Free The Prince of Midnight by Laura Kinsale Page B

'Tis in English. Have you
read it?"
    Leigh glanced down at the spine, barely able to hold the book steady. It was
titled
Aristotle's Masterpiece.
She didn't open the cover.
    "Have you read it?" the count asked again.
    Leigh shook her head.
    "Ah, you will enjoy it. Keep it. Mr. John Wilkes gave it to me, and I'll give
it to you."
    She slipped the book into her coat pocket.
    "You do not read it?" He gave her a disappointed frown.
    "Perhaps later. It's too rough now."
    "Yes, of course. Later." He smiled at her. "We shall read it together, These
English words, I was not certain of them all."
    The count sat back and began to speak rapidly to Latour. He made several
reverent references to a Mademoiselle Anne-Prospere, and Leigh gathered that he
was to be reunited with his lover somewhere on his journey, but for now was
without companionship beyond the valet. With the aid of a full moon, they
traveled on at their snail's pace long past dark, but on the report of a
rockfall in the road ahead, Mazan decided to halt for the night at a tiny inn.
Leigh swung out of the coach and stood in the yard. While Latour and Mazan
followed the landlord inside, she looked up at the steep, moon-drenched valley
walls that rose on all sides, throwing the river and narrow road into gloomShe
walked a few yards down the roadway. It was wild and empty country, closer into
the mountains than La Paire. The sound of the river seemed muffled by the
overhanging rocks, strangely subdued, as if the mass of stone above pressed down
on them all. Over the top of the precipice behind the inn, she could see the
full moon hanging above the black flanks of a ponderous height.
    If she walked away from here, she'd be sleeping on the open ground. They
hadn't passed a light for three hours.
    "There you are!" The Comte de Mazan gripped her arm. "Come, come, we've
arranged a nice bedchamber and a fire for ourselves. Morning will be upon us
before you know it." He shivered and grinned at her. "We must put our rest to
good use."
    He drew her forward with a bit more force than necessary. Leigh allowed it.
She planned to get her supper out of these two, at least, before fading quietly
into the darkness.
    The inn had no private parlor, only a single bedchamber with two beds and a
tiny closet that contained a cot and a window protected neither by oil paper nor
glass.
    Mazan waved toward it negligently. "We won't even make Latour sleep out
there. We can all share." He grinned again. "He's already found us a girl."
    This development was a challenge to Leigh's French. Unable to construct a
more subtle answer, she simply said boldly, "I don't like girls."
    Mazan lifted his eyebrows.
"Mon dieu.
A boy of your age. What does
the world come to?" He sat down on one of the beds. "That's all right. I despise
women, myself. But wait until you see what I have in mind. Come and be
comfortable." He patted the bed beside him.
    Before Leigh could marshal her French grammar again to answer, the door
opened. Latour pushed a plump, red-cheeked young maid inside.
    "My lord," the
fille de chambre
whimpered, trying to set her feet.
"My lord—please—I'm a good girl!"
    "Nonsense," the count said. "You expect us to believe that in a place like
this? You're just trying to raise your price."
    "No, sir!" She shook her head. "Ask the hostess; I'm to be married—ow!" She
cringed at Latour's hard pinch.
    " 'Twas the hostess recommended you," Mazan snapped. "Said you were slut
enough to do anything for a guinea, which I don't doubt for a moment. Come
nowhere it is . . ." His voice changed to gentleness. "Put it in your pocket
right now—ah, are you crying, poor child?" He drew her toward him and caressed
her cheek as he slipped the coin into her apron.
    "Please, sir! I don't want it." She tried to hand the coin back.
    He caught her wrist and twisted it. The girl cried out and dropped to her
knees.
    "Oh, don't," she sobbed. "Leave me alone! Please leave me alone."
    "Hold her