Dancing on the Wind (36 page)

The Gypsy Less
went well even though nightmares had disturbed Kit's sleep again the sight before. As she danced through her role, she wondered if Lucien had arrived early enough to be in the audience. She suspected that he was present because she felt that someone was watching her with more than usual intensity. She hoped he enjoyed the view of her tattoo.

The performance left her exhausted and drenched in sweat, so she bypassed the green room. Her dressing room was tiny, but all hers since she was now a lead attraction with the company. She removed her black wig, washed off her face paint, and changed from her costume into a dress of Kira's, which was more dashing than her own wardrobe. Though she dared not risk intimacy with Lucien again, she did want him to be tempted. She was discovering that prim Kathryn had a shameless streak.

She smiled as she brushed out her hair. The three days since she had seen him seemed like forever. Perhaps they couldn't touch—or at least, only a little—but it would be wonderful simply to be with him. In his presence it was possible to believe that all would be well.

Her musing was interrupted by a knock at the door. She leaped up from the dressing table. Lord, she was acting like a giddy girl! But Lucien wouldn't mind.

Her greeting died on her lips when she threw open the door. It wasn't Lucien. Instead, a tall, dark-haired man stood in the shadowed hall. Her first reaction was a sense of familiarity, but when she looked more closely, she realized that he was a complete stranger.

He wasn't the first admirer of Cassie James to find his way to her dressing room, and he wouldn't be the last.

She swallowed her disappointment and gave him a friendly smile, the way Kira would have. "Good evening. Did you enjoy the play?"

"Enjoy the play?" His mouth twisted. "I scarcely noticed it. All I saw was you." Without waiting for permission, he moved past her into the dressing room.

Obviously, he knew Kira well. In the brighter light, Kit saw that his features were good, but he was thin to the point of gauntness, and a menacing scar curved from his temple into his overlong hair. He was poorly dressed, his garments ill-fitting and shabby, yet paradoxically he carried himself like a man of consequence. She tried to match his appearance to the brief descriptions that Cleo had given her, without success. Of course, Cleo couldn't know every man Kira had ever met.

Deciding that casual friendliness was the best approach, Kit said, "It's been a long time."

"It's been an eternity." He turned his palms upward. "You win, sweetheart. I surrender—foot, horse and cannon."

It was worse than she had feared, for clearly he had known Kira
very
well. When she hesitated, wondering about the best way to respond, he said with painful humor, "I know I look like something your cat left on the doorstep, but surely you haven't forgotten what you said the last time we saw each other. Perhaps you need a reminder."

Before she could guess his intention, he stepped forward and wrapped her in a crushing embrace. There was raw hunger in his kiss, and a possessiveness that was a little frightening.

She shoved him away, saying flippantly, "Don't rush your fences. As I said, it's been a long time. Tell me where you've been and what you've been doing." She retreated across the room, wondering how long it had been since the end of the performance and whether there was still a chance that Lucien might come. "Would you like a glass of sherry?"

He stared at her, feverish emotion in his brown eyes. "Don't you care that I risked my life to come here? You're acting as if this is a damned drawing room."

As Kathryn, she would have made soothing noises, but tonight she was Kira. She retorted, "And you're acting as if you own me. Well, you don't, and if you won't behave in a civilized manner, I'll have to ask you to leave."

A long moment of silence throbbed between them. Then he said softly, "So you want me to be civilized." He picked up the chair at her dressing table. She thought he was going to ask her politely to sit.

Instead, he raised the chair above his head, then smashed it viciously into the wall. Shards of wood flew in all directions, bouncing crazily and shattering her dressing mirror. "Sorry, Kira, but I'm in no mood to be civilized," he said, his voice all the more frightening for its restraint. "I would never have survived the last two years if I hadn't become a savage, and savagery is not something one can put aside like an old shirt."

She flattened her back against the wall, her heart pounding as she considered shouting for help. No, she would never be heard above the racket in the green room.

Then she caught her breath. He had endured savagery for two years…

The pieces snapped into place. This must be the man Kira had fallen in love with, which was why he had seemed familiar even though Kit had never met him. Perhaps he hadn't left her sister voluntarily, but had been sent to prison. His present fury made it easy to believe that he was a criminal, or perhaps mad. Either possibility would explain Kira's misery and refusal to discuss her heartbreak.

"I'm sorry for what you've had to endure," she said, trying to sound conciliatory. "Tell me about it."

"I didn't come here to talk about my bad luck," he growled. "I came here for you."

She hesitated. If her sister was in love with this man, Kit couldn't send him away. She must confess who she was and hope that he would honor her confidence. Perhaps he might even know something that would help in the search for Kira.

Too much time had passed while she thought. "You're trying to think of a tactful way to say that feelings change in two years, aren't you?" he said, anguish in his face. "Well, mine didn't, and they never will."

It was indecent to let this stranger bare his heart to the wrong woman. She raised her hand to cut off his words. "Please, don't say more. I'm not who you think lam."

Before she could say more, his expression changed. "No, you aren't," he said bitterly. "I thought you were loving and honest, even though you were an actress, but you're as much a whore as the rest of your breed. Very well, I'll treat you as one. I'm afraid I don't have the price of a night with me, but surely I have some credit left from the gifts I gave you before."

He trapped her against the wall and kissed her again, this time with punishing force. Though she fought him, his thinness disguised sinewy strength. His hips ground into hers, and he clamped his hand on her breast. She bit his tongue.

He jerked his head back and growled, "You little bitch!"

She tried to wrench herself away, but he caught her and pinned her to the wall. They stared at each other. In his burning eyes she saw the struggle between rage and reason.

With a harsh squeal the door swung open. Kit and her assailant both looked up to see a travel-stained Lucien. Summing up the situation instantly, he strode into the room, his eyes feral. "Let go of her
nowl"

"So this is why you're playing Miss Modesty!" the dark-haired man exploded. "I taught you too well. I should have known that once you discovered the delights
of
fornication, you wouldn't be able to keep your legs together. How many lovers have you had in the last two years? Or have you lost count?"

Before she could answer, he released her and sprang across the small room to make a wild swing at Lucien. Kit cried out, but Lucien had already reacted. In one Juid motion he sidestepped the blow and smashed a hard ist into his assailant's jaw. The man made a gurgling jound and dropped like a felled ox.

Lucien stepped over him and gathered Kit close. "Did he hurt you?"

"N-not really." She buried her face against his shoulder, wishing he could touch every part of her at once. He smelled of mud and horse and safety.

Lucien kissed her forehead and stroked her back and shoulders, kneading the fear from her muscles. "Who is he?"

She gave a shaky laugh. "We never did get to introductions, but I think he must be the man Kira fell in love with several years ago. She would never have made him free of her nickname if she weren't serious."

Lucien studied the dark-haired man, whose temporary stupor was passing. "His manners need work."

"He was badly upset." She shivered. "But I'm very glad you arrived when you did."

The man sluggishly pushed himself to a sitting position. A bruise was rapidly forming on his jaw. "Go ahead," he said wearily. "Call the watch or the magistrate or whatever the hell you use for police in London. I really don't care."

Lucien looked at him narrowly. "From your accent, you must be American or Canadian."

"American." The stranger gave Kit a satiric glance. "Naturally, you're too clever to tell the current lover about the former ones."

"If you don't stop making insulting remarks to the lady, I'll break your jaw," Lucien said pleasantly. Releasing Kit, he reached down and hauled the other man upright. "Do you have anything to drink, Kit? I think this gentleman could use some refreshment."

She went to the cabinet that held the sherry. Trust Lucien to notice the subtly un-English accent Thinking that he could also use something after his long journey, she poured two glasses and gave one to him and the other to the stranger, who was now sitting on the chaise, his head bowed. "Brace yourself," she said. "I'm not Kira, I'm her twin sister, Kit. Obviously she never mentioned me."

His head snapped up, and he stared at her incredulously. Then he lifted his free hand and skimmed his fingers over her face. "Oh, God," he whispered. "It's true—you're not Kira." His face grayed. "I'm sorry, so sorry. If I'd known, I would never have behaved as I did."

"I would hate to think you considered that an acceptable way to treat my sister," she said crisply. "Of course, if I were Kira, I would have behaved differently myself."

He couldn't meet her eyes. "For two endless years the thought of Kira kept me alive. I expected you… her… to fall into my arms. When you treated me like a casual acquaintance, I… I went a little crazy. I hope you can forgive me."

She studied his pale face. Poor devil. "Forgiven and forgotten. But who are you?"

"Jason Travers." His mouth quirked. "Rather belatedly at your service."

"A relative?" Lucien asked.

Kit's eyes widened. "I believe this must be the American second cousin I mentioned—the one who is now the fifth Earl of Markland."

Lucien whistled softly. "Interesting. The fact that he's a peer could be useful if the authorities discover his presence." To the American, he said, "You just escaped from the hulks?"

Kit exclaimed, "Those ghastly prison ships moored out in the Thames? Surely not!"

Jason smiled humorlessly. "I'm afraid so—Hades afloat. Yesterday I had an opportunity to go over the railing, so I did. Damned near froze, got dragged down by debris in the filthy water, and almost didn't make it to shore." He regarded Lucien warily. "How did you figure that out? And who
are
you?"

"Lucien Fairchild, the future husband of the young lady you were mauling." Lucien held out his hand. "You look like a man who has been on prison rations. Since there are some American prisoners of war on the hulks, it seemed a likely explanation."

Jason shook the proffered hand, then took a swallow of sherry. He was trembling and appeared on the verge of collapse.

Lucien said to Kit, "We should take him to my house, I think. Obviously he needs food, clothing, and rest."

She nodded agreement. Her new-found cousin looked up in confusion. "You're not going to send me back to the hulks? The last I heard, our countries were at war."

"God willing, not for much longer. It was a damned fool war to begin with. And frankly, I wouldn't send a rabid dog to the hulks." Lucien helped the American to his feet. "Can you walk? Good—carrying you would be a bit conspicuous." He put his arm around Kit's waist, and the three of them went outside, where his carriage waited right outside the stage door.

Half an hour later they were in the kitchen of Strathmore House. Kit noted that Lucien was surprisingly familiar with the area for a peer; midnight raids on the larder must not be uncommon. He even found a pot of soup. Kit heated it while he rummaged for bread, cheese, and a steak and kidney pie.

In spite of his obvious hunger, Jason Travers was unable to eat much. After pushing away his soup bowl, he studied Kit. She became aware of his gaze and glanced up inquiringly.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I know you're not Kira. If I hadn't been expecting to see her, I would have realized the moment I laid eyes on you. Yet the resemblance is astonishing."

"You're not the first to be confused," she remarked. "Even our father couldn't tell us apart."

"Then he wasn't paying attention." His hands tightened around his mug of ale. "Where is Kira? I assume she must be in some kind of trouble."

Tersely, Kit explained about her sister's disappearance and her own impersonation. Jason's face darkened as she spoke. When she finished, he said with barely suppressed violence, "Damnation, I've felt that something was wrong for weeks, but assumed it was one of the strange fancies one gets in prison." He rubbed the scar on his temple, which was visibly throbbing. "I suppose that was why I risked trying to escape—I knew I had to find her."

Recognizing a distress that nearly equaled her own, Kit said reassuringly, "Wherever she is, she is in good health—I would know if she weren't. And we're doing everything we can to get her back."

"Tell me what I can do," he said, his expression like granite.

"Don't worry," Lucien said, pouring more ale for each of them. "You'll be conscripted if necessary. First we have to locate her. But now it's your turn to talk."

"Yes, I'm curious how you met my sister."

Jason closed his eyes briefly, marshaling his thoughts. "Four years ago your family solicitor notified me that I was the new earl. Because of the late earl's improvidence, there was no financial legacy, so I scarcely paid attention to the letter. My grandfather was a younger son who had emigrated to America and maintained only the most tenuous connection with his family. As an American I couldn't hold the title, so the whole subject was of only intellectual interest.