Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(69)

Maximus’s admission was almost whispered to himself. Artemis felt tears prick at her eyelids. Had he had any friends of his own age after his parents’ death—or had he spent all his time training for revenge? “What happened to him?”

Maximus was silent so long she thought he might not answer, but then he rolled one shoulder. “Went off to university. I remember I got a package from him once—a book. Moll Flanders. It’s rather risqué. I think I still have it around here somewhere. Later, after I’d left, Sir Stanley trained a third boy. I’ve met him once or twice. I suppose we three were sort of Sir Stanley’s legacy. Strange. I haven’t spoken to either about that time—about any of it—in years.” He sounded troubled.

She swung her legs down from the chair and settled them on either side of his shoulders, spread wide, so that she might more comfortably rub his arms. They were so strong—simply corded with muscle—and yet he was only a man. Didn’t all men need companionship? Friendship?

Love?

His head lolled against her right thigh, a heavy weight that made her aware that she wore only a chemise and wrap. For many moments they were quiet together as she stroked his arms and back and the fire crackled.

She was rubbing her thumbs in circles on the ball of his shoulder joints when she asked, “When did you become the Ghost?”

She thought he might refuse to talk more, but he answered readily enough, “When I was eighteen. Sir Stanley and I rather fought about it. I wanted to go into St. Giles by myself earlier, but he hadn’t wanted me to. By eighteen, though, I made my own decisions.”

She knit her brows. There was something she was missing. To go into St. Giles was one thing…

“Why did you wear a harlequin’s costume?”

He chuckled, tilting his head back so he could see her eyes. “That was Sir Stanley’s idea. He had rather an odd sense of humor, and he was quite excited by the theater. He had a costume made for me and said that a man in a mask can hide not only his identity, but the identity of his family. He can move about like a ghost.”

She brought her hands up on either side of his lean, upside-down face. “But what a strange idea.”

He shrugged. “I’ve sometimes wondered if Sir Stanley hadn’t been the Ghost of St. Giles in his youth. The legend is older than my tenure.”

“Your tenure?”

“The boys who sparred with me. They were Ghosts as well. All three of us, at different times, and sometimes at the same time.”

“Were?” She swallowed. “Are they dead?”

“No,” he said lazily. “Merely retired. I’m the only Ghost of St. Giles remaining.”

“Mmm.” He sounded so lonely. She bent over him, nearly near enough to kiss. “Maximus?”

His eyes were watching her lips. “Yes?”

“Why were you in St. Giles when your parents died?”

There was a second when she knew she’d pried too far. When his gaze froze and his sable eyes iced over.

Then he was pulling her head down. “I don’t remember,” he murmured against her lips just before he kissed her.

Chapter Fourteen

For a year Lin rode pillion behind King Herla in his awful wild hunt. The phantom horse between her legs labored and strained but did not make a sound. She saw King Herla bring down great stags and mighty boars, but he never once celebrated his success. Only sometimes, after she had bagged a hare or small hart, did he turn his head and she felt the weight of his gaze upon her. Then she would see that he watched her, his pale eyes cold and bleak and so very, very lonely.…

—from The Legend of the Herla King

It was odd kissing a man upside down—odd, but also oddly erotic. Artemis could feel Maximus’s lips slanted across hers, the shadow of his beard on his chin scratching faintly against her nose. In this position, their lips didn’t quite fit together properly, so to compensate she had to open her mouth wide, as did he. It wasn’t elegant, this strange twisting of tongues, this driven mingling of mouths. This was passion made elemental, even though there was no hurry at all.

She felt his hand reach up, grasping her head to hold her in place for the ravishment of her mouth. He broke away for a second and she saw a flash of determined sable eyes, then he twisted his torso to face her. He leaned into her widespread legs and wrapped one arm about her waist as the other brought her face back to his. She thought she heard him murmur, “Diana,” and then he was kissing her again.

Slowly, thoroughly.

She let her lips fall apart on a gasp and felt the sure thrust of his tongue into her mouth. He didn’t hurry, as if he had all the time in the world to hold her thus and explore her inner depths. She made a sound, a sort of low groan that in any other circumstances would’ve caused her embarrassment, but she was so drugged, so heady with the wine of his kiss, that she didn’t even think about it. Nothing existed but his mouth, his lips, the thick intrusion of his tongue. She couldn’t imagine wanting anything else ever.

But he broke from her, withdrawing his tongue, his lips, though she whimpered and made an aborted move to follow him.

She opened her eyes to find him watching her like a predator. Calculating, waiting.

He held her gaze, and she saw a faint smirk curl one corner of his mouth. The rug was suddenly gone from her lap, and then she felt the slide of her skirts up her legs.