Free Devil at Midnight by Emma Holly

in alarm, sitting on her heels with her head wagging. Christian’s eyebrows rose.
    “You would deny me the delights of watching you?”
    “I can’t,” she gasped breathlessly.
    His gaze slid down and up her body, lingering on her bare, trembling breasts. Grace had never seen an expression that fiery—not even on a movie screen. Christian was a prince, darkly elegant and dangerous. She tensed when his eyes locked with hers again.
    “Do you think heaven would punish you for seeking release?”
    His question seemed serious.
    “I can’t,” she repeated. “Not with you here.”
    He continued to search her face, the insidiously seductive heat clearing only slowly from his features.
    “You are shy,” he concluded.
    She nodded, teeth sinking into her lower lip.
    His smile was deeper this time, the shallowest of dimples appearing magically in one cheek. Her nipples tightened as he leaned closer.
    “I see I shall have to devise some other method,” he murmured next to her ghostly ear.

Seven

    C hristian wondered what sort of weak-willed mooncalf reveled in the company of a ghost. He must have been demented to do and say what he had last night. Once the cold light of morning dawned, with its promise of sanity, he should have been terrified by Grace’s continued presence, should have feared for his already blackened soul. Instead, when she asked him—eyes downcast and hesitant—if she might stay with him that day, he had said she should please herself.
    He had said it gruffly and with apparent bad temper. Inside, though, he had been disconcertingly gratified.
    Grace wanted to be with him. Her sweet face had lit up and her smile had glowed, made happy by his grudging acceptance. He had almost glowed back, turning away and grimacing at the last instant. Her story of angels and age-old friendship could not be true. Christian might not live up to the name his mother gave him, but he knew the concept of other lives was a heresy. In any case, nothing lasted forever, not in the world of men. His reaction to the apparition was only lust—and a rather twisted lust at that. He had refrained from easing himself again that morning, but only just. It seemed that nothing could damp the effect of waking up with Grace next to him, especially when she looked so very real and tousled and warm.
    “What are those doors?” she asked now, pointing.
    Christian had been taking inventory of their stores, a duty his healing back allowed. The task had brought them to the rear of the house, which was dim and empty at present. Thankfully, Grace had been quiet while others were about. Christian was not a garrulous man, but it was strangely difficult to restrain his impulse to speak to her. Doing so now was an equally odd relief.
    “Those are the garderobes,” he said in answer. “They empty into a trench below.”
    “Garderobes,” she repeated as if the word did not fit her mouth.
    Arrested by her manner, Christian stopped walking to look at her. “Where did you reside when you were alive?”
    “Um,” she said, her hands twisting together in front of her.
    Her nervousness spurred his interest. “That is not a hard question.”
    “I know. It’s just, you didn’t believe me about the angel, and I don’t think you’ll believe this.”
    Christian crossed his arms and lifted his brows at her. His challenge should have intimidated her, but the light from a nearby arrow slit revealed more ruefulness than fear on her pretty face. Neither emotion mattered. If he was fated to be haunted, he deserved answers.
    “Fine,” she said, crossing her arms to match his. “Have you ever heard of Christopher Columbus?”
    “No. Was he the mayor of your town?”
    For some reason, this made her laugh. “Sure,” she said. “Christopher Columbus was our mayor, and my town was really, really far from here.”
    “If you do not wish to tell me, you should simply refuse. I do not like when people lie to me.”
    Her laughter died at his frown, and a tiny