The Prince of Midnight (55 page)

They circled once, and she could feel the small variations in his leg and
seat that sent Mistral onto a new lead and a turn the other way. They made a
figure eight that flowed into a serpentine, curving up and down the whole length
of the school. Above the rustle of her skirts, she could hear the beat of
Mistral's hooves. The horse's breathing softened to a mellow, even snort in time
to each stride as they worked. The walls of the school flew past, dark and light
and dark and light in the sun shafts.

Another circle, this one smaller and smaller, caving in on itself, and then
spiraling outward again. She caught a glimpse of Nemo, lying sprawled in the
tanbark by the stairs, snoozing unconcernedly. S.T.'s queue brushed her hand in
time to Mistral's cadence. Her own hair had come free—it swept against her cheek
each time Mistral's shoulders swung upward, marking the free fall of her body in
that moment of suspension before the next stride.

Aye, like flying it was; like easy swinging above the earth, with the air
passing swift and soft as a bird's wing while they circled the school.

S.T. gripped her tighter, shifting his weight back just a fraction, and the
horse came to a round halt.

Leigh let out a long breath. She put her forehead against his shoulder and
laughed. "This is monstrous fun."

"Hell"—he was breathing deeply—"we haven't even got to the fun part."

"Take me round again," she demanded.

She felt the subtle shift of his body. Mistral gathered himself directly into
a canter stride, rising high enough to make her give a little shriek before the
horse settled into its easy tempo. Laughter bubbled up again as the wind swept
her hair and the sunny columns flew past like a carousel. Her arms slid upward;
she held S.T. around the neck and kissed his throat.

He turned his head and tried to kiss her mouth, but she buried her face in
his shoulder. She put her tongue against his bare skin, tasting salt and heat.
She trailed kisses up the side of his throat in time to the motion that brought
her lips against his skin.

"Sunshine," he said hoarsely. His hands slid down as she swayed against him;
he cupped her buttocks and pressed himself toward her.

Mistral broke to a trot.

S.T. cursed. Leigh bobbed, her body in uncontrollable opposition to his at
this new and bouncing gait. She clung to him, giggling wildly. Mistral picked up
the canter again.

"This isn't going to work," S.T. muttered.

She wriggled closer into his lap, turning her mouth to his ear. She felt
secure enough now to lift her legs and curl them around his hips, resting on his
thighs and the support of his hands beneath her. "Try harder," she said
provocatively, and touched the curve of his earlobe with her tongue, playing and
sucking each time she could reach it.

He reacted to the fondling; his already heavy breathing grew labored and his
hands gripped her. He made a low, deep sound, trying to pull her closer yet.
Beneath the dressing robe and layered shift, she wore her silken stockings and
nothing more. As he moved with the horse, she pressed against him on each
stride, her body meeting his in the most openly wanton manner.

She lay back the length of her arms, letting him take her weight on his
shoulders. His bare skin felt very hot beneath her hands. Her hair fell free,
flying around her head as she watched the sunlight in the tall windows tilt and
spin above her.

His face was the one steady thing in her field of vision, he looked aroused
and intent, watching her, his lashes lowering slightly with every swing. She
tossed her head back, arching against him like a cat.

He blew a harsh breath and braced. Mistral came to an awkward halt. S.T.
dragged her up into his arms, kissing her fiercely, his fingers pressing her
hard, his hold twisting the linen amplitude of her skirts up around her waist
and shoulders.

Mistral retired restively. As the horse pranced, Leigh let her body ride
S.T.'s, anchored by his embrace and his mouth deep and aggressive on hers. With
an impetuous move he pushed his arm between them, still holding tight with one
hand, keeping her lips against his, invading and sucking at her tongue as he
searched amid the disorder of her shift and released his breeches.

"Luscious wife." He cupped her buttocks and brought her against him. His
breath rasped. "My beautiful wife—" He bent his face to her shoulder, pushing
slowly into her as she straddled him. Leigh dropped her head back. She pressed
her nails into his bare skin. The horse moved uneasily, but it only drove him
deeper, a full and hot possession. He kissed her chin and throat. "My delicious,
erotic little mother," he muttered roughly, "I want to devour you."

"Take us round again," she said recklessly.

He gave a shaky laugh. "Dangerous, my sweet. This poor animal doesn't know
what to make of it all."

She moved her hips provocatively and touched her tongue to his lower lip.
"Take us," she whispered.

S.T. closed his eyes. She nibbled and licked gently at the corner of his
mouth. He felt heat shower through him, felt the urge to shove into her in
response, felt his muscles taut, close to shuddering with the conflict between
his desires and his brain.

His arms locked around her as he seized Mistral's mane in both hands. He
kissed her with vehemence, his tongue greedy, exploring her sweetness. "Hold on
to me,
caruccia. "

He moved then as he wanted to: he drove into her tight warmth—and that same
delicious thrust was the signal that sent Mistral rocking into transition. Bound
as she was between his arms, the full power of the horse's motion flowed up
through his body and into hers. Leigh clung to him. S.T. groaned with the
pleasure of it, felt the canter stride swing downward with an exquisite
sensation of withdrawal, and thrust again. The gray responded with a longer
stride.

S.T. gritted his teeth on a sob of frustration, unable to push deeper into
her with his own force, not without impelling Mistral faster with each stride
into a headlong gallop. He had to let the natural motion of the horse control it
all, and that was lascivious agony: so deep and yet not deep enough; he wanted
to move, harder, ah God, he wanted to push her down and take her with all the
strength in his body. Her face was buried in the curve of his shoulder; her
hands kneaded the back of his neck.

Mistral swung in a wide turn. S.T. was beyond guiding the horse in
disciplined circles. He didn't care what track they took; the lust to drive to a
climax penetrated all his concentration. Her loose hair swept in his face, soft
and scented. He thought of his child in her, of her body stretched beneath him
on a wide bed, while Mistral's canter moved him rhythmically in an act of holy
torture.

He could feel her impassioned response growing, the way she pressed him in
demand, with her breath coming in short delicate huffs in his ear. But he
couldn't move; he couldn't finish; he could only bear the sweet throbbing heat
of her, the compelling weight across his thighs, the ravishing slide of his body
inside hers. His fingers curled into Mistral's mane until it hurt. She trembled
and quivered and flexed against his chest, drew her feet down against his legs
and the horse's flanks. The move brought her closer, impaled her heavily each
time Mistral's shoulders rose, and S.T. knew he was going to perish of this
pleasure.

"Stop," he gasped. "I want to stop—"

He tried to brace back and halt the gray, but his finesse had left him.
Mistral danced sideways, confused and irritated at the disordered signals. S.T.
slipped backwards, lost the joining with a thwarted moan, and let go of
Mistral's mane. He grabbed Leigh around the waist.

"Enough," he said in a gritty voice, holding her tight as he leaned back and
hiked his leg over Mistral's neck. They dismounted in a stagger and tumble of
dressing robe. Mistral shied and leaped aside, thundering off down the school,
but S.T. didn't care what became of the horse as long as it was out of his way.
He moved on the edge of ferocity, taking his wife down in the clean,
sharp-scented bed of tanbark, pushing into her with all the force of his
readiness.

She laughed, throwing her arms around his neck as he strained against her. He
rose on his elbows, gripped her wrists, pulled them away and spread her arms
beneath him. As her robe fell open, revealing the base of her throat, he saw the
tiny silver star nestled against her skin. He kissed it; he kissed her, held her
fast as he possessed her. She shivered and arched her belly upward.

He felt the pulsations come deep inside her, the feminine peak of excitement.
That ardent response and the knowledge of his child—his—within her ... it sent
him instantly, blindly, hopelessly into explosion.

His body held hard in suspension in the aftermath. He worked to find his
breath. He hung his head down, brushing her shoulder.

She smoothed her hands down his bare back, hugging him gently. Her soft,
quick breath caressed his ear.

"We'll name her Sunshine," he said into her hair.

"We will not." She tugged at his queue. "That's my name."

"
Solaire
. That's near enough."

She trailed her hand over his shoulder. "And very beautiful."

"I'll teach her to ride. I'll paint her. I'll paint you both together." He
curled his hand into a fist. Between a laugh and a sob, he said, "I'm coming
unhinged. Twenty-six bedrooms, for God's sake. What am I going to do?"

Her fingers danced on his skin. "Make us a home, Monseigneur," she said. "And
make love to me in every one of them."

This book took a whole team to pull together. Many, many thanks to Gwen
Duzenberry, Ann Bair, and Terri Lynn Wilhelm, for all the help and hospitality.
And on the West Coast, I owe sincere gratitude to Kathleen Sage and her own
real-life fire fighting hero, Larry . . . may he always come home safe! Linda
Bartell knows what her contribution was. I also wish to acknowledge the
remarkable horse sense of Mr. John Lyons, a cowboy with the talent to work
miracles—and the rare gift to show in his training seminars how others can work
them, too. I, and a certain strong-minded chestnut gelding named Splash, salute
you. It took us two days, but we now load into the trailer with the aplomb of
the true world traveler.

The historical use of dressage and equestrian terminology is varied and
inconsistent. In addition to modern sources, I've based my usage on
The
History and Art of Horsemanship
by Richard Berenger, Esq., Gentleman of the
Horse to His Majesty, 1771.

Amid all this generosity and these experts, any mistakes, exaggerations,
and—I confess it—romantical follies are mine alone.

Version History

V1.0—29July2004—Scanned, Spell-checked and formatted from the hard cover.