Dancing on the Wind (13 page)

Lucien followed, the hunter instinct singing in his veins with the same exultation that he felt when soaring on horseback over fields and fences. He laughed aloud as he glided over the treacherous slates. Foxes and thieves were only an excuse; what mattered was the pursuit.

The god of the hunt protected him so that he could travel at a speed that swiftly closed the distance between him and his quarry. His mind scarcely connected with his body, he flung himself from gable to chimneys and onto the roof of the next house.

The thief glanced back and spat out an unintelligible oath when he saw that he was still being pursued. Then he launched himself over the gap that separated the second house from the next in the row. On the other side he caught at what appeared to be a rope that he had left earlier. After regaining his footing, he darted across the slates and vanished over another gable, taking the rope with him.

When he reached the edge of the roof, Lucien leaped over the gap without hesitating. But his luck had run out. The roof was pitched more steeply than the previous two, and his feet went out from under him when he landed. He hit hard and rolled, then began sliding down the slates on his belly.

He tried to stop his descent, but there was nothing to cling to. His fingertips skidded over the icy film that covered the slates. With a sense of mild wonder he realized he was plunging inexorably to his death. The drug that clouded his mind bestowed a careless blessing by also blocking fear and pain.

Yet though his mind was indifferent to imminent death, his body reflexively fought for survival, scratching and clawing at the flat, slick stones. On the very edge of the roof, his flailing hand found a small decorative stone rim. It slowed his slide, and he found himself teetering precariously on the edge, his head and shoulders suspended over three and a half stories of dark nothingness as he clung by his fingertips.

Gravity was his enemy, and very soon it would defeat him. It was a damned foolish way to die.

A sharp voice barked, "Catch this!"

Lucien looked up and had a brief impression of something flying toward him from the shadows cast by a cluster of chimneys. Before he could register what it was, a bristly rope end struck him in the face. He lost his tenuous grip on the eaves and plunged headfirst from the roof.

As he fell, by sheer luck he managed to catch the rope with his left hand. The line went taut, and his fall ended with a jerk that tore viciously at the muscles of his arm and shoulder. He ended up swinging one-handed over the void, the wind whistling around him. At first he simply hung there blissfully, entranced by the sheer improbability of his situation.

Reality intruded when he realized that his strained fingers were gradually losing their grip. He caught the rope with his other hand and clambered upward with the same bizarre buoyancy that had gotten him into this fix.

After he hauled himself safely onto the slates, he crouched on his hands and knees and fought for breath. He felt no pain, yet his body insisted on shaking violently.

A low voice cut across the wind, saying, "Thank God!" What a very peculiar burglar. Lucien must meet him.

He scrambled up the roof to the chimneys, supported by the rope. By the time he reached his destination, the thief was retreating, but still close enough for Lucien to grab the back of the man's jacket. "Not so fast, my larcenous friend. I must thank you for saving my life."

The thief tried to tear himself free, but he lost his footing on the icy slates and crashed back onto Lucien. Together they fell into the safe angle between chimney and roof, Lucien on the bottom, his quarry sprawled full-length on top of him.

After Lucien caught his breath, he realized that there was something very familiar about the lithe shape of the thief. And also about the elusive, spicy fragrance of carnation, which was not at all what one would expect of a housebreaker.

He had recently met someone else who wore the scent of carnations. With a feeling of inevitability, he yanked off the black scarf that concealed the burglar's features. The pale oval face was instantly recognizable even in the dark.

Lucien grinned as he settled the long, delightfully feminine length of her against him. "So we meet again, Lady Jane. Or whatever you're calling yourself tonight. It's beginning to seem that we are fated to be together."

"This is farce, not fate," Jane snapped.

She punctuated her remark with an elbow in Lucien's belly as she tried to break free. It would have hurt if his body and mind were properly connected. "You must have a passion to be transported to New South Wales," he remarked as he used a firm embrace to immobilize her arms, "or you wouldn't have broken into a house where a party was in progress."

"I thought Lord Mace must be away because most of the windows were dark." Deprived of her arms, she tried to knee him in the groin.

Fortunately, he was holding her close enough so that she didn't have the leverage to do any damage. "You're very strong for a woman," he said rather breathlessly. "Of course if you weren't, you wouldn't be swinging over the rooftops of London like a demented monkey."

"You should talk! You were taking insane chances. It's amazing you didn't fall sooner." The heels of her hands and her elbows ground into him as she tried to slither from his arms. "Let me go, you big oaf!"

"But I don't
want
to let you go," he said with breathtaking simplicity. "And at the moment I'm doing only what I want."

"I should have let you fall off the roof!"

"Very likely," he agreed. "But since you didn't, I have a better idea."

He kissed her.

Infuriatingly, Kit found herself responding to Strathmore's kiss. It was madness when they were sprawled on an icy roof and she had just committed a capital crime, yet the man's humor and sensuality were irresistible. His arms were a warm haven against the cruel night, his mouth and teasing tongue an invitation to erotic pleasures.

As her body softened, he released his steely grip and began caressing her. Even with layers of winter clothing between them, her skin tingled wherever he touched her. One large hand glided over her hip and under her coat, then began stroking the small of her back with a gentle rhythm that eased her tense muscles. Inch by inch, lips and hands and torso, she yielded, instinctively molding her body to his.

She didn't realize that he had tugged her shirt loose from her breeches until his bare hand touched her naked back. It would have been one more sweet delight if his fingers hadn't been ice cold. Mood shattered, she gave a squeak of shock and broke away. "This is absurd," she said crossly, as if she hadn't been an enthusiastic participant. "You can stay here if you like, but I'm getting off this roof before I freeze to death."

He raised his hand and brushed her cheek with gossamer tenderness. "I'll keep you warm."

As he tried to draw her face down for another kiss, she hastily pushed herself upright and sat back on her heels against the chimney. He was different tonight, moving and speaking with a lazy deliberation unlike the focused intensity of earlier occasions. Guessing the reason why, she said tartly, "You're drunk. No wonder you're behaving like an idiot."

He ran his fingers through his tousled hair. "Not… not drunk," he said with precision. "Nitrous oxide."

That explained why she hadn't tasted alcohol when they kissed. "Degenerate," she muttered. "Though what else could one expect of a Hellion?"

"It's interesting stuff," he protested. "Makes one very frank. And frankly, my little felon, I want you." He sat up and reached for her again. "I've never kissed a criminal before."

She didn't know whether to laugh or push him down the slates. She settled for batting his hand away. "I'm not little—I'm as tall as many men. Now I'm going to take the rope and get down before whoever lives in this house hears us scampering overhead and sends for the watch."

He laughed. "The watch has too much sense to be out oh a night like this."

"Then we should show equal sense," she retorted. "Are you capable of climbing down without breaking your neck?"

He considered carefully. "I think so."

It was not a reassuring statement, but his strength and instinct for self-preservation and athletic skill had saved him before. Since climbing down the back of the house would put them in a walled garden, she took one end of the rope, checked that it was still securely tied to the chimney, then crawled to the side of the house that overlooked the alley.

No one was in sight and the windows were dark, so she wrapped the rope around her waist and prepared to descend. "When I reach the ground, I'll tug on the rope twice," she said to Strathmore, who had followed her. "Then you come down, and for heaven's sake, be careful."

After the tricky maneuver of swinging from roof to rope, she descended in a controlled slide, her leather gloves protecting her hands from being rasped raw. She reached the ground safely, only to slip on a patch of ice directly under the rope. Luckily she was still holding onto the line, which kept her from falling.

She stepped away cautiously, then signaled to Strathmore. As soon as he was on the ground, she would be away at a speed that would do
credit to a frightened hare. The tipsy earl would be on his own, and good riddance.

He made the descent so quickly that she wondered about the condition of his bare hands. Telling herself that it was none of her concern, she gathered herself for flight. Then Strathmore hit the ice below the rope and went down hard. She winced at the violence of the impact. "Are you all right?"

"I believe so." He started to rise, then went down again as his right ankle folded under him. "Then again, maybe I'm not."

"Damn!" Kit said with feeling. "Have you broken your leg?"

"I don't think so." He probed the limb in question. "This ankle gives way whenever it's abused. In a day or two it should be fine." With the aid of the rope he pulled himself up, then leaned heavily against the wall of the house.

"Does it hurt badly?"

"My dear, nothing hurts at the moment." He chuckled. "I could have my foot hacked off with a dull knife and not notice. If I'm ever forced to submit to the surgeon's knife, I intend to saturate myself with nitrous oxide first." He took a cautious step and went down to his knee. "However, though my ankle doesn't hurt, it's showing a certain stubbornness about walking."

Kit sighed. "I'll help you to Lord Mace's front door. Please don't knock until I've had a chance to get away."

"I appreciate the offer," he said politely, "but I'd really rather not return to Mace's house."

"If you stay outside in your condition without so much as a cloak to keep you warm, you'll be dead before dawn," she pointed out, trying to hold on to her temper.

"I live about two blocks away. Don't worry, I can hobble that far on my own." He attempted to demonstrate and almost fell again. If not for the wall, he would have.

Resigned, Kit slung his right arm over her shoulders. He was very large and very solid. "I'll help you home, if you think you can stay out of further trouble for that long."

"No guarantees, my dear." In spite of everything, there was laughter in his voice.