Of Silk and Steam
Page 45
Mina leaned into his grip, forcing him closer to the edge, then ran her legs up the wall, smashing her heel into his chest. It jerked her wrist from his grasp and she flipped backward, tumbling through the air. The ground flashed into view and she twisted her hips, landing lightly on her feet like a cat, her hands slapping the ground.
Looking up, she met those startled eyes and a certain reckless urge overtook her. Stir the devil. Pressing her stinging fingertips to her lips, she blew him a kiss, then darted back down a shadowy street.
The second she was out of sight, Mina grimaced and let herself favor her right ankle. Blue blood she might be, but invincible she was not.
There was no doubt he’d follow. Mina hauled herself over a wall and up onto the rooftops. A swift glance behind showed a shadow rippling after her and she ran faster, sprinting up the gable on a roof.
Leaping across onto the next rooftop, she caught a glimpse of light flickering nearby. The legion. And the only place Barrons wouldn’t dare follow her.
Sliding down a roof on her bottom and feet, she could hear her pursuer hot on her heels. Faster than she was and far more sure-footed on the rooftops. Mina accelerated, scrambling for the edge of the roof. Barrons slipped and slid after her, nearly on her heels.
“Damn you.” A hand snatched at her shirt.
Mina judged the edge of the gutter and, catching a foot in it, slowed her descent just enough to twist as she dropped. Instead of landing in the street below, she caught the gutter and hung for a moment before hauling herself back up. Barrons landed below with a muffled curse, thinking that her destination.
The devilish part of her couldn’t resist shooting him a smile, and then she was gone again. Four streets and she’d make the legion. She could hear them now, the roar of the mob in Whitechapel swelling. The streets and houses nearby were almost deserted.
Mina darted across a rooftop—
And a blur of shadow came out of nowhere, smashing into her and sending them both tumbling down the sharp incline of the roof.
Barrons flung a hand out, shoving it into the gutter. Mina smashed into him, but his other arm curled around her, tucking her in tight against his heavier body as she lay half on top of him. The world didn’t stop spinning. Slowly she looked up, breathing hard, the air driven out of her in the fall.
“Not a good night for a stroll,” he growled, glancing below. A torch gleamed as a gilded carriage rolled around the corner of the street below, dozens of metaljackets trotting along beside it. Two handlers sat on the top of the carriage, wielding the small spike-topped control boxes that signaled the automatons to move.
Barrons drove her face into his chest. “If you make a sound, Duchess…”
No threat. There was none needed. Strong fingers cupped the back of her head, while his other arm curled around her. Beneath her his body was hard steel, each muscle molding the softness of her curves. His heartbeat thundered beneath her ear, reminding her that he was alive. That she held the resolution of that in her hands.
Looking up, she saw the gleaming blackness of his eyes. “If I wanted you dead,” she whispered, “all I’d have to do is scream.”
He could have slammed a hand over her mouth. Instead the silence stretched out between them and she knew he was giving her the chance, testing her for the truth of what had happened in the Ivory Tower.
Mina let her shoulders slump. The chance of escape vanished like a fluttering moth. For the only way to do so now was to betray him to the very men who wanted his head.
And Barrons knew it.
* * *
Leo’s head dropped back onto the tiles and he let out a shaky breath. Somehow his hand had entwined in the knot of her chignon and he kept her pinned atop him, her head resting on his chest.
The duchess had been only seconds away from escaping. A part of him knew she wouldn’t scream for help, but another smaller part was filled with doubt. He’d never felt so bloody uncertain in his life. About everything.
So he gave her the chance. He could get back behind the safety of the walls of Whitechapel before any of those nodcocks below caught him, though he’d have to sacrifice the duchess to do it.
And damn her, but she didn’t say a word.
What the hell did that mean?
The press of her soft body caught his attention. Leo’s mouth firmed, but he kept his head cocked, listening to the sounds coming from below.
They were close enough to Ratcatcher Gate to hear what was being said. If he tilted his head to the right, he could actually see Blade standing on top of the wall. Blade held one arm up and the mob’s restless cries stilled to a murmur, then nothing at all. Silence ruled the rookeries, proving beyond a doubt who owned it.
“Looks like some fancy coach got turned ’bout and made its way to the ’Chapel,” Blade called, to the laughter of his men. Then his voice grew flat and hard. “State your name and your business ’ere.”
The tramp of metal feet slammed to a halt, then a ringing voice cried out, “Morioch.”
Leo tensed. No friend of his. The cadaverous old duke was firmly in the prince consort’s pocket.
The duchess gave a little wiggle as she shifted to look, her hip pressing hard against his cock. The treacherous thing hardened.
Any other woman would have taken instant advantage. Not the duchess. Her head was tilted to the side, listening too. Then her eyes widened and her head jerked up as she realized his predicament.
Their faces were a bare inch from each other. The startled look in her eyes was almost comical until she began to relax, one inch at a time, her body softening over his. “Men,” she murmured, “are entirely predictable.”
“Not all men, Your Grace,” he shot back. “That thing, however, has a mind of its own.”
“Morioch.” Blade laughed in the distance, but it sounded more like a threat. “Me old friend Morioch.”
The carriage door opened and footmen darted forward with a stool. One held Morioch’s hand as he alighted from the carriage, wearing burnished gold armor and a white, Georgian-style wig. He’d been born in that era, after all.
“You have something the prince consort wants.”
Blade rested one foot on the wall, leaning on his thigh. “Do I? And you thought you’d bring a legion o’ metaljackets ’ere to politely ask for it back?”
“To take custody of the criminal.”
“Criminal, eh? ’Fraid Your Grace’ll ’ave to be more specific than that.”
Looking up, she met those startled eyes and a certain reckless urge overtook her. Stir the devil. Pressing her stinging fingertips to her lips, she blew him a kiss, then darted back down a shadowy street.
The second she was out of sight, Mina grimaced and let herself favor her right ankle. Blue blood she might be, but invincible she was not.
There was no doubt he’d follow. Mina hauled herself over a wall and up onto the rooftops. A swift glance behind showed a shadow rippling after her and she ran faster, sprinting up the gable on a roof.
Leaping across onto the next rooftop, she caught a glimpse of light flickering nearby. The legion. And the only place Barrons wouldn’t dare follow her.
Sliding down a roof on her bottom and feet, she could hear her pursuer hot on her heels. Faster than she was and far more sure-footed on the rooftops. Mina accelerated, scrambling for the edge of the roof. Barrons slipped and slid after her, nearly on her heels.
“Damn you.” A hand snatched at her shirt.
Mina judged the edge of the gutter and, catching a foot in it, slowed her descent just enough to twist as she dropped. Instead of landing in the street below, she caught the gutter and hung for a moment before hauling herself back up. Barrons landed below with a muffled curse, thinking that her destination.
The devilish part of her couldn’t resist shooting him a smile, and then she was gone again. Four streets and she’d make the legion. She could hear them now, the roar of the mob in Whitechapel swelling. The streets and houses nearby were almost deserted.
Mina darted across a rooftop—
And a blur of shadow came out of nowhere, smashing into her and sending them both tumbling down the sharp incline of the roof.
Barrons flung a hand out, shoving it into the gutter. Mina smashed into him, but his other arm curled around her, tucking her in tight against his heavier body as she lay half on top of him. The world didn’t stop spinning. Slowly she looked up, breathing hard, the air driven out of her in the fall.
“Not a good night for a stroll,” he growled, glancing below. A torch gleamed as a gilded carriage rolled around the corner of the street below, dozens of metaljackets trotting along beside it. Two handlers sat on the top of the carriage, wielding the small spike-topped control boxes that signaled the automatons to move.
Barrons drove her face into his chest. “If you make a sound, Duchess…”
No threat. There was none needed. Strong fingers cupped the back of her head, while his other arm curled around her. Beneath her his body was hard steel, each muscle molding the softness of her curves. His heartbeat thundered beneath her ear, reminding her that he was alive. That she held the resolution of that in her hands.
Looking up, she saw the gleaming blackness of his eyes. “If I wanted you dead,” she whispered, “all I’d have to do is scream.”
He could have slammed a hand over her mouth. Instead the silence stretched out between them and she knew he was giving her the chance, testing her for the truth of what had happened in the Ivory Tower.
Mina let her shoulders slump. The chance of escape vanished like a fluttering moth. For the only way to do so now was to betray him to the very men who wanted his head.
And Barrons knew it.
* * *
Leo’s head dropped back onto the tiles and he let out a shaky breath. Somehow his hand had entwined in the knot of her chignon and he kept her pinned atop him, her head resting on his chest.
The duchess had been only seconds away from escaping. A part of him knew she wouldn’t scream for help, but another smaller part was filled with doubt. He’d never felt so bloody uncertain in his life. About everything.
So he gave her the chance. He could get back behind the safety of the walls of Whitechapel before any of those nodcocks below caught him, though he’d have to sacrifice the duchess to do it.
And damn her, but she didn’t say a word.
What the hell did that mean?
The press of her soft body caught his attention. Leo’s mouth firmed, but he kept his head cocked, listening to the sounds coming from below.
They were close enough to Ratcatcher Gate to hear what was being said. If he tilted his head to the right, he could actually see Blade standing on top of the wall. Blade held one arm up and the mob’s restless cries stilled to a murmur, then nothing at all. Silence ruled the rookeries, proving beyond a doubt who owned it.
“Looks like some fancy coach got turned ’bout and made its way to the ’Chapel,” Blade called, to the laughter of his men. Then his voice grew flat and hard. “State your name and your business ’ere.”
The tramp of metal feet slammed to a halt, then a ringing voice cried out, “Morioch.”
Leo tensed. No friend of his. The cadaverous old duke was firmly in the prince consort’s pocket.
The duchess gave a little wiggle as she shifted to look, her hip pressing hard against his cock. The treacherous thing hardened.
Any other woman would have taken instant advantage. Not the duchess. Her head was tilted to the side, listening too. Then her eyes widened and her head jerked up as she realized his predicament.
Their faces were a bare inch from each other. The startled look in her eyes was almost comical until she began to relax, one inch at a time, her body softening over his. “Men,” she murmured, “are entirely predictable.”
“Not all men, Your Grace,” he shot back. “That thing, however, has a mind of its own.”
“Morioch.” Blade laughed in the distance, but it sounded more like a threat. “Me old friend Morioch.”
The carriage door opened and footmen darted forward with a stool. One held Morioch’s hand as he alighted from the carriage, wearing burnished gold armor and a white, Georgian-style wig. He’d been born in that era, after all.
“You have something the prince consort wants.”
Blade rested one foot on the wall, leaning on his thigh. “Do I? And you thought you’d bring a legion o’ metaljackets ’ere to politely ask for it back?”
“To take custody of the criminal.”
“Criminal, eh? ’Fraid Your Grace’ll ’ave to be more specific than that.”
