The Prince of Midnight (18 page)

"Come here," he said softly. He walked past her out the door. "I want to show
you something."

He moved off into the shadows. She hesitated, and then followed him. In the
darkest corner of the yard, beneath the alley wall, he stopped and turned. Leigh
ran up against him and he slipped his arm around her, his hand closing on the
medical wallet.

For an instant she resisted, out of instinct. Then she let go. "I've been
bathing the mare's eyes," she said, feeling somehow even more defiant for it,
now that he'd produced a more eligible remedy.

He took the wallet gently. "I know." She couldn't see what he did with her
kit. His arm came around her again.
"Ma bonne fille,
I know."

Leigh began to breathe faster. "Hush!" she whispered harshly. "I'm not your
good girl, I assure you."

"Kind and sweet," he said, bending closer. "So sweet." His lips drifted over
her temple. "So very sweet."

"Don't," she said, appalled that her voice quivered. She could feel his body
close to her, without seeing him— as if he were the darkness made real and warm.
"Not now."

His hands tightened on her shoulders. "Leigh . . ."He kissed the corner of
her mouth. "My beautiful heart..." His lips closed over hers, coaxing rich
pleasure from the cold black well inside her. For an instant she leaned into
him, let him hold her; for an instant she let him prevail in all his hunger and
heat.

His arms slipped downward, pulling her into him.
"Je t'aime,"
he
groaned, kissing her hard. "I need you. I want you. I adore you."

Her passion and anger and pain rose to a pinnacle as she stood trembling in
his hold. She put her arms against his chest and shoved, tearing herself away.
He caught her elbow. "Unhand me," she said through her teeth, "or I'll kill
you."

"Pistols at dawn, monsieur?" His voice was low. "When are you going to buy a
dress and put an end to this farce?"

"At my pleasure." She jerked her arm away. "Not yours."

He made no move to catch her back. She stood with her hands in fists, her
legs braced, struggling with the sensation that burned behind her eyes and in
her throat.

"Leigh," he said out of the darkness. "Don't go."

Her spine stiffened. "Could you find no other willing game tonight? I suppose
if you must gratify yourself, I'm—"

"No, don't say it!" he uttered fiercely. "Just don't." He pushed past
her—then stopped and turned. "Your medicines," he said, shoving the wallet into
her hand. "Perhaps the eye bath helps."

"Perhaps," she said. And then added, in a stifled voice: "But . . . 'tis
nothing ... to what you've done for her. Teaching her the tricks." She put her
hand on his arm. "Thank you."

He stood still, only an outline against the lights of the inn, his breath
frosted and bright around his head. He was silent. She couldn't see his face.

"God, you'll drive me mad!" he said at last, and expelled a harsh laugh as he
walked away.

They reached the coast at Dunkerque, and sold the mare. S.T. spent a few days
investigating the town and prospective buyers. When he'd given the horse over to
her proud new owner, an elderly tinker with a spotted dog and a merry eye, he
felt hopeful that she'd be esteemed and kept fed for her talents.

Leigh didn't take the parting well. She'd quit trying to doctor the horse's
eyes after Rouen, and stopped the surreptitious treats that S.T. knew she'd been
slipping to the animal. Those extra favors of an apple or a sweet, given for no
reason, hadn't helped his training program, but he'd let her do it. And when she
stopped the treats, when she left off patting the mare, or speaking to it, or
even looking at it very often, he almost wished she'd go back to disrupting his
carefully disciplined methods with her unthinking indulgence.

The morning he gave over the mare to the tinker, Leigh claimed with a frown
that she had better things to do with her time, and left S.T. on Dunkerque's
dockside, holding the horse's bridle. She never even looked back.

When he'd seen the mare to her new stable, S.T. went into a free port shop,
taking care of errands of his own. He glanced out the door at the dockside.
Water glittered cold and bright against the dark interior of the shop. A small
cart drawn by a dog passed the door. There was no sign of Leigh yet. He looked
down at his palm, considering the silver locket that had caught his eye. It was
shaped into a delicate star with a tiny paste diamond at the center. He rubbed
his ear and eyed the shopkeeper.

"
Cent cinquante
," the man said in Flemish-accented French.

"Le diable!"
S.T. laughed and let the locket slide back onto the
counter.
"Cinquante, "
he said firmly. "And I'd expect a ribbon with it
at that."

"Vhat color?" the shopkeeper asked, switching smoothly to English. He opened
a drawer and pulled out a rainbow of satin ribbons. "I don't see such a locket
go for below a hundred. Silver metal, yes?
Regardez
. .
?
vhat
color be her eyes, monsieur?"

S.T. smiled. "The southern sea. The sky at sunset. Fifty-five,
mon ami.
I'm in love, but I'm poor."

The man held up a swath of ribbons in sapphire hues. "Ah—to be in love! I
understand. Ninety—and I gif you the riband as a token."

S.T. chewed his lip. He had one hundred and twenty livres left—five English
guineas, after changing the money the blind mare had brought. But there was
lodging still to be paid—and for the channel passage, some smugglers' palms to
be greased into silence.

"Eighty-five, monsieur," the shopkeeper offered. "Eighty-five, and a riband
in every color to equal all her pretty dresses."

S.T.'s mouth flattened. One pretty dress was more than he'd been privileged
to see in the past weeks of traveling north across France with Leigh Strachan.
He shook his head reluctantly. "I can't afford it. Just give me the razor."

"Sixty, m'lord," the shopkeeper said quickly. "Sixty for the locket, the
razor, and the sapphire riband. No duty. A free port, Dunkerque. It is all I can
do."

S.T. glanced outside again. He tapped his fingers on the counter.
"La
peste.
"He sighed. "I don't know. All right. Give it to me."

"Her blue eyes, they will sparkle like the star, monsieur. I promise you."

"Certainement, "
S.T. said dryly. He paid, got a receipt against the
French duty, stuffed the package into his waistcoat pocket, and walked outside.
He stood for a moment, watching the water and boats sway dreamily in front of
the neatly painted shops and houses with their arched Flemish gables. He
shuddered in the cloudy northern chill. The memory of his last channel crossing
haunted him. He turned back inside and asked the direction of an
apothi-caire.

Leigh met him a quarter hour later, just as he was stepping out of the
pharmacopoeia. He could not imagine why everyone on the street didn't stop and
gape, she looked so clearly to him like a lovely woman dressed up in men's
clothing. Her hair was pulled back in its queue and powdered, which made the
blue of her eyes seem intense. She walked with more grace than any gawky youth
of sixteen had ever managed. She'd wanted to carry his rapier, but he wouldn't
let her. She didn't know how to use it, and he saw no sense in making her a fair
target for a fight.

She looked at the paper packet in his hand. "What did you buy?" she demanded
in her husky counterfeit voice.

She had the most annoying talent for putting him instantly on the defensive.
"Some dried figs." He fiddled with the ring on his sword belt, adjusting it
unnecessarily.

"Oh. Figs." She shrugged, and then actually favored him with a small smile.
"I was afraid you might have bought something medicinal from that quacksalver."

S.T. frowned. "A quack?"

"I went in earlier, to replenish my stock of savine. The digitalis was
mislabeled as magnesia, and his plantain is molding. It's that sort who gives a
patient deadly nightshade when they meant to administer the common variety. But
the fruit seemed well enough. May I have one?"

S.T. bounced the packet in his palm. "Well, they're not precisely . . . figs
. . . exactly." He squinted at her. "You're sure he's a charlatan?"

"You did buy medicine, didn't you?"

"Did you purchase some proper skirts?" he countered.

"That's neither here nor there at the moment. What did you buy in there? I
don't want you dosing yourself from that shop. It's not safe."

"Careful, Sunshine. You'll make me think you give a damn about my welfare."

She snorted delicately. "I wouldn't treat a dray horse from a pharmacy like
that."

"Ah. Thank you. For a moment there my head was swelling." He turned and
started to walk down the street.

Leigh was right beside him. "What do you need medicine for? You should have
asked me."

'"Where are your new clothes? I don't see any packages. No dresses, no hats,
no reticules. That damned frock coat's getting a little threadbare, don't you
think?"

She frowned and didn't answer. He knew she wanted to berate him for
mentioning female articles here on the open street, but she didn't dare. There
were enough outsiders in Dunkerque to render English a comprehensible language,
no longer so safe and useful for private communication as it had been in the
tiny villages of France.

S.T. let her stew. He waved at a dairy cart and tipped the fanner a sou to
carry the two of them out of town with the empty milk pails. The ride passed in
stony silence, barring the pass through the customs as they left the city, where
he produced his receipt and murmured to the officer. S.T. wouldn't have
disapproved entirely of a bodily search, on the chance that Leigh might stand
revealed as a female for once, but they escaped without that adventure.

A mile from Dunkerque on the coast road, where the white sand blew off the
dunes and splayed in pale fans across the raised roadway, he slid from the tail
of the cart. Leigh slipped down and walked back a few paces to meet him. The ox
and farmer plodded onward, oblivious.

A dog began to bark as they walked along a dike toward a neat cluster of
house and outbuildings set a little back from the road. Moments later, a young
boy in baggy trousers and long, striped stockings raced out to meet them.

"The wolf's awake, monsieur!" The boy danced backwards in front of them as
they walked, speaking rapid French. "He waits for you! Maman gave me a mutton
bone to feed him, but I didn't put my fingers through the bars, monsieur, I
promise! Will you take him out now? Will you allow me to pet him again? I think
he likes me, do you agree?"

S.T. pulled at his lip, pretending to give the question deep thought. "He
licked your face, yes? He wouldn't lick your face if he didn't admire you."

The child giggled. Then he cast a sly look at Leigh. "But he doesn't lick
Monsieur Leigh's face."

S.T. bent down and whispered loudly, "That's because Monsieur Leigh is such a
giddy puss. Never stops laughing. Haven't you noticed?"

He glanced at her as he spoke, but couldn't tell if she followed his French
or not. The boy stuck his finger in his mouth and laughed. He regarded her with
wide eyes and took S.T.'s hand. "I think Monsieur Leigh more scary than the
wolf," he confided shyly. Then he brightened. "Maman says that my father left a
message of importance. He is to send the boat for you at high tide, so you must
be waiting at the
Petit Plage
with all your things. Beyond the last
dike—I'm to show you where."

"When's the tide?"

"After dark tonight. Maman said she would tell you when to go. You must eat
first, she said. We're to have a
hochepot
with pig's ears and mutton.
She made that specially for you. And she packed a ham and baked some raisin buns
for you to take on the boat. Do you think the wolf might like a raisin bun?"

"He'd like some of your mother's exceptional sausage much better."

"I'll tell her," the boy exclaimed, and ran ahead into the farmyard.

"No doubt you'll find a pound of it wrapped up in Brugge lace on your
pillow," Leigh murmured in English.

"Jealous?" He grinned. "She's a pretty little housewife, isn't she?"

"I only dislike to see poor trusting
pere
grow a cuckold's horns
while he's out at his trade."

"Perhaps he shouldn't be so trusting. Perhaps he ought to come home more
often, and not stink of fish when he does, hmm?"

She lifted a dark eyebrow. "You've no scruples about it?"

"About what, Sunshine? Kissing the hand of a sweet
femme
for her
kindness to us? That's all I've done, I assure you."

"She's half in love with you." She kicked a muddy pebble out of the path.
"Well enough the wind's turning. We've only been here two days. I shudder to
think if we were to stay a week."

He stopped and looked toward her, his mouth curving faintly. "I'd no idea you
accorded such potency to my charm."

"Oh, I've no illusions on that score," she said. "You've been breaking hearts
from here to Provence."

"I can't touch yours, it seems. What's left to me but flirting with a
demoiselle
now and again? 'Tis harmless enough."

Her eyes met his directly. "I think not, when you stay with them all night."

"Ah." His jaw hardened. "Really, do you think you ought to take the high
ground with me on that subject?"

"You know my position on the matter," she said stiffly. "I'm accessible for
you to satisfy yourself; I see no need for you to make all these young ladies
fall in love merely to prove that you can stir them to it."

"I'm not trying to prove anything. What damned business is it of yours where
I sleep?"

"I feel that I'm responsible for you."

He stared at her, astonished and incensed. "I beg your pardon, mademoiselle.
But I'm a man full grown; I don't need an impertinent chit of a girl claiming
responsibility for me."