Devil at Midnight (24 page)

She only needed one arm to brace their weights, so this time she bit him when he climaxed, her teeth penetrating the tightly corded muscles of his forearm. He came again instantly, his prick jamming deeper as the subsequent orgasm swamped his first. Each time she pulled his heated blood down her throat, his nerves fired explosively. Though his release kept jetting, he was so hard inside her he felt like stone.

“God,” he growled against the back of her neck. “How can I keep doing that?”

He could keep spasming until he fainted, if she commanded it. She could not, however, not if she wanted to finish this safely before dawn. Her head was heavy from its approach, or maybe from the intense pleasure of drinking him. She let go of his forearm so she could speak.

Before she could, he yanked her upright onto his lap, still facing away from him. Nim Wei could not help squirming. She felt as if she were sitting on a hot poker.

“Order me, Mistress Wei,” he demanded. “I want to sodomize you again.”

Her eyes widened at his imperious tone, and his use of her name. This was more than her thrall talking. For whatever reason—perhaps because she had told him he need not fear for her physically—he was finding real satisfaction in this encounter, enough that he wanted more. Indeed, this level of participation might weigh on him afterward, but she shrugged off the wisp of concern. If he felt guilty, that would only goad Christian more. As long as his remorse did not affect her, Philippe’s conscience was his affair.

“This will be your last release,” she warned him. “I order you make it good.”

He made it so good she nearly screamed. She would have if her mouth had not been buried in the sweaty bend of his arm, sucking his salty skin there but not biting. She had ordered him to want this climax the most. From the way he was pounding into her and groaning, he did. She read from his mind that his balls were aching, but he did not go over; he had known too much pleasuring already. Instead, the coil of need in his groin simply wound tighter. Faster he went, and more forceful, until his prick was virtually jabbing her.

The thoughts of their watchers from around the camp, moved to lechery by the sight of her and Philippe’s silhouettes, began to brush hers. Thankful for the candles that cast their frenzied shadows against the walls, Nim Wei drank in the mercenaries’ envy like fine French wine. For his part, Philippe was aware of no needs apart from his own, those that drove him fierce enough to blot out the world. Belatedly, she realized he could not come again unless she bit him. He was gasping out helpless pleas, truly in savage pain. Loving his struggle, she held off and held off and then—when she herself could not bear it—she drove her fangs in again.

He roared as the gargantuan summit crashed over him: no words, no names of pretend partners, only a shout of relief so violent she was certain he would be hoarse. Over and over, he shot his seed into her until not a drop remained.

He collapsed back onto a pile of pillows when she disengaged shakily from him. Unable to rise just yet, which was rather an accomplishment on his part, she turned on her hip to observe him.

His lips were curved, his eyelids fallen, every muscle on his hard frame relaxed. The beatific glow would pass, as would his weariness. Though he had earned the right to sleep, she could not give it to him. A hint of pale yellow was tinging the sky outside, and she needed to be alone. Walls of silk were not enough for her peace of mind. Considering what they had witnessed, others among the company might try to come to her. Because of this, she had wards to set and a shallow resting place to dig. Too practical to spare her partner, she slapped Philippe’s cheeks to bring him around. His satisfaction-glazed eyes looked up at her blearily.

“Heed me well,” she said, steadying his face in her hands. “These are the events I wish you to forget ...”

P
hilippe’s culminating roar was unmistakable, making a mockery of the separation between the minstrel’s tent and the dying fire. The logs had burned down to embers, a last few orange cinders floating up into the dark gray sky. It was by these embers that Matthaus and Christian sat—Grace, too, though Matthaus was unaware of that. Left alone by the others, the pair had been pretending to enjoy Christian’s small brandy stash. Or Christian had been pretending. Matthaus held his cup morosely, its contents untasted as he rested the tin on his thigh.

Matthaus was not given to emotional outbursts. Even when Philippe’s voice rang out, his sole response was a wince.

Christian felt helpless to comfort him. He could not even admit he thought Matthaus needed it. Since no one was supposed to know Matthaus loved Philippe, Matthaus was denied the ordinary jilted man’s expressions of discontent.

He handed his cup to Christian as the last carnal sounds were swallowed by the wind’s rushing.

“Thank you for the drink,” he said, his gaze on a cluster of pines that huddled in the opposite direction from the scene of his cuckolding. “I think I shall take a walk.”

“Matthaus—” Christian said, but the other man waved him off. The further away he got, the more the line of his shoulders slumped.

“Should I follow him?” Grace asked.

Christian’s throat was too tight to answer. He would not have said he was a romantic, but Philippe’s betrayal of Matthaus incensed him. How
could
it have been this easy for Mistress Wei to separate the pair? They risked so much to be together, she should not have been able to snap her fingers—or strum her lute, as the case might be—and have her way. That she had done so frightened him, and that angered him as well.

“Fie!” he said, jumping to his feet with his need to take action. “This is just a game to her, but to them, it is everything.” He looked down at Grace, who was sitting tailor-style on the ground. “I have to confront her. This cannot be allowed to stand.”

“Christian—”

Grace’s fear eased his own. Her, at least, he could reassure.

“I know,” he said, stroking her phantom hair with his fingertips. “I will be careful.”

He reached Nim Wei’s tent just as Philippe was stumbling out. Despite his unsteadiness, Philippe grabbed Christian’s arm and steered him away. Christian resisted, a scrabbling noise from inside having caught his ear.

“Let go of me,” he hissed sharply to Philippe.

“Christian,” Philippe scolded. “It is not right for you to seek entry here. Mistress Wei did not invite you.”

“Mistress Wei has done little but
invite
me since the night we met.”

“You may not pass,” Philippe insisted.

Christian cursed him, wrenching free of his hold to reach for the closed tent flap. The moment he touched the heavy silk, an ice-cold tingle rolled up his arm. His mind went briefly but completely blank. His hand fell back to his side. What was he doing here? He knew he ought to remember, but he could not.

He turned to Philippe, whose face was unnaturally wan—ghostlike, he would have said before he met Grace;
she
had plenty of color. With sad and heavy eyes, Matthaus’s lover gazed back at him.

“Tomorrow night is soon enough to speak to her,” he said.

His words shoved Christian’s memory back.
That
was why he had come here: to confront Mistress Wei.

“You do not look happy,” he blurted out. “Did she do something different to you than she did to William and Charles?”

Philippe’s chest deflated with his slow exhale. “I am well, Christian. In truth, I have never been so satisfied in my life.”

“Again I say: You do not appear satisfied.”

Philippe grimaced but did not argue. His boot toed a hole between two brown tufts of grass. “Mistress Wei rests. I must resign myself to carrying my burdens.”

Burdens
sounded like a problem Christian needed to address. He rubbed his right hand, the one that had touched the black tent flap. It still felt cold, as if tiny feathers of frost were crawling along his bones. When he looked at his hand, it was normal—probably just icy from this chill break of day. He did not think much time had passed since Philippe’s exit, but within Nim Wei’s shelter, her candles no longer burned. The tent gave the impression of being dead, as if no living soul were in there. Assuredly, calling to her now was pointless.

With that decision, Christian’s cramped hand relaxed. Philippe was right. Tomorrow night was soon enough to beard the lioness.

In fact, now that he thought about it, maybe he should drop the matter entirely.

 

 

I
n the end, Grace decided Matthaus deserved his privacy, even from a ghost. She searched the camp until she found the spot Michael had chosen to bed down, where Christian would probably turn up once his errand was done. The place was out of the wind, behind a low length of ruined wall. Michael had the blankets pulled tensely to his ears, but he was sleeping. Like the rest of the soldiers, he was used to cold weather.

Wishing she could warm him, Grace sat on the ground nearby to wait for Christian. When he appeared, the sun was rising behind him, and his figure seemed very tall. She could not see his expression, but his strides were relaxed.

“It is I,” he announced to Michael as he dropped down.

Michael grunted, evidently all the sign Christian needed that he wouldn’t be mistaken for an attacker. He lay down spine to spine with the other man, tugged the blanket to him until he had half of it, and smiled sleepily at Grace.

She lay down facing him, her hands cushioning her cheek as she enjoyed the simple pleasure of gazing back at him. Her heart quieted inside her. This was her Christian. This was her friend. Their heads were perfectly aligned, and his dark eyes were warm. His lashes were a thick frame of inky spikes. As if he liked staring at her, too, his smile deepened. The dimple she hardly ever saw sprang to life on his stubbled cheek.

Michael must have sensed his friend was happy. He relaxed behind him and began to snore.

Judging it safe to speak, Grace asked the question she’d been waiting to be able to. “It went well? Nim Wei agreed to leave Philippe alone?”

Christian’s smile erased itself, his straight black eyebrows drawing together in bafflement. A shiver gripped Grace’s neck.

“You talked to her, didn’t you? You’re the one who said that what she did couldn’t stand.”

Christian pressed two fingers into his furrowed forehead. “I did not speak to her. It seemed unwise to wake her after she slept. Philippe was well. He ... he said he had never been so satisfied in his life.”

“You couldn’t have believed that!”

“I did,” he said. He had the haughty manner he sometimes got when he wasn’t really sure of himself. “I would rather sleep now. Tomorrow night will be soon enough to talk to her, assuming I choose to do so at all. I am no longer certain what that would accomplish.”

Grace’s eyes felt as big as saucers. “Christian, what did she do to you?”

“Nothing. I told you, I decided not to disturb her.” He closed his eyes, seeming determined to shut her out. “Please be quiet. I need to rest.”

Grace’s mouth fell open. A little squeak came out, but Christian did not relent. Somehow, without even seeing him, Nim Wei had put a spell on him.

She had to do something about it. Of all the people in the camp, only Grace was unaffected by Nim Wei’s magic. All right, the zapping thing was an effect, but it didn’t compromise her judgment. Plus, she’d come back the last time Nim Wei’s energy sent her away. There was no concrete reason to think she wouldn’t recover if she was zapped again.

The stomach she didn’t really have tightened with dismay. Christian was sleeping now, his breathing deep and even. Grace rolled to her feet and smoothed her light nightgown.

Ghost or not, she wouldn’t have minded her own suit of armor then.

You’ll just look outside her tent
, she told herself.
If that feels okay, you can peek inside.

The eastern sky was bright as she walked through the slumbering camp, but in the west line after line of clouds massed over the big mountains. Grace wasn’t solid, and her nose wasn’t functional, but that western sky looked like it smelled of snow. It occurred to her that, no matter what century the calendar was turned to, a cloud was always a cloud. A million castles could crumble, and that would remain the truth.

The idea kept her metaphoric feet on the ground. She was hardly shaking when she reached the dull black sheen of Nim Wei’s infamous bower. The guy ropes creaked in the wind, but nothing looked in danger of blowing over. Grace crept closer to the door. The tent was silent. Nothing buzzed or prickled at her. Maybe the minstrel’s magic energy slept with her. Still not ready to let down her guard, Grace studied the column of Chinese characters that were embroidered on the entry flap. Naturally, she had no idea what they said.