The Prince of Midnight (54 page)

She'd learned a bit of the native character in the past three months they'd
been in Italy. Such diplomacy must have a reason—such rare and curious privacy a
rationale.

She walked slowly back down the balcony. S.T. did not glance up from his
concentration. Leigh rested the parchment against her lips, looking down at him
thoughtfully.

Perhaps he knew she came to watch him after all. Aye— he'd know something
like that.

She retired back into the shadows of the balcony and broke the seal on the
letters. Within the packet were all the documents she'd been awaiting. She
glanced at Nemo, who rose from his corner and came trotting after her to the far
end of the balcony and down the stairs that opened to the deserted stable on one
side and the school on the other.

Mistral saw them first; his ears pricked forward and then back, and S.T.
looked up. He smiled. The horse circled, its tail flowing out like a milky
banner, and came to a halt in front of her, its head and shoulders in a
brilliant ring of sunlight that caught S.T.'s hair and contoured his bare chest
in shadow.

Facing him, Leigh felt a sudden shyness. She'd taken the steps that led to
these letters on her own authority. It was possible that he wouldn't care for
it. Doubt made her take refuge in gravity. Instead of answering his smile, she
only curtsied somberly. "Good morning, Monseigneur."

His good-humored expression faded. He tilted his head. "What's wrong?"

She looked at Mistral's feet. "Nothing's wrong. I wished to speak to you.
I've had these . . . letters."

"Ah," he said. "Letters. Very mysterious."

" 'Tis a deed," she blurted. "To your father's estate."

He gazed at her. "To what?"

"To Cold Tor. Your father's house." She saw the change in his face, and added
in a rush, "We need a home, Monseigneur. I've had the mortgages cleared—there
was a tenant in it, but he'll be removing directly. My cousin Clara's husband
says 'tis in remarkable repair, beyond the gutters need new leading; he went
into the country to look about it—there are twenty-six bedrooms open, and a good
dower house, and stabling for three-score of horses."

"Twenty-six bedrooms?" he echoed in bewilderment.

"Aye." She put her hands behind her back. "All furnished."

"And you bought it?"

"There was no need to buy it. 'Twas entailed on you at your father's death,
as surviving male issue." She frowned at him. "Didn't you know it, Seigneur? I
discharged your mortgages. We can live there."

He simply stared at her, while Mistral lowered his head and rubbed it against
a foreleg. "I don't even know where it is," he said in a low voice.

Leigh gave a nonplussed little laugh. "But 'tis in Northumberland! On the
coast, not thirty miles from Silvering. How could you not know that?"

He shrugged. He looked down and curled his fingers through Mistral's white
mane. The sunlight streamed down on his hair.

Leigh watched him twist the pale strands around his fist. "Do you wish I had
not done it?" she asked quietly.

He shrugged again and shook his head. "I just wondered why."

"We need a home. Silvering is gone. 'Twould be a king's fortune to rebuild,
and I ... I do not wish it. To purchase another estate the equal of yours, when
there were only the mortgages that bound it—I didn't think it practical."

He smiled dryly. "Or think to ask me."

She bit her lip. "Well ... I know you, you see, Seigneur. You would have us
camp under the sky at Col du Noir, living among the ruins and eating wild
honeycomb and manna for the rest of our lives."

"Nay—I thought of that, before I was arrested." His mouth tilted wryly. "I
knew you wouldn't like it."

"We need a home."

He leaned down and took her chin in his hand. He looked into her eyes. "You
aren't happy here?"

Gazing up at him, at his haloed hair and his green eyes, the faint shimmer of
exertion that clung to his bare skin in the heat of the summer morning—she could
not stop her smile. "Oh, aye, I'm happy, S.T. Maitland," she said softly. "You
look an intriguing Italian bandit in that state of dress." She lowered her eyes
modestly. "I only mention it because perhaps you may not realize the full
effect."

His fingers tightened a little on her chin.

"But then," she added, lifting her lashes, "I suspect that you realize it
full well, don't you?"

"I do have hope," he murmured provocatively. "Particularly of the
'intriguing' part."

She put up her hand and gently disengaged his fingers. "But we were speaking
of practical matters. Of making a fixed home. I believe that Cold Tor is the
most reasonable choice."

"You've been my wife for nigh a year," he said. "Why is this suddenly such a
topic of interest?"

"We need a home."

"My home is with you,
bellissima. "

"Yes, that's very charming, Seigneur; I value it very much, but we need a
settled abode."

"Why?"

"We cannot drift over Italy forever."

He leaned back on one arm, his palm braced on Mistral's hip. "Only a
fortnight past you wished to see Venice. And the lake at Como."

Leigh evaded his eyes shyly. "I find that I grow weary of traveling."

He was silent, watching her. She felt warmth rise in her throat and face.

She hugged herself, feeling desperately bashful. " Tis time to go back to
England," she said.

He inclined his head, looking puzzled and wary— perhaps even a little hurt.

"Please," Leigh said, somehow unable to find better words. "Take me home."

He studied her. Mistral moved restlessly, dancing two steps sideways. S.T.
controlled the horse and slanted her a bemused look beneath his lashes.

"Sunshine," he said in a strange voice, "are you trying to tell me
something?"

She swallowed and nodded.

He sat still. She couldn't detect what he thought. When she could stand it no
longer, she went forward and put her cheek against his knee, sliding her fingers
around his boot, enveloped in the scent of Mistral and warm leather.

"Bella donna
.
. . tesoro mio
..." His hands pulled her
closer, tangling in her hair, knocking the loose pins free as he bent down and
pressed his mouth to the top of her head. "Oh, my God,
caruccia,
dolcezza,—is
it true?"

"I think so," she said, muffled against his boot. " 'Twill be born in the
spring, the
donna
said."

"Little wife!" He laughed into her hair. "Twenty-six bedrooms,
cara?
You go to nest with a vengeance."

She lifted her face. "I'm only being practical," she said defensively.

He sat back and let go of her, shaking his head. "Why is it, sweet
cherie,
that every idea your brain produces instantly becomes practical?
Now, if I'd taken a notion to purchase some fine palace here in Tuscany boasting
a mere fifteen chambers, that would forthwith be declared a wildly reckless
fancy."

"And so it would be," she pointed out. "We're not buying Cold Tor. 'Tis
already yours."

He sighed. "You want to go to staid England, do you? You asked me to make you
a romantic, and I've failed utterly. I showed you Rome in the moonlight, and you
quoted something from the Stoic philosophers. At Sorrento you thought only of
turtles."

"The pot was copper, Seigneur! If the cook had left turtle soup in it
overnight, 'twould have poisoned us all. Sorrento was beautiful beyond
anything."

"Turtles," he repeated glumly.

"I loved Capri. And Ravello."

"You didn't wish to see the sunset from Monte Stella."

Her mouth fell open. "Now that is a wicked exaggeration, if you please! When
I'll never forget how the sea turned golden and the light lay on the rocks and
it seemed as if one could drop a stone right down into the water, 'twas so high
and steep. I only said we should return before it was utterly dark, because of
the brigands in the forest."

"Brigands!" He leaned over. "I can contend with
brigands,
can I not?
I am one, my heart."

The corners of her mouth turned upward. She lowered her eyes demurely.
"Indeed, I've managed to commit one romantical folly in my life. I ran off with
a brigand. My mama would have wept."

He gave an unimpressed snort. "That's nothing. Listen to me,
cara,
this is a disaster. Twenty-six bedrooms! I know what will happen now. You'll
become a prodigious excellent parent. You'll organize us. You'll talk all the
time of mattress ticks, and cook maids, and mortgages. You'll carry a lot of
keys at your waist, and jingle authoritatively. We'll have a governess and a
kitchen garden. You'll be terrifying."

She kept her gaze lowered and pressed her lips together to prevent a smile.
"No doubt we'll have a garden, I shan't carry keys, if you don't like it."

"Molto prammatica
Signora Maitland," he said sternly, "before we
leave Italy, I want you to have an impractical thought."

Leigh gazed at Mistral's hooves. She slowly drew her eyes upward to the slope
of the horse's shoulder, the Seigneur's leather boot, the shape of his leg
resting easily against the animal's strength. Her glance lingered on his bared
chest in the shaft of sunlight. She smiled a sly, subtle smile and met his eyes.

He cocked his head. Leigh felt herself blushing at his quizzical expression.
She almost lowered her eyes and looked away before the comprehension dawned on
his face.

Then his devilish eyebrows lifted, and he grinned slowly. "Oh, Sunshine . . .
that
is
impractical."

Leigh ducked her head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Impractical," he mused. "But most provocative."

She cleared her throat.

He leaned backwards, resting his elbows on Mistral's croup. "The French have
a name for it."

Leigh gave him an arch look. "They would, of course."

"Liaison a cheval, "
he murmured, swinging his boots slowly back and
forth. Mistral's ears pricked backward.

"I believe you made that up."

" 'Tis the more delicate usage." He pushed himself upright with an easy
shove. Mistral began to sidle closer to her. Leigh stepped backwards, shaking
her head.

"It was only an absurd thought," she said.

"Outrageous," he agreed. "There's the mounting block."

"Really, Seigneur—no."

Mistral moved to cut off her retreat. Snorting softly, his head high, the
gray stepped sideways, herding her gently between the wall and the black-veined
block of ornate marble steps.

"I didn't mean it," she said. " 'Tis ludicrous."

S.T. reached down and caught her hand. He lifted it and kissed the back of
her fingers. "Step up,
amante mia. "

"My condition ..."

He made a low growling sound, pressing her hand to his mouth. "Aye—it makes
me want you," he said against her fingers. "Right now."

"Someone will come," she said breathlessly.

"Subdue those practical thoughts. No one will come. They're Italians."

"Aye, Italian! The most sociable of national souls."

"Ah, but we're too outlandish to bother about. 'Tis a sad case when a man
grows stupid on his beautiful wife." His hand urged her up onto the first step.
"A pure scandal. She ought to be abroad with her chosen cicisbeo like a proper
lady, but he forces her to spend all her mornings in a horse barn, gazing down
upon him until she must go mad with the tedium of it." He lifted her hand again,
assisting her up onto the mounting platform. "I'm afraid we're considered
indecently odd already, m'dear. Fortunately we're English, so we can get by with
anything."

Leigh stood on the top of the mounting block, just below eye level with him.
Mistral sidestepped close to the block, and then backed up until S.T. was even
with her. She looked at the pale horse dubiously.

S.T. stuck out his boot. "Put your foot on my ankle. No ... not that one—your
right. How can this come about with you in back of me, my foolish love? In
front—there, give me your arms, ho—ho . . . whup—
ho!—
Mistral!" He
caught at her as the gray shied back from the sweep of her gown across its neck.
Leigh gave a little yelp and fell into place against S.T.'s chest, clutching to
hang on as the horse ducked and jumped skittishly. Her legs slid up over S.T.'s,
around his waist; she fell backwards, but he pulled her tight against him as he
grabbed Mistral's mane with one hand and followed the horse's motion, holding
them both on board. "Ho ... ho ... Mistral, you old villain, be civilized," he
muttered, as the horse broke into a canter.

Leigh held on, frightened, her feet dangling in time to the awkward plunge,
feeling like a sack of flour bumped between a wall and floor. One of her
slippers fell free. The other hung from her toe. Through the skirts of her shift
and the dressing robe, she bounced against Mistral's back and withers and S.T's
solid weight.

"Relax," he said in her ear. "You make this difficult." He let go of
Mistral's mane and pulled her against him. She squeaked in dismay at the greater
range in his motion, but his arms gripped her, forcing her to follow his upper
body, molding them into one unit moving in time.

"Give yourself to me,
cara,"
he murmured. "Don't fight me. Be soft
... be supple . . . rest here—you don't have to work at all."

He cradled her cheek against his shoulder. Leigh realized she was straining
and stiff, opposing all his movement.

"Have faith, Sunshine," he said. "Let go and trust me."

Her other slipper dropped away. Slowly, uncertainly, she eased her desperate
hold and relaxed into him.

And suddenly it was easy. Suddenly the stiffness seemed to disappear from
Mistral's gait, her backbone ceased to bounce uncomfortably, and she was flying:
cradled against his chest and rocking effortlessly with the fluid rhythm of the
canter.