"You are cruel, mistress," he whimpered. "I can't help but think of you, and of the ecstasy I find in serving you."
She choked back the bile that rose at his words. When she had mastered her voice, she spat out, "Insolent swine! You must be punished for your presumption. Come into my dungeon."
Though he obeyed eagerly, he paused for a moment by the evil little mechanical device. She slapped the whip handle across his knuckles to start him moving again.
In the center of the rough-hewn stone chamber stood a large wooden frame. Touching him as little as possible, she shackled his wrists and ankles so that he was spread-eagled on the frame.
Then she raised the hardest-edged whip she owned and used it to strip him naked. Endless hours of practice had made her an expert, and her control was exquisite. She knew exactly how much pressure was required to rend fabric, and how much more to graze the flesh beneath—how to raise a welt, and how to draw blood. Soon rents in his garments revealed the sweat-filmed skin below, and crimson stains marred the white linen remnants of his shirt.
She gauged her progress by watching his organ swell against the tattered fabric of his breeches. The more of his clothing she shredded, the harder he writhed against his bonds and the louder his moans for release.
Not until he was fully naked did she apply the final, vicious slash across the buttocks that she knew would bring him to orgasm. He gave a drawn-out wail of animal need, his hips pumping wildly as his seed spurted in a silvery arc. Then his whole body went slack, and he hung limply from the shackles, only the heaving of his chest showing that he still lived.
She drew the whip through her trembling fingers and wondered how long it would take him to die if she knotted the leather thong about his throat. The murderous impulse was so intense that she could taste it. His face would turn purple, and he would thrash in terror when he realized that this time there would be no escape, but he would be helpless before her lethal rage.
Quickly, before she could act on her desire, she whirled away and fled from the dungeon.
Chapter 20
Kit awoke with a smothered scream, her fingers cramped from her vicious knotting of the leather. Horrified, she looked at her hands in the dawn light. She half expected to see ridges gouged in the flesh, but they were empty. She had not really murdered anyone. It had only been another ghastly nightmare.
They were coming more often now, each uglier and more upsetting than the last, but this was the first time she had dreamed of murder. She tried to remember the face, but it was too distorted—by rage? by fear?—to be recognizable.
Staggering from her bed, she made her way to the washstand and cracked the film of ice that covered the surface of the water in the pitcher. Then she splashed her face and hands, feeling like Lady Macbeth in her frantic desire to cleanse herself.
As she blotted her face dry, she tried to remember the dream more clearly, but she could see only fragments, nothing specific enough to identify. She had dressed and was in the process of combing her hair when a vivid image suddenly appeared in her mind. It was of an indecently dressed female slashing a whip across the naked body of a man.
It took her a moment to realize that she was seeing not real people, but mechanical figures. They were exquisitely detailed, right down to the hand-painted scarlet stripes on the man's back. A tinkling baroque tune accompanied the rhythmic rise and fall of the whip. She was seeing a music box—an obscene, clever music box that nauseated her.
Strathmore made mechanical devices. Would a man who crafted backflipping penguins also build such an appalling piece of perversity? She told herself that there had to be other men with such skills, but Lucien was the only one she knew, and he was a Hellion and therefore suspect.
More than once she had been tempted to tell him the truth and beg for his help, for he would be far more capable of achieving her goal than she was. The vision was a harsh reminder that she dared not trust him, no matter how much she wanted to.
It was a relief when a knock sounded on the door. The caller would be Henry Jones, who had sent a note the day before requesting this early meeting. Hair still loose, she opened the door eagerly. "Have you learned something?"
"You're in luck, lass. Most of your Hellion friends will soon be spending a few days at Mace's estate, Blackwell Abbey."
She took his cloak. "Will it be one of their gentleman-only affairs?"
"Not this time. It's a Harford family tradition to hold a masked ball shortly before Christmas. Gives 'em a chance to show how much more money they have than the neighbors, I expect. Most of the county will be invited. Blackwell Abbey is a great sprawling place, so there will be dozens of guests and even more servants." He sat down with a gusty sigh and accepted a steaming cup from his hostess. "Thank you, lass. There's nothing like a spot of tea after a long night prowling London's underbelly."
After pouring a cup for herself, she sat opposite her guest, her face thoughtful. "With so many guests, it will be easy for me to blend in."
He said gloomily, "Care to tell me what you have in mind?"
"I think there's a good chance that Roderick Harford is the man I want. If I can see him again, I should know for certain."
"Why not just knock on Harford's door and ask him flat out if he's your villain?" Henry asked with heavy sarcasm.
"I considered that, but I don't think it would be a good idea," she said seriously. "Alerting him to my suspicions would be dangerous, and not only to me."
Jones began to toy with the handle of his cup. "It's been weeks now. Have you considered that it might be... too late?"
"It's not too late!" she said hotly. "I know that as surely as I know that I'm sitting here."
Yet as she thought of the dream, she knew with cold, terrifying certainty, that time was running out.
* * *
Though Kit had become expert at infiltrating the residences of the rich and famous, her illicit skills would not be needed this time. From the concealment of a small gazebo, she watched the swirling figures in the ballroom of Blackwell Abbey. Clearly it was a great occasion in the neighborhood.
Despite the late autumn chilliness of the night, couples overheated from dancing, and for other reasons, frequently emerged onto the stone terrace outside the ballroom. All wore half masks and dominoes, the voluminous cloaks derived from the robes of medieval clerics.
The masks gave a heady sense of anonymity, and the laughter and teasing remarks that floated into the night simmered with undercurrents of naughty excitement. Most of the guests went back inside after a few minutes and a few kisses, though some of the more hot-blooded ones left the terrace to seek privacy in the shadowed gardens. Kit hoped that the pleasure gained would be worth the risk of lung fever.
About midevening, when champagne and dancing had worked their magic on the guests, she removed the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and dropped it to the floor of the gazebo. Anyone finding it would think the scratchy wool square had been used by a fornicating couple from the ball.
As she shook out the folds of her midnight blue domino and checked that the matching half-mask was secure, she concentrated on the personality she was assuming for the occasion—confident, experienced, more than a little brazen. Then she crossed the garden to the terrace, a cat's-paw breeze fluttering the silk domino around her.
She knew that she looked like any other female guest. Nonetheless, she felt as conspicuous as Daniel advancing into the lions' den when she entered the ballroom. A few steps inside the door, she halted and languidly wielded her lace fan in front of her face as she studied her surroundings.
All was as expected: heat and sweat, a clamor of music and voices, a shifting pageant of swirling silks. Black was the most common domino color, but there were enough brighter hues to create a rainbow effect. The center of the room was occupied by dancing couples while other guests talked and flirted around the edge. Refreshments were laid out in an adjacent salon, and somewhere there would be a card room for gamesters.
L
uckily, she had attracted no special notice. She scanned the crowd for Lord Strathmore, who would surely be here. It was not hard to locate him, for his height and blond hair were too distinctive to be concealed by a cloak and half mask. He was dancing with a woman whose domino was tossed back to reveal a dramatic crimson gown and an even more dramatic figure.
Exactly the sort of trollop most men couldn't resist, Kit thought acidly. The earl's own domino, mask, and exquisitely tailored garments were black, the starkness broken only by white linen and his own fair coloring. A perfect portrait of Lucifer out for a lark. As soon as she identified him, Kit turned and went in the opposite direction.
She had taken great pains to give herself an appearance that he had never seen. Her height couldn't be disguised, but she had put tiny pebbles in her kidskin slippers to alter her walk and posture. Her hair was a soft, ashy blond and her low-cut, ice blue gown clung to a figure that had been carefully padded to appear lush, though not as voluptuous as Sally the barmaid.
She had chosen to wear blue because the shade brought an aqua tint to her gray eyes. Below the mask the subtle use of cosmetics had changed the contours of her mouth and cheeks. She had also drawn age lines on her face, then powdered herself heavily as if trying to conceal them. The effect was of a woman of mature years who was trying to appear fifteen years younger. Even Strathmore would be deceived. Nonetheless, she would take no chances.
It was harder to locate Roderick Harford, whose appearance was less distinctive than Strathmore's. As she prowled the perimeter, looking for him, a portly gentleman approached and asked, "Lady of midnight, will you dance with me?"
To refuse might draw unwelcome attention, so she accepted with a gracious simper. The tune was a reel, and she danced her partner to exhaustion. At the end, between heaving breaths, he asked her to join him in the supper room. She did, but after a single glass of champagne, she smiled and slipped away.
She accepted another dance with someone who looked as if he might be Harford. He wasn't. Another man she asked herself, but he was also a false lead.
Four more dances and two more glasses of champagne brought her no closer to her quarry. She began to feel anxious, for the crowd was thinning as the local guests left to drive home before moonset. If she couldn't find her quarry, she would have wasted this perfect opportunity.
She was about to go in search of the card room when she heard Harford's voice. Turning quickly, she spotted him saying good-bye to a group of friends. As soon as he was alone, she approached and purred, "I am looking for a brave knight whose lance is strong and true. Are you such a man?"
After a surprised moment, he gave her a delighted leer. "You'll find no bolder bedroom warrior than me, milady."
She fluttered the lace fan provocatively across her face. "Then dance with me, Sir Knight."
"With pleasure." He drew her onto the floor as the musicians struck up a waltz. From his breath, it was obvious that he had been drinking heavily. Trying not to think of the time he had mauled her when she was a chambermaid, she cooed, "I'm so glad that the sweet young maidens have been taken home by their mamas. All that innocence becomes oppressive."
"Couldn't agree more," Harford replied. "M'brother, Mace, feels that it's family duty to entertain the neighborhood every year, so I spent the first half of the evening dancing with every wallflower in the county. But now duty is discharged, the little girls are gone, and we can do as we please. For the rest of the night there will be only extra long waltzes. So much better for getting acquainted, don't you agree?"
"Indeed." She stroked his right shoulder with her fingertips. "I always adore meeting a new knight."
He responded by pulling her much closer than the twelve inches that was considered proper in most ballrooms. Throughout the dance the suggestive banter continued, Kit acting as blatant as she knew how and Harford responding in kind. But as she had feared, the ballroom was too distracting for her to get a clear sense of whether he was the man she had been seeking. She would have to risk being alone with him.
The music ended. Pressing his hand meaningfully, she said, "Will you show me your lance later?"
He gazed appreciatively down the front of her dress. "Come into the garden and I'll do it right now."
"Too cold," she said with a moue of distaste.
"I suppose we can find a closet somewhere, though some of 'em are already occupied. Could be embarrassing."
"Why does it have to be a closet? A real knight takes his time—that's what chivalry is all about." She batted her lashes, hoping that the mask wouldn't destroy the effect. "Can't we go to your room and do it properly?"
He hesitated. "Since I'm one of the hosts, it's a little early for me to leave for good."
She stroked his chin with her folded fan. "Why don't we meet in your room in an hour?"
"Good idea." He produced a key from an inside pocket. "My rooms are in the west wing, last door on the left. There's no card on the door, but you can't miss it. Why not go there now and wait for me?"
It was an amazing piece of luck. She took the key and made a show of dropping it into her bodice. "You can play hunt-the-key when you come upstairs." She rapped his knuckles playfully with her fan. "Just don't forget and bring another lady back, or you may have a dragon to slay."
He laughed and squeezed her backside as she turned away. Her relief was enormous as she made her way across the dance floor. With luck she might learn everything she needed merely by being in his room. That would certainly be simpler than waiting for his return, then having to devise a way to escape his clutches. Though she had sworn to do whatever was necessary, the thought of lying with the enemy made her gag.
She was almost out of the ballroom when the musicians began playing another waltz. Behind her a deep, familiar voice said, "May I have this dance?"
And before she could protest, she was in the arms of the Earl of Strathmore.
Chapter 21
Of course Strathmore would find her, Kit thought with furious exasperation. The two of them could be dropped into the vastness of the Sahara and be drawn together like opposite poles of a magnet. But there was no sign that he recognized her, which was all that mattered. With only a few square inches of her face visible and that altered by cosmetics, her current disguise was one that even Strathmore would be unable to penetrate.
That didn't mean she should give him the opportunity to try. She altered the set of her mouth to mimic the delicately voluptuous poutiness of a Frenchwoman, then said with a Parisian accent, "I 'ave promised thees dance to another man, monsieur."
"When the fellow finds us, I shall yield to his prior claim," Strathmore said in fluent French. "But until then, it would be a pity to waste the music."
Since he did not release her, she was forced to follow him into the pattern of the dance—the wicked, scandalous waltz, which was condemned by high-minded citizens because it stimulated impure thoughts. Since Strathmore had that effect on her all the time, heaven only knew what a waltz would do.
She had the sense that he was watching her with unusual intensity. Did he have any suspicions? She tried to read his expression, but his black half mask made that impossible.
Their steps matched perfectly. Again she was unsurprised; ever since their first meeting, they had been caught up in a different kind of dance. They glided across the floor in silence.
Conversation was essential, for silence made her too aware of his nearness. Without removing her left hand from her partner's shoulder, she opened her fan and began cooling her face while she tried to think of something innocuous to say. She should not have had that third glass of champagne, for her usual powers of invention seemed to have failed her.
He solved the problem by asking, "When young French ladies are taught to dance, are they also taught how to fan themselves without missing a step? It's a clever trick."
She gave a trill unlike her usual laughter. "Frenchwomen are full of clever tricks, monsieur." Too late she realized that her remark was the kind of brazen
flirtation she had been using on Roderick Harford.
"Splendid. I find tricky females irresistible," Strathmore said blandly.
He drew her closer so that their bodies were lightly touching. Every movement of the dance became a caress—a brush of her breasts against his chest, over even as she became aware of it; the whisper of his breath against her temple; the pressure of his knee as it skimmed her thigh; a grazing of pelvises that sent heat coiling through her limbs.
Though each contact was fleeting, the overall effect was powerfully erotic. She wanted to twine around him, to turn those teasing touches into a fierce embrace. Precise, physical memories of their supper at the Clarendon Hotel caused color to rise in her cheeks. She ducked her head, grateful that Strathmore could not read her mind.
He murmured into her ear, "You dance well, madame."
"As do you, monsieur, but you are too close for propriety," she said with gentle reproof.
She tried to move farther away, but his firm clasp on her hand and waist prevented that. "Propriety at midnight during a masked ball is a very different matter from propriety at high noon in a drawing room, madame. Look around you."
It was true that many couples were locked more tightly than she and her partner. But none of the other men, she was sure, had Strathmore's ability to make a woman's bones turn to taffy....
"You remind me of someone," he said thoughtfully.
Mental alarms went off, yanking her from her languid mood. "A good memory, or a bad memory, monsieur?"
"Both. A most delicious female, but maddeningly elusive. She was much of your height"—his cheek brushed her hair—"and as delightful to hold as you"—he pulled her more closely in demonstration—"and she was graceful, like you." He gazed down into her eyes with a shrewdness that frightened her. "I wonder if your kisses are like hers."
Before he could act on his last comment, she pulled away, saying frostily, "Only a most stupid man tries to compliment one woman by comparing her to another."
Dancing on the Wind: Book 3 in The Fallen Angel Series Page 18