The Prince of Midnight (21 page)

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 haycart 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 mudhole. Quite the scourge of the
hightoby."

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.

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 wolf's 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, sap-headed, 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.

"Nevermind," 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 go-ing 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.