Naamah's Kiss (32 page)

He laughed and made a courtly bow. "To be sure! Your honesty is refreshing and my motives were mixed, but not impure. Allow me to return the favor, and discomfit Raphael de Mereliot with the sight of you on my arm."

"Not to mention the entire Court," I added.

"Oh, that's already done." Thierry flashed a wicked grin. "Now comes the part where they wonder what we've been up to. Watch the tongues wag when we enter."

That, they most assuredly did.

There was a pause like a collective intake of breath as we entered the hall, Thierry sauntering, one hand laid possessively over my fingers where they rested on his arm. For a moment, there was only the sound of music playing in the background, some intricate and unfamiliar instrument. Then the whispers arose.

I made a face. "Do they have nothing better to do than gossip?"

"No," Thierry said thoughtfully. "Not really."

"Moirin!" Raphael parted the throng and strode toward me, looking genuinely concerned. He saw the Dauphin, checked himself, and bowed. "Your highness, forgive me. I was worried about her."

"I'm fine," I said.

"Why shouldn't she be?" Thierry patted my hand. "Since I found her quite alone and unattended, I escorted Lady Moirin to the Hall of Portraits that she might behold her ancestors. My lord de Mereliot, I must thank you for introducing such a fascinating offshoot of the tree of House Courcel into our lives."

Raphael gave him a thunderous look, then turned his stormy gaze on me, setting the blood to pounding in my veins. "You're sure?"

"Yes!" I said irritably. "You were busy elsewhere."

A woman screamed.

There was a moment of milling confusion. Raphael's head went up like a hound on point, then whipped around, seeking the source of the scream. In the center of the hall, the gentleman of the elderly couple who had preceded us had sunk to his knees, one hand clutching at his doublet. It was his wife who had screamed.

"Your pardon!" Raphael shouted over his shoulder, pushing his way through the crowd.

I shook off Thierry and went after him.

Everyone had gathered to watch in appalled fascination. By the time I squeezed and elbowed my way through, Raphael was kneeling on the floor beside the old gentleman. He'd unbuttoned his doublet and was massaging the man's chest.

He looked up and saw me. "My physician's bag. It's in the carriage. Send Jean-Michel."

I nodded.

The curious onlookers didn't want to let me through. I swore at them, shoving blindly. And then there was an opening, and a pair of slender hands caught my upper arms with unexpected strength.

"What does he need?" Jehanne de la Courcel asked me in a steady tone.

"His bag," I stammered. "In the carriage."

She gave a brusque nod and released me, issuing a string of orders. Guards moved to obey. Forced backward, the crowd thinned. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jean-Michel pelting out of the hall.

" Moirin !" Raphael's voice rose in a roar.

"Aye!" I flung myself to my knees beside him, bruising myself against the marble floor.

"Help me," he said simply. "His heart is stricken. If it stops, he'll die. Lend me your energy."

The old man gasped for air, his face bluish.

"I don't" I began.

Raphael's hand closed around my wrist. "Put your hands on mine. Do what you did for the plum tree."

"I'll try," I whispered.

The world shrank to a small circle. There was me, Raphael, and the old man. Raphael rubbed his hands together and said a prayer to Eisheth under his breath. He laid his hands on the old man's slack, pale chest, bowing his head and arranging his hands just so.

I put my hands on his.

I couldn't feel it, not the way I could feel plants. The thing that was wrong, the thing that needed to be fixed or coaxed and cozened. But Raphael could. I breathed in slow and deep. I couldn't summon the twilight and vanish from sightnot here and now with so many eyes watching. But I could still take that half-step into the next world and evoke its charms. That I could lend to Raphael.

I breathed out.

A rill of energy surged from me, leaving me drainedmore drained than I'd ever been. Raphael closed his eyes, warmth pulsing from his hands.

The old man took a ragged gulp of air and sat bolt upright. "Elua!"

The crowd cheered.

Jean-Michel appeared with a satchel. Raphael grabbed it from him and rummaged for a small flask labeled in neat handwriting. "Keep still, Lord Luchese," he said briefly. "Moirin, support him from behind." I moved to obey. He uncorked the flask and set it to the man's lips. "It's a distillation of willow bark. It's going to be bitter."

The elderly Lord Luchese drank, grimacing at the taste. I peered over his shoulder, watching healthy color return to his face.

"Is he going to be all right?" his wife asked, her voice quavering.

"Yes." Raphael lowered the flask. "He is."

Lord Luchese summoned a tremulous smile. "I thought for sure my time had come. You're a goddamned miracle worker, de Mereliot."

"No." Raphael lifted his head and gazed intently at me. The crowd murmured around us. "I'm afraid that credit lies elsewhere."

The balance of the evening at the Palace was a brief blur. Overwhelmed and exhausted, I let it wash over me. A litter arrived for Lord Luchese. I leaned against a column, vaguely aware of Raphael issuing further instructions to Luchese's wife, something to do with bed-rest and a tincture of foxglove.

"What just passed here?" Thierry whispered in my ear. "What did you do ?"

"I don't know." I closed my eyes. "Ask Raphael."

"The air around you" he breathed. "There was a brightness."

I shrugged. "Oh?"

"Prince Thierry!" A light voice, sweetness made sharp. I opened my eyes to see Jehanne de la Courcel. She touched my face, a touch as light as gossamer. I had the strangest urge to lean in to it and rest my cheek against her hand. "Let her be."

"Certainly, Mother !" Thierry's tone dripped with sarcasm.

Jehanne regarded me. At close range, I could feel Naamah's gifts coiling between us with an unexpected intensity I didn't want to acknowledge. "Are you quite well?"

"No," I said honestly. "I'm very, very tired."

Her lips pursed. "Raphael!"

He was there, bowing. "Your majesty?"

"You've had your fun." Her hand fell away from my cheek. "Now take your young witchling home; she looks near to collapsing. I'll make your apologies to Daniel."

Raphael bowed a second time. "Of course."

As he escorted me toward the door, her voice halted him. "Raphael!" We both turned. Jehanne's face was unreadable. "I'll send for you on the morrow."

He bowed a third time and didn't reply.

In the carriage, he was solicitous, giving me a flask of brandy to sip and chafing my hands between his. Bit by bit, I felt a measure of my strength return.

"Well," I said at length. "That was interesting."

"Interesting!" Raphael gave a short, wondering laugh. "Moirin, that was the singular most astonishing thing I've ever experienced. Did you not feel it?" He lifted his hands before his face and contemplated them, turning them this way and that. "We saved a man from certain death."

" You did."

"No." He shook his head. "I meant what I said. I'm a skilled physician, but I can't work miracles. You can. You did. I felt your energy flowing through me. It felt" He fell silent a moment, searching for the right word. "God-like."

"God-like," I murmured.

"Yes." Raphael's hands slid beneath my arms. "Come here."

I let him pull me onto his lap, too tired to protest. Now he kissed me with all the ardor I could have wantedand I didn't want to respond, but I couldn't help it. Even exhausted, I wanted him so bedamned badly. My body roused to his touch.

"Witchling," Raphael breathed in my ear. His hands slid over my breasts. "I am taking you to bed tonight."

"All right," I said helplessly.

He laughed and kissed me some more.

By the time we reached his townhouse, I was dazed with an odd blend of lassitude and desire. In the courtyard, Raphael scooped me off my feet and into his arms. I let himlet him carry me inside and past the whispering servants, up the marble stairs, burying my face against his neck. In his bedchamber, he set me on my feet.

"Moirin." His hands glided over my body, leaving glorious trails of warmth. I shivered. He cupped my face and kissed me deeply. " My terms, remember?"

I nodded.

Raphael's terms were sensuous and deliberate. He undressed me piece by piece, his lips lingering on the nape of my neck as he unclasped my gown's collar and unlaced the delicate stays. When I turned in his arms and reached for his doublet to unbutton it, he shook his head at me.

His terms.

"Beautiful," he murmured when I stood naked before him. He reached out and plucked the gilded comb from my hair. My hair fell over my shoulders in a slithering cascade. He laughed softly. "Like a waterfall."

"Raphael" I whispered.

He pressed one finger against my lips, then pointed. "On the bed."

I lay down.

For a long moment, he merely stood and gazed at me, eyes dark with desire. Then, slowly, he undressed. It was absurdly tantalizing. I watched his bare torso emerge as he shed his doublet and shirt. His shoulders were broad. I gazed at the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse beat visibly and understood what Benoit Vallon from Atelier Favrielle meant about subtle beauties. Raphael shed his breeches and undergarments. The muscles in his flanks flexed, shadowy in the dim lamplight. His phallus was hard and erect, curving toward his flat belly.

Stone and sea, I wanted him.

He untied a thong holding back his tawny hair and shook it loose, smiling sidelong at me. When he joined me on the bed, I reached for him.

"No." Raphael caught my wrists gently, pinning them above my head with one hand. "Slowly. You have a lot to learn, Moirin." I do?

He leaned over me, his hard chest brushing against my erect nipples. Kissed meslowly. Languorously. His free hand traced the line of my inner thigh. "Yes."

Until that night, I thought myself well versed in the ways of desire. After all, it had come effortlessly to me. But the coach-driver Theo scarce counted and Cillian mac Tiernan was a green lad beside Raphael de Mereliot, who was the Queen's lover. And she was an adept of the Night Court.