The Prince of Midnight by Laura Kinsale Page B

just barely, a grave, mocking curve of her lips.
    "I swear it," he said.
    "Foolish man. You don't even know what love is."
    He stopped his faint caresses. "And you do."
    "Oh yes," she said softly. "I know."
    He leaned away, resting on his elbow. "Do forgive me. I didn't realize there
was someone else."
    Her smile grew drier. "You needn't poker up, monsieur. I'm perfectly free of
that sort of romantic notion." She shook her head, as if she pitied him. "I'm
not in love. Nor married. Nor even a virgin. So you see—you may ease your needs
on me with a clear conscience."
    He closed his eyes. He could smell her; warm musky female scent that made his
body hot.
    "I know you want to bed me," she said. "Don't talk of love. I've more than
one debt to you that I can repay. Let me. Don't suffer for the sake of
gallantry."
    He closed his eyes tighter. "I don't want it like that." All along his body,
he felt her lithe presence, her legs beneath the breeches. "To pay off a debt. I
don't want a whore."
    "You want an illusion."
    He opened his eyes. "I love you." When he said it, gazing at the perfect
lines of her face, it seemed so true. "From the instant I saw you."
    "You want to bed me. I won't forestall you."
    "I want your heart—to hold and cherish."
    She looked away from him. "You've been wasted as a highwayman. I believe you
might have made quite a torrid troubadour."
    Damn
her. It wasn't going properly. She wasn't responding the way
she ought at all. He wanted to drag her down into the grass and kiss her until
she was beyond mockery. Until she was soft and eager and helpless in her
passion, the way a love ought to be.
    He set his jaw, staring into the dark. "I'm not a mindless buck, anyway. I
don't care to be serviced like one."
    She lifted her hand and touched his cheek, drew her finger slowly down his
jaw and across his lips. He tasted her and his breath grew quicker.
    "Don't deny yourself," she whispered. "Not waiting for some sentiment I can't
give you."
    Her finger slipped downward, traced a cool path on his throat and chest,
drifting to her own neckline. She toyed with the tie on her shirt and pulled it
free, exposing her throat in the deep open V.
    "Damn." He made a soft, wretched sound. "Damn you." In the moonlight her skin
was as cool and white as the stone columns. He ached to kiss it, to press his
face in the curve between her breasts and inhale the erotic scent of her.
    She tugged upward, slowly pulling the shirt. It was deliberate, a harlot's
tease, and he knew it. It made him angry, and it made him desperate. The linen
slipped from the smooth swell of her breast. A queer heat seemed to radiate from
the back of his throat through his chest and his loins.
    She slid her arms above her head. The languid move lifted her, showed him her
body like an offering: a delicious waist, the delicate bounce of her breasts as
she stretched. He gazed at their tender, curving underside in fascination.
Moonlight made her nipples exotic, the color of shadow.
    He made a rough sound. "I said I don't want you like this." He felt taut and
helpless, refusing to touch her, unable to turn away. "Don't do this to us."
    She merely lay still, eyes closed, prostituting herself. Her body gleamed
with the pale fire of the moon, as if she were a pagan goddess caught asleep
among the ruins. As if in a moment she might wake and rise to dance with
Dionysus, to seduce the reckless god and sink beneath him, entwined in leaves
and heathen laughter.
    She opened her eyes and stared into his. He felt his soul slipping away, his
reason dim in the rising hunger. In the night, amid the fallen columns, he could
not think beyond her body. He felt the satyr in him, the elemental power of
lust—so aroused he was trembling for her. He'd not had this for too long. He had
no sanity left to master it.
    She watched him coolly, ice-beautiful and exciting. With a sudden groan he
reached for her, slid his palms beneath her breasts and around