Devil at Midnight (13 page)

“You weren’t! You—I—” She stammered to a halt, her cheeks the color of persimmons. “I was simply ... startled. I didn’t think that was supposed to feel so good.”

He growled, the sound at least two-thirds male satisfaction. Evidently, she believed her dematerializing was the equivalent of swooning at climax. “Our pleasure is supposed to feel as good as we can make it. It simply does not peak so spectacularly all the time.”

“Have you ever—” Her eyes dropped to her lap, where her hands clutched each other in a fit of bashfulness. “I mean, you probably have. You’re obviously very skilled at lovemaking.”

“No,” he said, his firmness harshening the word. “I have never felt anything that marvelous in my life.”

She looked up, wide-eyed. Then her lips curved in a very pleased female smile.

“Well,” she said, squirming just a bit. “That’s ... that’s very nice to hear.”

Something inside him melted, simply turned to sun-warmed honey and ran into a big puddle. He was lucky she was a ghost. Had she been solid, he would have rocked her in his arms like a long-lost child.

“Grace,” he said. “You are going to be the death of me.”

T
he courtyard of the Durands’ fortress house hummed with orderly bustle—which Christian was both overseeing and participating in. For the most part, he and his men were doing the heavy lifting. With the exception of Hans, who was the oldest present, they were all junior to his father’s handpicked half dozen. Those six men were his father’s fiercest fighters; his most trusted, too, if Gregori Durand could be said to trust anyone. Some of them must have wondered why they were on this job, upon which neither the fate of countries nor important families hung. Certainly, they were not going to soil their hands stowing baggage, not when preparations for their upcoming journey entailed less hefting than usual.

Christian pulled a face to himself.
Traveling light
was a relative term. Even on a noncombative mission, there were stores to carry that could not be done without. Bandits abounded in Italia. Extra weapons were a wise precaution, bedrolls, wine to mix with the local water in those remote areas where it could not be bought. The men would carry some provisions on their backs, but a wagon and a mule to pull it was still helpful. A second cart awaited their new employer’s pleasure. Nim Wei had not arrived yet, a circumstance that spurred speculation, despite her having sent word not to expect her before sunset.

“Only one extra cart?” William asked as he helped Christian swing a heavy box into the first wagon’s straw padding. “Are you certain Mistress Wei is female?”

“She claims to require no more,” Christian said.

Though he did his best not to show it by glancing up, he was aware of his father watching the loading from his office window on the second floor. Grace’s presence on the opposite loggia was less ominous, but not without its own tension. Naturally—even flatteringly—Grace wanted to join this journey. She seemed to think that as long as she did not get too close to Nim Wei, the minstrel’s strange energy would not “zap” her, as she put it. Christian was not as sanguine, but he had not found the strength to argue persuasively. In faith, the intensity with which he craved Grace dismayed him. He should have been able to do without her. Whether she would succeed in becoming corporeal again was debatable. The idea that she might and he would miss it was what was bedeviling him. If there was the least chance of it, he
had
to have her. Just as troubling was the evidence that Grace also wanted him fervently.

He
and
his ghost were going to go crazy if they could not consummate this attraction soon.

“No servants, either?” William asked, blithely unaware of what was passing through Christian’s mind.

“No servants,” Christian confirmed. “Mistress Wei says we men can handle her needs.”

“I shall gladly
handle her needs,”
Charles laughed, dropping an armload of pikes into the cart with a loud clatter. “None of you lily-livered Lancelots need bestir yourselves.”

“Have a care!” one of Gregori’s men snapped from the other side of the wagon. “If you break those poles, they will be of no use to us.”

“You should take care I do not break
your
pole, Lavaux,” Charles retorted in his customary hotheaded way.

Lavaux’s face went red. The Frenchman was bigger than Charles, and older, and could probably break the slighter man in two. What he had not mastered was how to ignore Charles’s sharp-tongued remarks. Wisdom, it seemed, did not come to all men with age. Lavaux had to be at least a score and ten.

“Stand down,” Christian said before the man could rush Charles. For emphasis, he planted his hand on Lavaux’s chest. Muscles heavy from years of fighting bunched beneath his restraining palm.

“I do not answer to you, Christian.”

Christian sighed inwardly. “That is so. However, I believe you know my father’s position on squabbling amongst ourselves.”

Lavaux’s brows lowered at Christian’s nonaggressive tone. Perhaps he thought his commander’s much younger son was mocking him. “You could not take me down any easier than this buffoon.”

Christian smiled pleasantly. He was not afraid of Lavaux, not if it came to a hand-to-hand face-off. Because none among his father’s innermost guard fought him during practice, they did not realize he knew their weaknesses—and how to exploit them. For this once, Christian let his lack of fear fill his eyes. “You are welcome to try me another time, Lavaux. For now, I propose we act like professional.”

Lavaux might be lacking a sense of humor, but he was too experienced not to read how confident Christian was. “For now,” he agreed, then stalked off to other tasks.

“A fine parry,” Matthaus praised from beside Christian. His pockmarked face was creased with enjoyment. “Though I confess I would relish watching you take that one apart.”

Close as ever to his friend, Philippe smacked the back of Charles’s orange head with the flat of his palm. “Stop causing trouble.”

“Me?” Charles exclaimed.

“Yes, you.” Philippe’s expression was exasperated but not unfriendly. “If you do not shut that mouth of yours now and then, this trip is going to be endless.”

“I am charm itself!” Charles protested. “You would be bored to tears without me.”

“I shall commence weeping any moment,” Philippe vowed.

Before Charles could retort, a silent ripple swept the men in the courtyard. The hair on the back of Christian’s neck stood up. As if they were one unit, the soldiers turned toward the double-gated tunnel that gave access from the street to the house. All the mercenaries were standing straighter, shoulders pulled back and guts sucked in. His father had not left his window, and Christian did not think they were coming to attention. Instead, they gave the impression of males preening when a beautiful girl walks by. With a dread he did his best to conceal, Christian turned with them.

The first of the heavy house gates creaked on its hinges and then the second. No voices broke the sudden quiet, but Christian heard equine hooves. A handful of young male servants were leading Nim Wei inside. She was dressed as he had last seen her: in a fitted black velvet tunic and matching hose. Though she was afoot, the stallions were hers, two great black beasts with gleaming pelts and loaded panniers. Their size made her seem smaller, while their docility simply impressed. Those warhorses followed the minstrel like foals behind their dam.

She looked around as she entered, at the men, at the torches the servants were even then scampering to set alight. The serving boys’ passage stirred the feather that curled black as night from her velvet cap. Male raiment notwithstanding, she was surpassingly feminine, from the curves of her hose-clad legs to the graceful tilt of her head.

“Good evening,” she said, her greeting as silky as it was calm.

At least three-quarters of the men shuddered at the sound.

Christian was a bit surprised when Lavaux leaped forward.

“Milady,” he said, offering her a bow Christian would not have guessed he knew how to make. “Please allow us to unload your steeds.”

She waved him permission absently. For a heartbeat, Charles stared at Lavaux as if his rival had grown a second head, but then he moved eagerly to help. He was joined by the others, leaving only Christian unoccupied.

“Mistress Wei,” he said, bowing to her as well. “My father will be down anon.”

She uttered a sound that might have been a private laugh, but when he glanced up, her face was solemn.

“I am sure he shall,” she said soberly.

More than anything, Christian wanted to look over his shoulder and see what Grace made of this. Surely,
she
would notice how oddly the men were acting. No matter how attractive the female they were presented with, this lot were not courtiers to dance attendance on anyone.

To Christian’s perverse relief, his father did not descend any quicker than usual. He, at least, was behaving like himself.

“Mistress Wei,” he said. He bowed over her white hand and kissed it, but that was not unheard of. By necessity, his father’s manners were better than his men’s, and—despite his bullish physique—he was capable of grace. His dark eyes were as cool as ever, something in them striking Christian as a match for their new employer’s exotically glimmering orbs.

The pair of them were cold creatures, more given to calculation than passion.

“Herr Durand,” Nim Wei returned.

They were holding each other’s gazes while Christian watched. His father blinked first, releasing the minstrel’s hand as if he had forgotten he was clasping it. Surprisingly, when Christian looked at Nim Wei, her expression implied consideration rather than triumph. She had tested Gregori somehow, and he had responded in a manner she did not expect.

“You will be ready to depart soon?” she asked. “I do not wish to waste the darkness.”

“Before the next hour strikes,” his father promised.

If the elder Durand thought any of this was strange, his impassive face did not reveal it.

O
nly Christian’s father and Nim Wei rode, horses being more troublesome to feed than men. His father was in the lead, surveying the road ahead for danger. Charles guided Nim Wei’s second beautiful black steed beside her. The minstrel was no chatterer, but Charles was making her laugh. The sound was lovely: merry, soft, as infectious as a baby’s chortle. The men walking behind the horses looked up each time the noise drifted back on the crisp night air.

As they did, shared amusement was not what moved across their expressions. To a man, the minstrel’s laugh appeared to make them lustful. Bemused, Christian watched hardened soldiers surreptitiously rub their crotches, some even shoving their hands in their braies to shift members that were swelling uncomfortably. Christian began to think he should have arranged for camp followers. If all the men wanted to bed her, this trip was going to be fractious. Lavaux, for one, resembled a thundercloud. He did not appreciate a youth like Charles stealing a march on him.

One silver lining lightened the situation. Entertained as she was by Charles, the minstrel was not insisting Christian chain himself to her saddlebow. He was free to bring up the rear as they traversed the pretty Arve Valley. Grace walked beside him in her long white gown, not troubled by the alpine cold or the distance they were covering. Christian could not determine what effect Nim Wei might be having on him. Grace was too handily taking up his attention.

Ridiculous though it was, he felt warmer with her near—not merely aware of her physically but somehow safer than he had been. This was without a doubt misleading. Thus far, Grace had demonstrated no power to act as his guardian. A distraction was what she was, a nettle to heat his already overheated blood. Refusing to respond to the growing itch as others among the company were, Christian could nonetheless not bring himself to shake her off when she curled her tingling spectral fingers around his own.