. She gripped the knife and dragged herself upright to deflect the next blow, but the sound in her head changed, grew strange and louder—and Mazan wasn’t even looking at her; he was standing transfixed, staring toward the window, listening open-mouthed to the deep, inhuman howl that rose slowly to a haunting peak outside.

  “What the devil is that?” he cried. Another wail joined it, and another and another, a sound that made the hair rise on the back of Leigh’s neck. It was like nothing she’d ever heard before in her civilized, safe existence—and yet her body knew it, her spine tingled and her throat closed as the low-pitched, throbbing ululation ascended to an unearthly caroling on the night. She closed her eyes and leaned against the door, listening to the eerie concert that filled the air and drowned the muffled shouts of surprise from downstairs.

  She felt the closed door shake under the thump of feet in the stairwell. The howling suddenly fell silent.

  “Diable, the count muttered.

  The door handle turned beneath Leigh’s fingers. She instinctively stepped back, waking from the frozen bemusement and aware of a chance to escape. The door swung inward.

  From the shadows of the hall, wolf-eyes reflected candlelight with red fire.

  “Jésu Christ,” Mazan ejaculated.

  The wolf’s deep-throated growl erupted into a snarl as he spoke; it crouched with hackles raised, staring into the room with bared white fangs. Beside the great beast, half in shadow, stood a man.

  The light caught his hair in a shimmer of dull gold. His sword made a graceful arc, flashing as he lifted it. “Monsieur de Sade,” he said softly. “As amusing as you appear with that expression on your face, I would advise you to lower your eyes.”

  “What?” the man who’d called himself the Comte de Mazan demanded breathlessly.

  “I do not wish for your blood,” the Seigneur said in the same mild voice. “High-minded of me, don’t you think? But my friend here hasn’t quite mastered his emotions at this spectacle.” The rapier made a fluid dip toward the floor. “He sincerely feels he should kill you on my behalf. Look down slowly, if you please, and you will be a small degree safer.”

  The aristocrat obeyed, breathing in deep, uneven gulps. The wolf continued growling and took a step forward in his menacing creep, spreading one huge paw on the bedchamber’s wooden floor. His teeth glittered, sharper than any domesticated dog’s.

  “Avec soin,” the Seigneur commanded in clear, simple French, “Leigh. Untie the girl.” Then he added in English, “If she’s likely to make a fuss, you’d best use that linen to gag her first. Do not on any account allow her to scream.”

  Leigh obeyed him, whispering reassurance to the terrified girl. From her position on the bed, the maid had not seen the wolf, but she could hear it. Tears streamed down her cheeks, wetting the linen. Leigh had to lift her bodily from the bed, and her plump legs buckled as soon as she glimpsed the beast.

  “Stand up,” Leigh hissed. “Stand up, you foolish chit!”

  The maid moaned and let her weight fall heavily against Leigh. She staggered under the burden, but supported the wilting girl with an effort, glancing across at the Seigneur in impotent impatience.

  He shook his head. “You damsels do choose the most inconvenient moments to swoon.” He smiled faintly. “What’s your pleasure, Sunshine? Shall we save her or let her lie?”

  Leigh stepped back. “Let her lie,” she said.

  The maid’s legs suddenly stiffened as she lost her prop. A muffled “non!” came from behind the linen gag as she reached out blindly. The wolf moved, darting forward to snarl malevolently and snap at the nearest victim: the marquis. He swore and the maid squealed. The wolf glided back to crouch beside his companion while the girl clutched at Leigh, squeaking.

  “Stand up, then,” Leigh said. “Stand up and do as you’re told.”

  “Oui, madam!” came the muffled cry. The maid clung to Leigh. “Mais oui!”

  Leigh looked toward the Seigneur for direction.

  He stepped inside the room, fully illuminated now, the candlelight burning cold tawny fire on his hair and long lashes. The wolf moved with him, dashing forward into another savage pass at the marquis and his valet, pressing them up against the fireplace. The Seigneur nodded at Leigh. She grabbed her cloak bag and pushed the maid ahead of her through the vacated doorway.

  Outside, she shoved the girl at the stairs. The fille de chambre wasted no time in fleeing; she was down the stairwell and gone before Leigh had reached the banister. Leigh heard a vicious burst of snarling from the room behind. As she turned, the Seigneur appeared at the lighted door, raised his sword in a salute, and bowed to the occupants.

  “Bon nuit, Monsieur de Sade,” he said cheerfully. “Do have pleasant dreams.”

  The marquis cursed. The wolf slid out the door, shrank away from Leigh, and thudded down the stairs with a heavy tread.

  “Come along,” the Seigneur said in English, turning toward her and lifting his hat from the newel.

  She went, crossing the lower parlor without bothering to glance at the paralyzed landlord and his wife where they stood cringing behind a settle. The wolf also ignored them, vanishing silently out the open front door. But the Seigneur stopped, made a pol
ite apology to the mute couple, and helped himself to the bread, salad, and a trio of capons cooling on a tray that had been loaded to take upstairs. He tied the food into a serviette, stuffed the bundle into Leigh’s satchel, and packed the wine bottle and cruet of salad oil on top. Assuring them that my lord the marquis would pay for it, he slung the strap over his shoulder and bade the proprietors a civil farewell before he took her arm, pulling her with him out the door.

  She could feel the tension in his grip as they strode into the yard. Without stopping, he threw back his head and howled, sending a wild slide of sound into the sky like a song of victory.

  From all around came the enthusiastic answer of lupine voices, a long-drawn serenade of excitement and support. The Seigneur’s wolf bounded around them in large circles, stopping to howl with its tail held high and its muzzle lifted. Then it ran behind him, giving Leigh a wide berth, and leaped up to rest its giant paws on his shoulders for an instant before it dropped down and disappeared into the dark trees.

  The chorus stopped as suddenly as it had begun, as if the unseen pack had come to the end of its song in prearranged unison. The Seigneur kept his hand on Leigh’s elbow, leading her down the road through moonlight and shadow.

  “Is that Nemo?” she asked.

  “Certainly,” he said. There was an undertone of elation in his voice.

  “Where was he?”

  He looked toward her. There was just enough light to see the way his eyebrow lifted. “With his own kind, Miss Strachan. Haven’t you heard them?” His stride lengthened. He still carried his rapier in his hand. It glinted silver as he moved.

  She walked with him in silence for a few moments. He tripped on something, and his grip on her nearly pulled them both over as he swayed, a motion out of all proportion to the stumble.

  He swore. She set her feet, allowing him to steady himself against her.

  He straightened and let go. “Sorry,” he said in a tight voice.

  Leigh reached out and caught his shirt sleeve as he took a wavering step. Without speaking, she molded his fingers around her arm again: a silent offer of support.

  He stood still. Abruptly, he sheathed his sword. “I had an accident,” he said. “At times my balance isn’t—overly reliable.” He kept his eyes fixed on the ground. “Today has been… difficult.”

  “Lean on me.”

  He slowly lifted his head and stared at her a moment. The moonlight turned the gold in his hair to frost, molded his face in silver and jet.

  “I don’t care,” she said. “I’m accustomed to it.”

  “Thanks.” He moved his hand away. “I don’t need your help.”

  Stupid man. Proud, absurd man. “How did you ever catch up with us?” she asked pointedly.

  “The road follows the river. It skirts the mountain flank,” he said. “To come over the top is shorter.” He shrugged. “I knew you’d be here—there’s nowhere else to shelter. I’d already come most of the way, looking for Nemo.”

  “In the dark? And how did you do it in your condition? Fall down and crawl?”

  He took deep offense; she could see it in the way he set his jaw and looked away. She started walking. After a moment she heard his footsteps behind her.

  “Really, ’twas nothing,” he said dryly. “I’ve robbed coaches on my hands and knees.”

  “Just try to plummet in my direction when you stumble again.”

  “My eternal gratitude, Miss Strachan, but—”

  She heard him skid on the rocky track. He collided with her from behind, his hands grabbing for purchase. She tottered an instant, then stood steadily while he held her by the arms and cursed between his teeth.

  “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 plaît 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 wa
lked 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.