The Prince of Midnight (38 page)

Leigh turned her face into the pillow. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes
shut, and tried to make her heart into stone.

At the sound of footsteps outside his door, S.T. sat up among the bedclothes
and dragged his arm across his face. The carters had long since gone to bed, the
noise from the taproom subsided into silence. He'd left the bed curtains tied
open, and strong moonlight frosted everything in the room to black and silver.
He squinted, listening.

The latch rattled, sounding distant to his good ear. He rolled over in bed
and put his hand on the hilt of his sword. He hadn't locked the door, having no
key—and abruptly all of his blood was alive, singing danger through his veins.

The door creaked open. A pale figure, barefoot, stood uncertain on the
threshold.

"Leigh," he said hoarsely.

For an instant his grip stayed tight on the sword, as it took his muscles a
moment to react to the message of his mind. Then he relaxed, leaning over to
prop the weapon back into position within easy reach.

"Confound you, woman," he muttered. "You're like to have a rapier through
your belly, creeping upon me that way."

She closed the door behind her.

S.T. hiked himself up onto his elbow. "What is it?"

She didn't speak; to his astonishment she came forward and sank to her knees
beside the bed.

"Sunshine." He sat up in dismay. "What the—are you ill?" He reached out to
touch her forehead.

She caught his hand. A peculiar sound escaped her, like a small and miserable
laugh. She pressed her lips against his skin, shaking her head.

"What is it?" he whispered. "What's wrong?"

"I want to tell you something," she said. Her voice was trembling. As he
spread his hand against her face, she pulled away, the voluminous shirt flowing
around her.

Awareness of her flooded him, the shape of her body beneath the linen as she
stood. He tossed the bedclothes back and came to his feet in the cold room,
uncertain and aroused. "Tell me what?"

She made that queer small sound again, facing away from him, her hands over
her mouth. "You'll think me mad," she said dismally.

In the moonlight, he could see that she was shivering. "You're cold." He
moved without thinking, almost taking her into his arms. Then he hesitated,
unable to draw her against his nakedness, hoping the shadow hid the way his body
revealed him.

She turned suddenly and put her hands against his arms, shaking her head,
moving into his embrace silently.

"What is it?" He cradled her against him, trying to give warmth to her
shivering softness, his hands exploring her back and her hair. On his bare
shoulder he felt her cheek wet and cold. "Sunshine," he said painfully. He
hugged her hard against him. "Are you crying?
Mon ange; ma pauvre petite."

Her fingers closed on his arms, clutching as if he might disappear. He held
her steadily, enfolding her, stroking her hair while she wept soundlessly, the
tears slipping down his shoulder.

"Little love, little lost one," he soothed. He rocked her gently, laying his
cheek against her hair. "All's well. I'll not leave you alone."

Her fist curled; she struck it softly against his arm. "Liar," she whispered.
"Liar."

She bewildered him. He bent his head, nuzzling her ear. "No, you've naught to
fear."

She didn't answer, only stood with her face hidden in his chest. He could
feel each smothered breath she took.

Then she raised her eyes to his in the moonlight.

And he understood. Oh, he understood; he didn't need words to interpret the
direct look, the slight lowering of her lashes, the way her hands kneaded his
arms in an unconscious rhythm.

"Leigh ..." he breathed. "My God."

She burrowed against him, her shoulders hunched, as if she wanted to hide in
his embrace. She had to know the state of his desire; she pressed herself
against the whole length of his body.

He took a deep breath and made the sacrifice: held her off a little and
cupped her face between his hands. "Think a moment. 'Tis that you've came back
to this place. You've—memories. You're unhappy. You're mourning. You don't truly
want . . . this." He kissed her forehead and then added tentatively, "Do you?"

She lowered her eyes. He thought she would speak: she wet her lips and stared
at the base of his throat. The silver trail of tears glimmered on her skin.

"You don't want this," he repeated heroically.

Her eyes squeezed closed. Lightly, purposefully, she began to draw him toward
the bed.

He surrendered then, tossing scruples to the devil. He wanted to make her one
with himself, shelter and solace and protect her. He wanted to drown in her
body. He cradled her in silence, undressed her in silence, kissed her bare
shoulder and her throat and bore her down on the bed without words.

"What did you come to tell me?" he whispered against her ear.

Her lips moved; he felt it on his skin, but he could not hear the words, too
soft for his ear or never spoken aloud at all.

"I love you, too," he whispered.

She lay her head back with that aching sound between a laugh and a sob. "Oh,
you are cocksure, are you not?" she said in a small, shaky voice.

He kissed her temple.
"Cherie, "
he murmured, brushing his lips
against her cheek. "Tell me what you came here to say to me."

Leigh gazed up at him. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know what I
came for." By the light of the moon, she watched his body: unmarked, strong,
with no visible sign of the injuries he'd suffered.

Alive. Burning like a golden flame in the dim room.

Fear and despair welled up once more. She thought him beautiful enough for
tears.

He kissed her eyelids as the moisture leaked from beneath her lashes.
"Don't," he said, as if it hurt him. "Don't."

She reached up. She wanted him inside her, for proof of something: that he
was vital and warm and living. The slide of his skin on hers made her shudder.
His weight pressed her into the bed, his arousal stiff and responsive to every
touch. She opened to let him take her as he had before, in impetuous thrusts,
but instead he touched her nipple with his tongue, drawing a sharp breath from
her throat.

She'd thought herself experienced, having lain freely with two men. But he
began to do things he had never done before, and she found that she'd only been
initiated into a world that her lover had long ago mastered.

He knew things about her that she hadn't known herself. Her heart began to
pump harder. She arched her head back as he caressed her breasts, circling the
tips with his tongue and his forefinger while his hand drifted downward, made a
feather stroke up and down the inside of her thigh and tangled in the curling
hair there.

He slipped to the side and pressed against her, gently urging her to turn
over away from him. With his chest against her back, his hardness pressed into
her buttocks, he leaned over her and nibbled at the tender skin beneath her arm,
then bent to suckle and tug at her breast. He enfolded her, encompassed her with
himself, hugged her close and drew his thigh up between hers to make an erotic
cradle of his body. His hand moved; his fingers slipped deep inside her.

The sensation was exquisite, a heavy penetration in time to the warm tugging
pull at her nipple. Leigh pushed back against him mindlessly, lost in the feel
of him all round her, moving in the rhythm he established. She heard herself;
from somewhere in the depths of her came small gasps of helpless pleasure.

He shifted, nuzzling upward, and bit her neck lightly. "I love you," he
whispered fiercely. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

He pushed his body against her back in slow cadence. With each move, his arm
brought her closer and his breath came in a rush on her skin.

She could not contain it; she turned toward him and wrapped her legs around
his, pulling him urgently toward her. He moved with a low, masculine sound,
mounting her quickly, as urgent now as she. His hair had fallen loose from the
black ribbon; it spread over his shoulder; she scooped it up in her fist,
tangled her fingers in it, and pulled him down to kiss his mouth.

His body seemed heavy within her, deep and powerful. She arched beneath him.
He shoved slowly, pinning her with each aching, deliberate thrust, using himself
to pleasure her. Her head fell back and her breath came harshly. He kissed her
exposed throat, sucked the sensitive skin, his whole weight pressing her against
the bed. His rhythm compelled her, pushed her, driving harder into her center.
She met him and matched him, and passion burst over her, blowing and shattering
and throbbing through her body in waves and waves.

She only realized that she'd slept when she drifted awake. The moon still
burned white, casting icy shadows across the plastered walls and low beams. She
could see him clearly; he lay on his side with his arm across her body, his face
turned a little into her.

She thought he was asleep. His chest rose and fell gently.

Without moving, she gazed at him. It felt strange and raw, this terrible
love, this wobbly sense of possessing a measure of joy. She feared it, and yet
she could not give it up. Worse, it left the rest of her spirit in shambles; she
could not seem to resurrect the grim determination that had carried her so far.
She hated Chilton, but the emotion seemed academic, distant and illusory in
comparison to her intense awareness of the man who lay beside her.

And when she lost him . . . when he went away . . . what then? She was
afraid; the terror of it lay waiting somewhere ahead, cold and implacable, real
and not quite real, like childhood monsters in the dark beyond the bed. They
can't be there, the child cried plaintively. 'Tis only shadows.

Oh, but they are.

They're there. They exist. Only the fairy-tale princes fade, like
shadows, when daylight comes at last.

She studied the arc of muscle along his outstretched arm, the shape of his
jaw, the way the fingers of his other hand curled in the glimmering tangle of
his own hair.

Painfully, beneath her breath, she whispered, "I love you."

He opened his eyes.

A slow smile curved his mouth. He reached up and spread his hand over her
temple, smoothing a lock of her hair between his thumb and fingers.

She saw he was going to speak, put her hand to his lips, and shifted back a
little. "No. Don't say it."

He raised himself on his elbow. Moonlight fell across his face, highlighting
the upward curve of one eyebrow, making his smile seem gently wicked. "Foolish
Sunshine—don't say that I love you?"

"Don't say that you love me. Don't say you've never felt this way before.
Don't say ... just—don't say any of those things." She bit her lip. "I could not
bear it."

His eyes dropped. His mouth hardened a little. He moved his fingertips across
the skin of her shoulder, down to her breast, barely brushing. "You leave me
speechless, then."

She stared upward. The light touch drifted over her skin, drawing circles,
spirals, hearts.

"All I wanted was Chilton," she whispered. "I wanted your help; I didn't want
a lover—I wanted justice for what's been done to my family. That's all I asked
of you."

"You'll have it," he said.

"Oh, aye!" She laughed hopelessly. "You are the Seigneur, are you not?"

His hand stilled.

"The great highwayman," she said. "The Midnight Prince. The legend, the hero,
the myth." Fear made her ruthless. "I threw your diamond necklace in a
millpond."

She felt the way his body altered, a subtle shift, a tightening of every
muscle. He gripped her shoulder, leaned over her, and kissed her mouth, rough
kisses at the corners of her lips and in the center, sweet with the heat and
scent of him. "What do you want?" The space of a breath separated his mouth from
hers. "Do you want me on my knees?"

She gazed up into his face. "I want to be left alone."

"You come to me." His mouth lowered, but he didn't quite kiss her.

"To forget. To not hurt any more—" She bit her lip. "To hurt all my life."

"I won't hurt you," he whispered.

She closed her eyes. "You tear me apart."

"Leigh," he said, "I love you." The intensity in his voice made her turn her
face away.

"Leave me alone," she said.

He drew back, pushing up on one arm. "Leave you!" he echoed, the words etched
in frustration.

"I can't bear it, why can't you understand that?" Her voice began to break.
"Why can't you have mercy and leave me in peace?"

He rolled away and stood up, naked and splendid, his hair free and his body
cast in shadows. "Why did you come to me?"

She pressed her face into the warm place where he'd lain. "Leave me alone."

"Tell me why you came, Leigh."

She crushed the pillow to her.

"Only let me love you," he said. "Just let me—"

"Love!" She threw the pillow aside and sat up, pulling the bedclothes around
her. "You hypocrite. 'Tis nothing to you to say that, is it? You prate about
love and roses and devotion, but you don't know the meaning of the word. You
never have, and I doubt you ever will."

He let out a harsh breath. "I don't understand you. How you can say that,
after—" He spread his hands and made a baffled sound. "After
this. "

"This! This is fancy, 'tis infatuation, 'tis a dream. Maybe you love your
horses, maybe you love Nemo—all you require of me is a reflection of yourself.
You and your bloody mask!" She was crying openly now, her head tilted back, her
eyes shut against the tears. "Don't keep trying to dress it up as love, because
I know what love is, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts."

"Aye," he said quietly. "This hurts."

She felt him come closer. The bed sagged beside her with his weight. He
touched her face, and she pulled away.