The Prince of Midnight (37 page)

Sweet Harmony ran, too. The horse and rider had already disappeared into the
night. She caught Chastity halfway down the road, grabbed her by the arm, and
turned her into their own gateway. That was the only hope now— that Master Jamie
might have other things to think of and forget that Chastity had lain a hand of
violence on one of the most favored of his flock.

On Divine Angel, who wouldn't let him forget.

"Kneel down, kneel down," Harmony said urgently as they reached the top of
the stairs. She could hear the others coming behind them. "Pray for
forgiveness."

Chastity threw off her arm and turned sullenly away. But she knelt down on
her mat, and when an hour later Divine Angel and Master Jamie came in person,
she nodded and cried and asked Angel to forgive her, and they went away, and
everything was peace again.

After the church bell tolled the end of midnight prayers, Chastity and Sweet
Harmony lay on their mats, close together in the chilly room.

"Harmony," Chastity whispered, barely audible in the darkness. "The Prince,
what did 'ee say to me?"

Harmony bit her lip. She didn't answer.

"Please," Chastity whispered. "What do 'sharee' mean?"

Sweet Harmony bent her head into her blanket. "It means 'darling,' " she said
softly. "He called you his courageous darling.

"Oh." It was a breath: a faint, awed whisper. "Oh my bloomin' Lord."

S.T. had expected to slip back into the carriers' inn unobserved, but Leigh
was waiting for him, out in the cold moonlight, a black shape that rose up from
the side of the road and made Mistral shy a bit. Nemo had found her first; he
bounded between them, leaping and twisting in excitement at the reunion. She was
still the only female that the wolf accepted. Nemo wouldn't even go near
Heavenly Sanctuary, and only firm orders would have made him creep inside the
Twice Brewed Ale where they'd taken rooms two nights since, so S.T. let him go
on running free on the empty moors.

S.T. still wore the harlequin mask, reluctant to relinquish the Prince and
become himself again. He loved the mask; savored the fascination it created,
relished the astonished faces of the girls in Heavenly Sanctuary. He'd made the
mask himself, painted his soul onto papier-mache the same way he had years ago,
the first time, whistling a rigadoon as he worked alone in the empty loft over
the stable.

He'd kept his intent to himself, stealing away after the others were abed,
but now that things had gone so well he'd no objection to asking Mistral for the
beginning of a little
passage,
a few steps of elevated trot, like a
victory dance. The horse snorted, unsure of this new request, but the weeks of
relentless teaching and practice on the road north had instilled the cues.
Mistral tried. He managed one springy stride in his earnest attempt to go
forward and stay in one place at the same time, and S.T. instantly allowed him
to relax, leaning over to rub his poll in praise. Mistral shook his mane, his
ears cocked back questioningly.

"Seigneur," Leigh said with a bow, and he couldn't tell if it was awe or
awful sarcasm in her voice—but he suspected, with a little lapsing of his
elevated mood, that it was sarcasm.

He removed his hat and pulled off the mask. "Lady Leigh," he murmured, with a
slight inclination of his head.

"Where have you been?"

"I've been to visit the Reverend Mr. Chilton," he said, and somehow the
announcement wasn't as gratifying as he'd envisioned. He'd get nothing from
Leigh, damn her— as if he hadn't known it.

"I thought we'd agreed that you wouldn't do anything alone."

"No," he said. "We agreed that
you
wouldn't do anything. Alone or
otherwise."

She stared up at him, her face smooth and ivory in the moonlight. Lovely—so
lovely that he felt a sudden twist in his chest and didn't want to argue, didn't
want to resurrect the quarrel over Chilton and the danger and the risks. He
wondered what it would be like just to talk to her once, just to lie in bed and
speak of commonplace things. Insignificant things, like how Mistral had learned
to pick up the girth and hand it to him when he asked and whether the landlady
would kill the old rooster for stew tomorrow or sacrifice three pullets to be
roasted.

He wiped the back of his gauntlet across his cheek and stowed the mask in his
saddlebag. "Take you up?" he asked, offering his hand.

"I'll walk." She stood still, and then shivered suddenly,, pushing her hands
down into the pockets of her greatcoat. "Did you ride Mistral into the town?"

He dismounted and began to lead the horse. "Not very clever, to walk in on
foot."

"They'll recognize him. They'll be able to describe him." She fell in beside
him. "Did you kill Chilton?"

He could tell that she'd tried to say it casually. But it sounded a fraction
out of breath, just a little waver on the last syllable.

He wanted to turn around and hold her close and kiss her forehead . . . just
that, as if she were a child—tell her Chilton wasn't her worry anymore. But
they'd fought about it for the two days since she'd joined him, fought it to a
standstill, mired in a strange suspension at a carriers' lodge in the middle of
nowhere, arguing in whispers and behind doors over what came next.

S.T. knew what came next. He had his own reasons for revenge now, and he
intended to have it, but she was wavering: she had a dispute with every plan, or
she got emotional and bottled up and wouldn't speak, turning away from him as if
she had something to hide.

It made him angry: they'd come all this way and now it almost seemed as if
she didn't want him to do it, wouldn't break in front of him and wouldn't give
it up to him, even once telling him to leave Chilton be, she didn't care
anymore, as if it all ought to go away because she'd decided so. Looking at him
shaky and furious, as if it was somehow his fault that it didn't.

He couldn't understand what she wanted. He didn't think she understood it
herself.

"No, I didn't kill Chilton," he said flatly.

"You should have done," she said. "While you had the chance."

He wrenched down hard on his temper. "My thanks for the advice. But
cold-blooded murder is not my way."

"He saw you, didn't he? He'll guess that you're Mr. Bartlett. He'll be
prepared now. He'll be afraid. He's dangerous, you reckless blockhead—haven't
you learned that yet?"

Mistral twisted his head and pranced, protesting the sudden drag on his bit.
S.T. eased his hold. He strode forward, keeping his eyes on the shadowy ground.
"I've learned it. We've had this conversation before. Several times. It begins
to grow tedious, you may believe me."

"Don't play with him," she said. "It's not a game."

"Oh, but it is." He stopped and faced her. "You want revenge, madam, you want
justice—there's no measure in skewering the fellow from behind. I want him to
know who's killing him. I want him to see his malignant little kingdom smashed
to nothing. I want to pull it down piece by piece around his ears before he
dies." He stared down into her face. "Perhaps you've forgotten what he's done to
you. I haven't."

She didn't flinch. "And then what?" she hissed. "Then I fall down on my knees
and say I adore you? Don't hope fork."

That wounded. He felt embarrassed and furious, the worse because it was
halfway to true. He still had hopes which he hadn't realized until he heard her
say it.

God alone knew why. She was fine enough to look at, the condescending shrew,
but hardly cordial company. He could do better. Far better, curse her if he
couldn't.

Just one small part of him held on, kept going back to the memory of that
moment when she'd put her hand against his heart.

Together. You and I.

The rest of him said: certainly . . . and no, the sun won't come up tomorrow,
either. Fool. He had his faults, but he'd never been feebleminded.

Together. You and I together.

No one had ever said that to him before.

They'd said, "I love you." They'd called him handsome and charming and
devilish exciting, and couldn't he stay longer and come more often and bring
some pretty bauble they might show to their friends and whisper who it came
from, because it was all so exotic and exhilarating and they'd never felt such
passion, not with anyone, never known this fervent devotion that would live on
forever, and did he love them truly?

He swore he did, he brought the gifts, he stayed as long as he judged it
safe, sometimes longer man was sane, because he believed in it all. But somehow
that was never enough. Somehow there was always soft coaxing that turned to
pleading and then to tears.

"There's no use in this silly swashbuckling of yours, do you understand?" she
was saying belligerently, as if he'd been arguing with her. "I don't want you on
my conscience."

He didn't answer her, didn't see any use in it. He just put his hand on
Mistral's neck and walked silently on, all the elation of his encounter in
Heavenly Sanctuary drained out of him.

Dove was wide-eyed, dewy, her blonde hair waving freely down her back in
public in a way that Leigh had been brought up to think vulgar, if not
promiscuous. "You've been out." Dove put her hand on the Seigneur's arm. "Lady
Leigh was right . . . you went there?"

The Twice Brewed was still noisy, the hall packed with a caravan of carriers
that had arrived late. All the carters at the table stared at Dove between gulps
of ale and huge bites of roast beef.

"Shall we retire upstairs?" S.T. grabbed Dove firmly by the elbow and turned
her around. Leigh went up behind them. He headed for the little chamber Dove
shared with Leigh, which put her in a worse temper than before.

As soon as the door closed, Dove took both his arms. "Lady Leigh was right,
wasn't she? You went back to the Sanctuary!"

He gave Leigh a sour glance. "I'd not thought to have it common knowledge."

"You truly did!" Dove exclaimed. "What did Master Jamie say? Did he see you?"

S.T. tossed his hat and saddlebags on a chair and stripped off his sword
belt. "I trust he didn't recognize me, in any case."

"Oh." Dove sounded a little disappointed. "You stole in.'?"

He drew the mask out of the saddlebag, dangling it from his fingers. "Not
precisely."

Dove put her hand over her mouth. "You wore that?

Oh!"

He smiled and held it up to his face. Even in the candlelit room it changed
him, made him mysterious and strange, his face impossible to focus upon beneath
the intricate patterns that danced on the mask. His eyes glittered faintly in
the depths; he might have been watching either of them, or no one. It was
impossible to tell.

"I've seen pictures of that. 'Tis a highwayman's mask," Dove whispered.

He lowered the camouflage. "Not just any highwayman's, love. Mine."

Dove absorbed that, standing with her lips in an "O" of wonder. Leigh had no
great opinion of her wit, but the truth appeared to dawn upon her with
surprising promptness. "The Seigneur du Minuit! You're
him!
Oh, are you
him?"

He swept a bow.

"I had no notion," Dove cried. "And you've come to punish Master Jamie? You
planned it all along? How brave you must be!" She sat down on a chair and gazed
up at him. "How wonderful and brave to do that for us."

"Wonderfully ill-advised," Leigh murmured.

He gave her a brief glance. Then he smiled at Dove. "Honored to be of
service, fairest."

Dove slid off the bed onto her knees. She took his hand and kissed it,
holding it against her mouth. "Thank you," she whispered. "Oh, thank you. You
are so good."

Leigh thought that at least he would look chagrined at this outburst, but
instead he allowed Dove to cling to his hand. He actually seemed gratified; he
chuckled complaisantly and even reached out to touch her, brushing her long hair
back from her face.

Leigh wet her lips and turned abruptly away. Silly man! Let him wallow in
brainless adoration, then. She crossed her arms tightly over her stomach and
leaned against the wall, staring out the window.

"When you are quite finished," Leigh said, "may I ask if Your Highness has
given a thought to the king's men in this scheme?"

He caught Dove's arms and raised her. "Chilton won't call on the Crown."

"Won't he?" Leigh watched Dove look up at him shyly through the shining
curtain of her hair. "You can't be certain of that."

"Soldiers? That would be the last thing he'd care for— a power above him in
his own kingdom. You needn't worry for my neck on that score."

Dove still held on to him. She brushed back her hair and clasped both hands
on one of his. He glanced down, gave her a faint, indulgent smile, and squeezed
her fingers.

Leigh found herself turning scarlet. It wrenched something deep inside her to
see him touch Dove in that gentle way, as casually as if they'd been lovers for
years. But Dove was what he wanted, of course—all that breathless, unconditional
admiration; no matter that a week past she'd been pouring what she'd thought was
acid in his ear. Coxcomb! Bloody stupid coxcomb.

" Tis late." Leigh walked over to the candle and blew it out. The smoky scent
of tallow enveloped the room.

"And I perceive that I'm desired to go away," he said in the darkness. "Give
you good night,
demoiselles. "

After the door closed on his back, Leigh shrugged out of her waistcoat and
got into bed in her shirt. She held onto the bedpost, facing the window, making
sure that she didn't touch Dove at all when the other girl climbed onto the
mattress.

For a long time Leigh clung stiffly to the edge of the bed, feeling Dove
wriggle and shift at intervals until at last her breathing settled into the even
rhythm of sleep. The moon hung low, shining in Leigh's eyes through the window,
setting slowly over the northern moors where Nemo hunted alone.