Naamah's Kiss - Jacqueline Carey [83]
"Yes." Raphael lowered the flask. "He is."
Lord Luchese summoned a tremulous smile. "I thought for sure my time had come. You're a goddamned miracle worker, de Mereliot."
"No." Raphael lifted his head and gazed intently at me. The crowd murmured around us. "I'm afraid that credit lies elsewhere."
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The balance of the evening at the Palace was a brief blur. Overwhelmed and exhausted, I let it wash over me. A litter arrived for Lord Luchese. I leaned against a column, vaguely aware of Raphael issuing further instructions to Luchese's wife, something to do with bed-rest and a tincture of foxglove.
"What just passed here?" Thierry whispered in my ear. "What did you do?"
"I don't know." I closed my eyes. "Ask Raphael."
"The air around you…" he breathed. "There was a brightness."
I shrugged. "Oh?"
"Prince Thierry!" A light voice, sweetness made sharp. I opened my eyes to see Jehanne de la Courcel. She touched my face, a touch as light as gossamer. I had the strangest urge to lean in to it and rest my cheek against her hand. "Let her be."
"Certainly, Mother!" Thierry's tone dripped with sarcasm.
Jehanne regarded me. At close range, I could feel Naamah's gifts coiling between us with an unexpected intensity I didn't want to acknowledge. "Are you quite well?"
"No," I said honestly. "I'm very, very tired."
Her lips pursed. "Raphael!"
He was there, bowing. "Your majesty?"
"You've had your fun." Her hand fell away from my cheek. "Now take your young witchling home; she looks near to collapsing. I'll make your apologies to Daniel."
Raphael bowed a second time. "Of course."
As he escorted me toward the door, her voice halted him. "Raphael!" We both turned. Jehanne's face was unreadable. "I'll send for you on the morrow."
He bowed a third time and didn't reply.
In the carriage, he was solicitous, giving me a flask of brandy to sip and chafing my hands between his. Bit by bit, I felt a measure of my strength return.
"Well," I said at length. "That was interesting."
"Interesting!" Raphael gave a short, wondering laugh. "Moirin, that was the singular most astonishing thing I've ever experienced. Did you not feel it?" He lifted his hands before his face and contemplated them, turning them this way and that. "We saved a man from certain death."
"You did."
"No." He shook his head. "I meant what I said. I'm a skilled physician, but I can't work miracles. You can. You did. I felt your energy flowing through me. It felt…" He fell silent a moment, searching for the right word. "God-like."
"God-like," I murmured.
"Yes." Raphael's hands slid beneath my arms. "Come here."
I let him pull me onto his lap, too tired to protest. Now he kissed me with all the ardor I could have wanted—and I didn't want to respond, but I couldn't help it. Even exhausted, I wanted him so bedamned badly. My body roused to his touch.
"Witchling," Raphael breathed in my ear. His hands slid over my breasts. "I am taking you to bed tonight."
"All right," I said helplessly.
He laughed and kissed me some more.
By the time we reached his townhouse, I was dazed with an odd blend of lassitude and desire. In the courtyard, Raphael scooped me off my feet and into his arms. I let him—let him carry me inside and past the whispering servants, up the marble stairs, burying my face against his neck. In his bedchamber, he set me on my feet.
"Moirin." His hands glided over my body, leaving glorious trails of warmth. I shivered. He cupped my face and kissed me deeply. "My terms, remember?"
I nodded.
Raphael's terms were sensuous and deliberate. He undressed me piece by piece, his lips lingering on the nape of my neck as he unclasped my gown's collar and unlaced the delicate stays. When I turned in his arms and reached for his doublet to unbutton it, he shook his head at me.
His terms.
"Beautiful," he murmured when I stood naked before him. He reached out and plucked the gilded comb from my hair. My hair fell over my shoulders in a slithering cascade. He laughed softly. "Like