Devil at Midnight (10 page)

“Allow me the same privilege,” he whispered into the shell of her ear. “Let me try a thing or two on you.”

His hand slid over her breast, stroking it through her kirtle, brushing its pebbled nipple with a slow massage of his palm. Her eyes grew wider as his touch circled, her mouth falling open for quickened breaths. Christian’s lids felt weighted as his gaze was pulled between enchantments. Innocent or not, he could not doubt she was responsive; every inch of her declared her readiness for love. The veins in her throat pulsed, the slopes of her breasts shaking. Carefully, he gathered up her gown with his other hand. Over her knees it rose, up her thighs, baring flesh as smooth as carved pink marble.

His chest grew tight as her triangle of scarlet curls was revealed. His recently sated prick was twitching, lifting in surges between his legs. She was so beautiful, so obviously aroused. Her pubic hair was spiked with moisture, her little bud of pleasure peeping out from those most delicate petals.

She gasped when he gently cupped her mons veneris, but—to save his life—he could not lift his eyes to her face. Watching his own actions with bated breath, he allowed his longest finger to burrow where she was most wet. That wetness increased even as he found it, spilling hot, sleek cream over his knuckles.

“Shh,” he soothed as the muscles of her lovely thighs attempted to bar his exploration by tightening. “Grace, I promise you will like this.”

He sent his thumb toward her hooded pearl, sinking just the tip of one finger into her entrance. He achieved both goals at the same instant—which proved too great a test of Grace’s valor. Squeaking like a mouse, she jerked back from him.

With no small dismay, he saw she had retreated halfway into the stone wall.

“Grace,” he said sternly. “Make yourself solid again now.”

“I can’t,” she panted. “I don’t know how I did it before.”

Christian glowered at her from beneath lowered brows.

“I don’t! I swear it was an accident.”

“Methinks your
accident
was suspiciously well timed.”

She muttered something he suspected contradicted him, then looked up and crossed her arms. Her glare was every bit as belligerent as his.

“At least step out from the wall!” he exclaimed.

She stepped, planting her little fists on her waist. This new pose did nothing to lessen the distraction of her round, red-tipped breasts. The sight reminded him how quickly he was recovering from his premature and rather forceful release.

“Your father will be waiting,” she huffed at him.

“
I
am waiting,” he said, but he could not disagree with her. His breath sighed out in resignation.

He did not bother trying to convince her to stay behind.

 

 

C
hristian’s father’s office was a long, beamed room on the second floor. Its two tall windows overlooked the courtyard, and they were relatively broad. Lit by the generous illumination, the furnishings were simple: a long desk, a few chairs—mostly wood with leather-wrapped seats and backs. At some point, the plastered walls had been painted a bilious green, a dreary color Gregori seemed uninterested in improving on. Two globes on stands enlivened the equally somber carpet—one celestial and one representing terra firma as it now was known. A dozen books lay scattered about, fresh from the new “movable type” presses in Nuremberg. Some of the Durands’ clients, primarily those from Italia, liked to cultivate the appearance of being learned. Gregori had collected these Greek and Latin texts to impress them. As far as Christian knew, he had not opened them himself.

The only personal decoration in the office was a wall display of battered swords and knives, which were the actual fighting weapons of Gregori’s father. Christian had not met his mercenary grandfather. He had been dead by the time Gregori’s first and only living son was born. Occasionally, Christian wondered if the men had been much alike. Christian’s father never spoke of his progenitor that he could recall.

As Christian waited for Gregori to look up from his ledgers and acknowledge him, he tried to ignore Grace’s curious progress around the room. His resolve was shaken when she leaned into one of the deep windows to look out. The light from the opening shone through her sheer kirtle, limning her body as clearly as if she were naked. The halves of her bottom were as high and tight as they had felt in his gripping palm. The curving shadow where her parted thighs met caused him to swallow hard.

A click signaled that his father had set down his quill.

“You kept me waiting long enough,” he observed.

Christian inclined his head. “My apologies, Father.”

Gregori stared at him with his cool snake’s eyes, probably waiting for an explanation. When Christian neglected to supply one, he pursed his lips, settled back in his seat, and went on.

“We have a new commission, a woman who wishes to be escorted to Florence.” Christian’s father pressed his fingertips together in front of his bullish chest. “She asked for you specifically.”

“For me?” Christian was startled into asking.

“Yes,” said his father. “And I have to wonder why that would be.”

“I do not know. No one, man or woman, has spoken to me about a job.”

“She mentioned meeting you at the Crowing Cock.”

Muscles tightened in Christian’s neck. “I met a female
minstrel
in that tavern the other night.”

“Apparently, she is eccentric but no mere minstrel. She offered twice the normal fee for our services, providing you were included among the guard.”

“I do not know what to say. I had no notion she intended this.”

“Did you not?” His father leaned forward over his desk, his dark eyes keen and suspicious. “You are only twenty. You might not realize that is too young to strike out on your own, much less to set yourself up as my rival.”

His tension coiling even tighter, Christian pulled his shoulders back to review posture. “Sir, I have no such plans.”

Grace remained by the window, across the room, but Christian was aware she had turned to watch. He kept his gaze on a vague distance. If his father thought he meant to unseat him, Christian did not want to imagine how unpleasant his life could get.

His father rose, walking slowly around his desk, his battle-scarred fingers trailing over the brass nailheads that trimmed its edge. “I agreed to provide a dozen men in addition to ourselves: six of my choosing and six of yours. I assume you will want to take your usual
rotte.”

“If that pleases you,” Christian said politely.

His father was too close to him, and closer yet when he stepped behind Christian’s back. His hot breath ruffled the hair that escaped the base of his queue. With all his might, Christian fought the defensive instincts that told him to turn around.

“Nothing about this pleases me,” his father hissed, then stirred the air with what Christian presumed was a shrug. “It is a job, however, and it will pay richly. Since there was no agent in this instance, I will have our banker credit the commission to your account.”

Christian bowed his head. “Thank you, sir.”

He kept his gaze averted as his father moved to his side. A bead of sweat was gathering in his hair.

“Watch yourself,” Gregori said, then snapped his fingers next to Christian’s ear.

Christian flinched, as was intended, but only the slightest jerk. Judging it safe to leave, he bowed more deeply and backed away. His father
hmphed
and stumped to his desk.

Christian did not draw one full breath until he closed the office door behind him. Grace slipped through the panels a moment later. Her appearance startled him afresh. He had honestly forgotten she was in there.

“Golly,” Grace said, an expression he was not familiar with. She was looking up at him, but he could not bring himself to look at her, not even to apologize. “Your dad’s got quite a stick up his rear.”

He laughed, and though it was shaky, he felt better. “That he does, Grace,” he said. “That he does.”

I
’m coming with you,” Grace said, her jaw set in the stubborn fashion Christian was growing accustomed to.

“You were with me all day,” he said.

She had been, drifting to and fro in the bailey as he tested his healing back with a light practice. Grace’s figure was so pretty, so womanly, that he had worried she would distract him. Instead, he had fought better than he hoped, as if he were an idiot knight with his damsel fair watching him. Idiocy aside, his performance told him he would be well enough to travel soon.

“I like being with you,” Grace said. “Your company ... feels good.”

Given that he barely knew her, Christian did not want to admit how acutely he concurred with this. It was as if his whole life a piece of him had been missing, and Grace fit perfectly into the spot. That
she
had quite a few spots he wished to fit into went without saying. Would that he could plumb them now, and innocence be damned. After a day in public, they were alone again in his room. That simple difference heated him.

“You need me,” she said, forcing him to wonder if she could read his mind. “You said yourself you thought this minstrel woman was dangerous.”

“And, pray tell, Grace, how do you expect to aid me? No one else can see or hear you. You cannot even cry for help.”

“I don’t know. Maybe if you were in danger, I’d find a way. Ghosts are supposed to be able to do things. Make floorboards creak and fling pictures off of walls. Maybe I just need more practice.”

“You tried
practicing
this morning.” He growled the words, his earlier frustration not forgotten.

Grace’s cheeks were red enough to glow. “You could have ... taken care of the results without me.”

Christian backed her against the edge of the window where they had been standing. He both reveled in and was ready to grind his teeth at the way she squirmed inside the cage of his arms. He knew exactly why she shifted. With every breath, her body declared its desire for him.

“It is
your
pleasure I crave,” he said, his voice so low it rumbled in his chest. “Your pleasure bursting like a ripe, juicy fruit with mine. When you agree to touch yourself, I will no longer withhold those actions you seem so eager to watch again.”

“Christian.” Gasping for air, Grace laid her ghostly hands on his ribs—as though she had the power to push him off. The effect she did have was bad enough. The contact ran like effervescence through his veins, straight to the part of him that least needed it. He wanted to touch himself there, to rub the terrible itch that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his crown.

“Grace,” he responded with his jaw gritted, “if your manner were not so gentle, I would swear you were a devil sent to torment me.”

“You have more experience,” she said, shrinking back as he pressed forward. “You’re more comfortable with these things.”

She was blinking rapidly, nervous and excited at his nearness. Her girlish timidity was like a flag waved before a bull. Christian dropped his arms with a muttered curse. He did not have the time to continue this skirmish now.

“You may come with me to the tavern,” he conceded. “But please do not speak unless we are alone.”

“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” Grace promised, making a gesture with her thumb and finger as if turning a key in her lips. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

Somehow, Christian doubted that.

 

 

G
race was so excited to see a real medieval town that she was beside herself. The streets were narrower than she expected, the buildings taller and more substantial. Some of the handsomer ones towered as many as six stories. Though the sun was setting, color assailed her on every side: in the cheery frescoes on the houses’ fronts, in the people’s clothes, in the charming window boxes still abloom with bright flowers. Christian could hardly drag her away from a pretty wooden well where women in long skirts and head scarves were gathering.

“You would think the girl had never seen a bucket!” Christian exclaimed softly.

Grace realized she had better keep her interest under wraps if she wanted to conceal her true origins.

The dusty cobbled path was crowded where it circled around the well. With no room to get out of the way, both she and Christian sucked in their breath when a little donkey pulling a cart full of dented cooking pots clopped through her. She’d heard animals could sense ghosts, but this donkey didn’t even snort.

“Shush,” Christian said, though all Grace had done was try to grab his arm in surprise.

She was quiet from then on until they reached the tavern where he was meeting his father’s newest client. The place was dark and smoky and low ceilinged. It didn’t seem to be an hour for drinking. The only people Grace saw inside were an older man in an apron and a pretty, plump girl in a low-cut smock. Somewhere behind the bar a cricket chirped creakily.