Written on Your Skin (22 page)

The thought slapped her sober. Yes, indeed, this man might give her a whole lot of trouble. Was she doing this from necessity, or because his hand on her mound made her go soft in the head? Pleasure was one thing, but she mustn’t lose herself in it.

She yanked away. Their eyes locked, the sounds of their labored breathing twining in the air too intimately, now, for her liking. She forced herself to stare, to wait with a bold show of composure until she saw what he would do.

He pushed the back of his hand across his mouth. “Have you remembered morals, then? How disappointing.”

The mild reaction so surprised her that it took a moment to register the absurdity of the question. Morals? He had been the one to kiss her. And anyway, when she was asked to submit idly to imprisonment while the search for her mother might rest in the hands of a traitor, how did morals factor in? She was between a rock and a hard place, so when he handed her dynamite, she struck a match. “Do I need to remember them?”

His eyes traveled down her, and the corner of his mouth quirked. “Good God, no.”

But when he reached for her, she skipped backward. It was one thing to explore her options; it was quite another to let him dictate options to her. “Is this what it takes for you to let me out of my rooms?”

He grimaced and shoved off the wall. “No,” he said curtly. As he walked past her, she turned to follow his progress. Most of his countrymen favored a stiff-legged, chest-pouting stride, but Phineas Granville was all slink and prowl, as if his muscles had reached some special accord that other men’s had not, excusing him from the limitations of gravity and tight tailoring. Like a giant cat, she thought—and about as disagreeable as one, too. Still, her hands itched to reach out and touch his thighs, simply to learn how the muscles there moved as he walked. It was not her lurid imagination; his bum really did flex with every step he took. Thank God for his tailor! The man had an art for showcasing beauty.

I really am shameless, she thought, marveling at how hot she felt. This was how it was meant to be, perhaps. Not mechanical, but fluid with yearning, almost boneless.

The thought gave her pause. Boneless, yes. That was where all the trouble began: when one started wanting to bend and flex to accommodate a man. No doubt Ashmore would demand a great deal of accommodation; she already knew he was that sort. Most men were. Any rules I please. This would be a risky undertaking, if she went through with it.

He picked up a discarded teacup. The sip he took did not please him; he grimaced and set the cup down. The glance he threw over his shoulder was opaque. He no longer seemed angry, but a muscle still ticked in his square jaw. “We must reach an accord,” he said.

This was encouraging. Before, the only accord he’d considered had been distinctly one-sided. “So we should,” she said. She reached behind her head to gather her hair, which was tangled from their tussle; as she smoothed it over her shoulder, his attention followed the motion of her hands. He liked her hair; he had turned his face into it earlier, and the sensation of his breath on her scalp had been her first reminder that something lived between them that she couldn’t fully control. “Of course, there would be no need to speak of accords if you would only agree to look for my mother. Then I should be as prim and agreeable as a schoolgirl.”

He snorted. “I’d like to see that.”

She tossed the twisted coil back over her shoulder. “I can behave very well when I have reason for it.”

He sat—no, draped himself in a chair, his long legs sprawling out before him, one ankle hooking atop the other. Another promising sign—he would not have sat so comfortably in her presence an hour ago. “I’m flattered that you think so highly of my capabilities, but half the government is looking for your mother at present. And no,” he continued, forestalling her protest, “not all of them answer to Ridland. In fact, you may rest assured that one or two of them are probably more honest than your mangy cat’s namesake.”

She sighed. Comparisons to that beast could not comfort her. Besides, no matter their honesty, all of the men looking for Collins lacked the most important piece of information. And it was time to share that information, she supposed. She had tested Ashmore in every way possible today: she had insulted his guests, mocked his discipline, and kissed him with all the hot ingenuity she possessed. In reply, he had neither struck her nor forced himself on her. He hadn’t even tried to strangle her again. What a glowing résumé, she thought dryly. Clearly, he was a knight in shining armor.

But caution checked her impulse. If seduction was to be part of it, there were still things she needed to know. “Tell me something. Do you think I’m to blame for that kiss?”

Most men stiffened when wary. Ashmore, it seemed, relaxed. He reached inside his coat to produce a pocket watch. Oh, very casual, that glance he gave the time. As he replaced the timepiece, he said, “Why does that matter?”

“I didn’t mean to be philosophical.” She saw in his little smile that he recognized his own line. “It only requires a simple answer: yes or no.”

“And I didn’t mean to avoid replying,” he said. “I was simply curious about why you care.”

“You won’t answer, then?”

“No,” he said.

His cool tone confused her. “No, you will not answer it?”

His eyes met hers. “No, the kiss was my doing. Amazingly, not every move on the board is yours. Are you asking for another one?”

She hesitated. It went against expectation that he would claim responsibility, but his mention of games seemed unpromising. Henry had tried to control her with lovemaking. He’d seemed perfectly reasonable in all their private dealings until she had invited him into her bed. And then, overnight almost, he had developed expectations that baffled her, as though by giving him her virginity, she had contracted to shoulder all his faults and honor all his whims as well. “You called me shameless,” she reminded him.

“And you promised you could be more so.” He smiled. “Do let me know if you decide on a demonstration.”

You decide—that was a phrase she liked very much. More hopefully, she said, “But the kiss is your fault. We agree on that.”

“Oh, you incited me, no doubt.” His lifted brow lent the words an ironic edge. “But it was my doing, and I will apologize for it, if that’s what you’re after.” He shrugged. “If you bring out the worst in a man, that doesn’t mean you’re to blame for his sin.”

She frowned. He counted a mere kiss as sinful? He was a man either of peculiar honor or of perversely monkish persuasions. The latter might explain his disinterest in Hong Kong, but she was not sure what to feel at the prospect—annoyance made no sense, and embarrassment seemed entirely too clumsy and unsophisticated. She had no cause for shame, nor for this creeping temptation to feel inadequate. “You certainly enjoyed it,” she said sharply. “I know that much.”

His dark eyes pinned her. “Yes. So I did. How delightful that you noticed. Are there any more questions you’d like to ask? Perhaps we can discuss how hard my cock was, or whether your nipples are pink or brown. Pink, I’m thinking, but you should feel free to educate me if I’m wrong.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her skin prickled hot and cold. Oh, bother! She would not let him shock her. He sat there so arrogantly, twitting her with practically the same breath he’d used to offer his apology—but only if she wanted one. “You have a filthy mouth,” she said. “I remember that from Hong Kong.”

He laughed. “Do I? Tell me, Miss Masters, how did my filthy mouth taste? If I recall, I was not the only one who enjoyed the kiss.”

“I enjoyed it very much when I had you shaking like a baby,” she retorted—and immediately, instinctively recognized it for a mistake. Playing with trouble was one thing, but she had just purchased it wholesale.

He did not reply. He did not need to. The frankness of the look he gave her, and the smile that toyed with the corners of his mouth, made her go red. “I think you will regret that remark,” he said softly. “Your thoughts?”

She feared she agreed. Still, no use giving him further satisfaction. She mustered a snort that sounded passably brash. “Behold me all a-tremble. And you’re right, they are pink. But I don’t think I’ll prove it to you.”

His eyes dropped consideringly to her chest, then rose back to hers. “I fear I may insist,” he said lazily.

She opened her mouth, but to her own astonishment, her wit failed her. Her own hot thoughts left no space in her brain for a reply.

She ripped her attention away to the wall. This tactic of seduction seemed the furthest thing from safe; if she could not rely on her own composure, she was giving away her most potent weapon. “All right,” she said. He had routed her; she could not fathom it. But she had news that would distract them both. “I’ll tell you the real secret, then.” It was time. He had proved himself, albeit not in any way that she could feel comfortable with. “Here’s why you’re the best chance for finding my mother.” She licked her lips and her stomach pitched, as though she were on a ship plunging over a great wave. When she looked back to him, he was sitting up a little, and his expression had sobered. Yes, this would amply distract them both.

On a breath, she said, “I know where Collins is.”

Chapter Ten

The next day, just before noon, Mina found herself on the fast train out of Paddington Station, bound for Providence by way of Plymouth and Penzance. She had not even had to battle for the right to accompany Ashmore. “I can hardly ask you to stay behind when it concerns your mother,” he’d told her with a shrug. He had even given her back her pistol, the comforting weight of which now rested in the reticule on her lap. Rarely in her life had a man delivered so fully on her hopes, and with so little apparent gain to himself. Never, in fact. It made her feel at once triumphant and gratified and also very…uneasy.

She sneaked a sideways glance at his profile. He lounged in the seat beside her, his long fingers holding a newspaper open. He looked far too unexcitable for a man who only yesterday had bluntly guessed the color of her nipples. She found herself flushing at the memory, and her eyes strayed to his lips.

His mouth curved. He knew she was looking.

She turned back to the window, her heart tripping. Why encourage her? It suggested some new motive on his part that seemed necessary to know before she could chart her course. Did he not take this journey seriously? He had listened with all appearance of attention to her explanation. It was a single phrase in her mother’s letter that had tipped her off: I leave my welfare to Providence, and for my sake, I urge you to do the same, at the end. The line was not remarkable per se, but coming from Mama, it was curious. Papa’s mother had favored the saying greatly, and after he died, leaving them flat broke, it became her answer to almost any worry Mama put forward. Soon, Mama began to use it as a spiteful joke. “Providence never put money into anyone’s pocket,” she’d said. Still, Mina had not realized the significance of the line until her unlikely glance at Ridland’s atlas. Quite near to Land’s End in the south of England was a coastal village called Providence. Providence, at the end. Surely it could not be a coincidence?

Ashmore had made no strong objections, apart from asking her if she thought her mother was really that clever. She had not appreciated the question, and he’d immediately apologized. Apologized! The lecturing, bullying autocrat had apologized to her. And he had invited her down to dinner. And made very pleasant conversation, which put her in mind of his charm during those first weeks in Hong Kong.

His new manner seemed highly suspect.

She stole another glance at him. He really could benefit from one of her hair tonics. Perhaps the disorder of his dark hair accounted for the looks he was receiving from the matron across the way. Or maybe the lady was drawn to stare out of curiosity. He had a cravat tied about his neck, and it made a pleasing contrast against his browned skin, calling attention to that cleft in his chin, which any lady (even a tightly buttoned matron with a sneer on her lips) might want to touch, just to see if it could be as deep as it looked. But the stock cloth was also dreadfully old-fashioned. Mina might have shared the reason for his sartorial regression to the 1870s, but she doubted the matron would approve. He had chosen the necktie to hide the bite marks on his throat; she had no doubt of it. By the time he’d walked her back to her room yesterday afternoon, they had been purpling.

She rather liked the idea that he wore the marks of her teeth. He was tall and well built; for all his leanness, he filled the upholstered seat completely. His long, broad-shouldered presence made the compartment feel smaller, despite how gracefully he inhabited it. Probably everyone who encountered him felt a little less substantial by comparison. This would have irked her, normally. But she had bruised him, this man who topped her by a head and had held her down so easily that she doubted his muscles had remarked the effort. Yes, she liked that. If she had the chance, she would bite him again, harder this time, somewhere he wouldn’t be able to hide it.

Her thoughts gave her pause. They put her in mind of her wayward temptations in Hong Kong. Biting him was not a very utilitarian plan of action, was it? Frustrated, she opened her fashion magazine. But it could not hold her interest; for all their proximity to Paris, English couturiers seemed wholly uninspired.

Bored, she looked around the compartment. The other passengers—the matron and her newly bearded son, and the sober red-haired gentleman with the great mole on his chin, who shrank to the wall every time the matron cleared her throat—studiously avoided her eyes. As they had settled into their seats, Ashmore had leaned over to speak into her ear. “I tried to give a coin to the guard for our privacy,” he’d told her, “but it seems there’s no help for it; first class is fully booked today.” She had gathered from his tone that he was apologizing, as if a train journey were not made livelier by company. The silence of the other passengers confirmed his philosophy: none of them even bothered to introduce themselves. The point, it seemed, was to ignore one another entirely.