Devil at Midnight (27 page)

Christian doubted this fascination boded well for the pilgrims’ hopes of piling up merit. They most certainly were not entertaining angels unaware.

Anywise, they never stayed with the groups for long, and the minstrel never seemed reluctant to part from those who had feted her. Indeed, Christian did not think she was interested in them at all. She was getting something else from the interaction. He simply had not figured out what it was.

Christian became her choice to lead her second horse. Night after night, she only requested him. At first, she tried to draw him into conversation, but Christian was no great talker, and he had no wish to be charmed—naturally or otherwise. She left him alone after a few rebuffs, ignoring his father’s gracious suggestions that one of his men accompany her. Christian did not press her to choose another; he was relieved no one else was at risk from her influence. He did not sense her trying to use it on him, a conclusion Grace concurred with. The worst the minstrel did was stare at him broodingly—unblinking, it seemed to him. Her attention made him uneasy. Had she been less adept at obtaining any partner she wished, he would have said she had a tendre for him.

She had no reason to develop one. He was as cool with her as he knew how to be. Still she watched him: when he helped pitch her tent, when he ate his food, when he stripped to his braies to wash in a reed-lined stream. Kept under such close surveillance and, given that they were not in the hinterlands anymore, Grace and Christian scarcely had a moment to themselves.

His need to be with her grew unbearable. Even her companionship was denied him while he walked with Nim Wei. He had been wrong to scorn the sorts of release they had managed when Grace was only in spirit form. He craved the touch of her soft, warm flesh, but any relief—no matter how imperfect—would have been welcome. Christian was hard and aching far too often, a circumstance he suspected Nim Wei was aware of.

If she chose to push him with her witchcraft, he did not know how he would resist.

He was not the only one whose humors were unbalanced. In Modena, in a piazza outside the church that housed San Geminiano’s holy bones, William—of all people—got into a knife fight with Lavaux. The smaller man had been insane to provoke the scuffle. Though William performed no song-worthy deeds of arms, he had enough sheer size to overwhelm any quickness Lavaux could call upon. Lavaux was fortunate William’s temperament was not as bloodthirsty as his own. He had given William a few slashes, but William could easily have killed him. Gregori might still do so. The pair’s lack of discipline had earned them all a request from the town’s rulers to take themselves and their trouble outside the walls.

Fortunately, not for nothing was this area called the “fruit bowl” of Italia. They set up camp in the orchard of a villa some distance into the gentle hills. Nim Wei had bribed the laconic
vignerolo
to allow them to stay. The vines of the country retreat were brown, the lemon and orange trees past their prime. The gardens were likely beautiful in summer, but the absent owner might have been in residence then.

Christian doubted the minstrel’s florins would have spoken as persuasively to a rich man’s purse. Gregori’s men were not the sort of guests princes coveted.

Such were his sardonic thoughts as he knelt before William to clean and bind his wounds. William sat on a battered stool that had been forgotten under the dead vines.

“You know, William,” Michael said, standing above them both, “I expect this sort of behavior from Charles but not you.”

“It was a mortal insult,” William said stubbornly. His eyes were turned to the clear black sky, refusing to watch Christian’s treatment of the shallow gash on his calf. “I had to defend the honor in question.”

“The honor in question being that of a fornicator and Mother Mary knows what else.”

Christian had set a lamp to see by on the arbor’s stacked stone wall. Grace perched beside it, swinging her pretty legs, though only he knew that. He loved having her close by, more than he cared to admit. William must have had his own partiality. At Michael’s accusation, the big man’s eyes flashed sharply.

“Lavaux did not insult Mistress Wei, though I would have been happy to bash that varlet on her behalf.” He winced when Christian tightened the bandages, finally looking at him. “You should have used the oil she gave me after the battle with the bandits. I do not know what was in it, but it made my bruises heal wondrously.”

This was too much for Michael. “We are not using some potion that whore gave you!”

William turned slowly back to him. “You are my friend,” he said, “but call her that again, and I will demand an apology.”

“Peace,” Christian said before Michael could retort. “We are all friends here. We must exercise respect for our differences. If we do not, you know well there are jackals who will feed on our weaknesses.”

“Forgive me, William,” Michael said, stiff but chastened. “I did not mean to ... belittle your affections.”

Quicker to release a grudge than he was to form one, William smiled at him. “I hear Lavaux has been ordered to scrub Oswald’s pots for the next sennight.”

“That is all?” Christian asked, startled. “He provokes a fight in public, and my father does not have him whipped?”

William shrugged. “We are on a job. Perhaps your father does not want him unable to perform.”

This was how a man like William would think, but not necessarily Gregori Durand. Lavaux would loathe scrubbing pots, but as a punishment, it was barely a slap. Could there have been some reason his father wanted Lavaux to attack William?

“What are you thinking, Christian?” William asked.

Christian met his simple, honest stare. “I am thinking my father is not really angry. I am thinking we had best not let any of his men draw us.”

William cocked his head before nodding. “Charles believes they are jealous because Mistress Wei shows them no favor.”

“Maybe,” Christian said. “And maybe my father plays a deeper game than any of us realize.”

“A game for what?” Michael asked.

“Power,” William answered. “That is always the prize men like Christian’s father want.”

Finished patching him up, Christian came to his feet and laid his hand on William’s strong shoulder. Whatever Nim Wei had done to William, she had not changed his faithful nature. The words Christian spoke came without his planning them.

“I am glad you are mine,” he said. “I am glad I do not have men like Lavaux and Timkin following me.”

“We are glad to
be
yours,” William said with a laugh for his earnestness. “That is why we follow you.” He pushed up from the stool with a weary groan. “Now, if you will excuse me, I would be glad to sleep.”

Together, Michael and Christian watched him disappear into the night. Michael rubbed his upper lip with the knuckle of one finger. “What
do
you suppose he and Lavaux fought about?”

Christian could hazard a guess. Lately, Matthaus and Philippe had not been speaking to one another, the rift between the former intimates painful to observe. Once or twice, Christian had seen Matthaus’s eyes tear up as he stared at nothing sadder than a distant line of cypress trees. Knowing the reason for his emotion, Christian had looked away. How much Lavaux knew or guessed Christian could not say, but his character was not one to ignore a vulnerability. Like a blowfly, his instinct was to attack the wound. He had been gibing at Matthaus for days now, saying he must be pining over some lost damsel.

Was her bosom snowy?
he had taunted.
Did her pudendum smell of cherries or day-old fish?

If Lavaux had worse calumnies to share concerning Matthaus’s romantic habits, William might have felt honor bound to defend his friend ... even if he believed them.

“They could not have fought about Matthaus,” Michael said, stealing the thought if not the attitude from his mind.

“I think it possible,” Christian said mildly.

Michael turned on his heel to stare at him. Christian expected another lecture about sins against God and nature, but this was not his friend’s main concern.

“You have been different of late,” he said.

One of Christian’s eyebrows quirked. “Different?”

“Your temper has been softer. And there is all this talking to yourself. I wish you would tell me what troubles you.”

“You are the one who warned me against letting myself grow cold.”

“I know.” Michael watched his eyes steadily. “Would that I believed it was I who inspired this change.”

Christian fought the heating of his face. Though he did not mean to do it, the haughtiness Grace had pointed out earlier thinned his voice. “I do not think I understand your complaint.”

“You used to trust me with everything.”

“I trust you with my life,” he said, genuinely shocked.

“Your life but not your secrets.” Michael dropped his head and laughed softly. “I am acting like a woman spurned. No wonder people sometimes say the same of us as they do of Matthaus and Philippe.”

“Michael—”

“No, Christian. Keep your secrets if you wish. Every friendship has an occasional parting of the ways.”

“We are not parting ways! Michael, you are the dearest friend of my heart. Upon my honor, were it not for your decency, I would have turned into my sire years ago.”

Michael patted his cheek lightly. Christian knew both their eyes were shining. “I would lay down my life for you, Christian. Your affection saved me when I thought my heavenly Father had turned his back.”

“If God would turn his back on
you
, He does not deserve children.”

Michael smiled, one bright tear spilling over even as he turned away. “I shall bed down on my own today. Your perpetual mumbling keeps me awake, and the air is more than warm enough.”

Christian could not bring himself to call Michael back. From the corner of his eye, he saw Grace waiting on the wall, her eyes turned down, her hands folded in her lap. Though he owed his friend more than could be counted, his body sang at the prospect of being alone with her.

Maybe Michael was right. Maybe they had come to a parting of the ways.

 

 

C
hristian stood looking into the darkness after his friend. Even seen from behind, he looked torn. Grace slid off the wall carefully.

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell Michael about me?”

“He will judge this,” Christian said without turning. “He will judge you.”

“But maybe someone else should know the truth about Mistress Wei.”

“I cannot prove our suspicions.”

Grace stepped to his side. Christian’s profile was harshly beautiful in the lamplight. “He’d hear you out. He’s your friend.”

Christian’s narrow lips grew thinner as he compressed them. “He is my friend whether he knows about you or not. You are my lover. I ... care about you.”

He sounded afraid to make the admission. Moved more than she could say, she brushed her ghostly hand down his back. When his eyes came to hers, the lines of his face were strained.

“You are my love,” he said hoarsely. “And he could not prevent Mistress Wei from doing as she pleases any more than I can.”

“I don’t like hearing you talk that way. We can’t just give up on stopping her.”

Grace’s cheek tingled where he cupped it. His smile was crooked but gentle. “I shall not give up. And I do not rule out ever telling Michael about you. If there is a compelling reason, I will do it.”

His gaze cut behind her. Grace thought someone might be coming, but then Christian strode past her and snuffed the lamp. Hidden from other eyes by the darkness, he turned to her. The lack of illumination didn’t prevent her from seeing the ridge swelling at his groin. A slash of white caught her unnaturally keen vision. The linen of his braies was showing. The seam between his hose had parted for his erection.

“Grace,” he said, his voice even rougher now. “Let us not waste this time alone.”

Her breath snagged with excitement. “I don’t have the power to touch you tonight.”

“I do not care,” he said rashly, though she knew he did. “It has been too long. I am going mad from not sharing any pleasure at all with you.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Trust me, Grace. That would be impossible.”

He dug into his clothing, drawing out his hardness and stroking it. He was trying not to rush, but it looked like that was a struggle. His fist moved tightly, slowly, up the thick, pulsing length of flesh. Groaning, he closed his eyes for one moment. His index finger circled the spot where his rim split into two wings. The crease there must have been sensitive. Watching him, wishing her own finger were doing that, flames seemed to lick wet heat between Grace’s legs.

When their gazes met, the heat became summery.

“Be in me,” he rasped. “Move in me the way you did with your fist that night when Michael was sleeping.”

He leaned back against a post of the arbor, his hips cocked forward from his pelvis, his spine undulating against the weathered wood. He was sex in motion, a big, beautiful male shoved to this exhibitionism by his own hunger. Lured like a moth, Grace came to him and pushed inside.

Joining with him was like being showered by sparks, electricity bursting in flowers from inside of her. When she moved, the sensation thickened—for him as well, apparently.

“Grace,” he whispered. “I can feel that.”

She tried to pull the feelings tighter, stronger, needing this as much as he did. Her gown had melted away. She was bathing naked within the pool of his energy. Currents and waves moved through her from her humming scalp to her curling toes. Maybe her imagination was very vivid, but she thought she felt his fist moving on his cock.

“Touch yourself,” he said. “I cannot last much longer. I want you to finish yourself with me.”

No matter how shy she was, she couldn’t deny him now. She touched herself, tentatively at first, and then with a moan of need. It always startled her how real she felt to herself. The flesh between her labia was slick, the little bud on which her pleasure centered painfully swollen.