Written on Your Skin (27 page)

“I change my mind,” he murmured. “Perhaps happiness was not the right word for you. You sound more like a cynic.”

She shrugged, although the little sting she felt suggested that, despite herself, she had rather liked his earlier view of her. “I learn from observation. And do you mean to say you’re not a cynic?” She glanced, against her will, at his wrist. Oh, she would not stop herself. She reached for it, her thumb finding his scar. “Can you be an idealist? When you found me in your study, was your first impulse born of optimism?”

“We’ve both walked a hard road,” he said slowly. “But I like to think I still believe in more wholesome possibilities than those I’ve been shown.”

“Wholesome?” She laughed. “I’ve heard it used to describe bread. But do note how fond everyone is of butter and jam; otherwise, the taste is too plain.”

His hand turned beneath her touch, his fingers threading through hers. “There’s no need to be flippant with me. You do realize, don’t you, that we’re both after the same goal now.”

She was sitting down, but her knees were beginning to tremble all the same. “You are determined to be frank today.” Her voice did not sound steady, either.

His dark eyes studied her face. “Perhaps I’ve decided not to be cynical about you.”

She mustered a weak laugh. “I would give it a few more days before you decide. You don’t know me at all.”

“You keep reminding me of that.” He smiled slowly. “But I have very good instincts.”

A nervous thrill chased through her. It was as if he had read her mind, and knew what she intended for him. She broke from his gaze. On the lawn, the crowd was arranging itself into couples. A small group of musicians stepped up onto the hay bales; the fiddler flourished his bow and began a reel.

A memory came to her, making her smile. She rose to her feet, still holding his hand. “Dance with me, Mr. Monroe?”

He set down his tankard. “By all means, Miss Masters.”

Chapter Twelve

As Ashmore’s warm hands spun and guided her, Mina was glad they’d never danced in Hong Kong. It would have ruined her for all the other dances that had come afterward, with men who did not move so lightly on their feet. He steered her with ease through the other couples, and after the first song, she stopped bothering to watch out for anyone; she shut her eyes to give herself over fully to him and to her ambitions.

If he looked for wholesomeness, he must look elsewhere—that, she meant to make clear. She lifted her arms over her head as she spun away from him, and he pleased her by whistling appreciation as he caught her up again. She liked him more than a little, not least because he’d compared her to a knife; he spoke of instincts, and hers had always approved of him. It would have been enough to make her wary, for she did not seek entanglements. But there was no danger of that. This wasn’t her country, and soon enough she would be gone.

Indeed, as they danced, she marveled at her lack of worries. Her spirits felt lighter than they had in so long. She was going to find her mother, and the joy that bubbled up within her was not only at the prospect of a reunion, of safety, but also at her own triumph: She was more capable than Ridland had realized. She had outwitted him and persuaded this man to help her, and very soon she would exorcise all her curiosity about him. Tomorrow, free, she would find her mother. Everything would be fine then, a tragedy turned into grand adventure. She felt empowered by the prospect; she felt aglow with her own capability. Put a mountain in front of her, and she would rip it apart with her bare hands. Ashmore’s admiring eyes announced it: she was a force.

When the dance was over, another villager pressed fresh tankards into their hands, and they drank the ale down thirstily before agreeing, by a wordless accord of glances, to return to the dance.

This time, something felt different between them. She had planned to work up to a seduction tonight, but suddenly patience seemed superfluous. Her strange exaltation transferred its focus from herself to him. How could she resent a man who moved so beautifully, who did not fear being as graceful as a woman? A lion, a hunting cat, he had a talent for movement; his fingers were long and strong as they caught her and turned her by the waist, his teeth white and fine as they flashed at her. He looked boyish in his laughter, as though country dances and village scenes were his natural element; she could not square his face now with her old impressions of arrogance, although, when she thought on it, she liked his versatility, too. His body emitted a heat that called to hers when she came close to him in a figure. Her laughter was settling now into something deeper. She wanted to come right up against him. He had a great deal of potential, and her body wanted to realize it all for herself.

He seemed to feel it as well, for his hand began to linger and his expression grew sober, despite the merriment all around. When the fiddle slowed, his hands did not release her. In the small space between their bodies, a current was building that brought her closer to him; she could not move away even if the world rushed in between them. A warm breeze scudded through the crowd, perfumed with celebration: burnt sugar, the sourness of beer, the warm, golden scent of hay. Here was life in all its sweetness, surprising her when she least expected it, twisting forethought into revelation, reminding her that plans sometimes proved unnecessary, that occasionally everything came together spontaneously, as though the universe were an ever-resolving pattern that wanted to please her in the end.

They stared at each other, and as the music started up again, neither of them moved. He reached up to dislodge a strand of hair from her eyes, and for a moment, her stomach falling, she thought that his intentions ended there. But then the slow stroke of his fingertip traveled onward, past her cheekbone, down her jawline, along her neck to the edge of her bodice. Fire trailed in its wake, and a shiver broke across her skin. “You are a puzzle,” he murmured.

“I am,” she agreed.

“I give you fair warning, Miss Masters. I mean to unravel you.”

Later, she would think back to this moment and wonder at how easily she dismissed his caution, discarding so many years of hard lessons, so much wisdom so painfully accrued. But now the words made her breath catch, and she could think of nothing better than finding out how he meant to do it, knowing it would involve his lips and his tongue and other parts of him, wondering if he would speak to her as he touched her, the way he had in his drawing room, as though nothing were too shameful to be put into language.

“Try it,” she said, and then, going up on her tiptoes, she kissed him.

He did not hesitate. He cupped her elbows and kissed her back, deeply, his mouth bitter from the ale. Around them, cheers broke out and also, belatedly, a few good-natured admonitions. The alcohol had been flowing freely enough to erode the basis for moral outrage, perhaps. There is no society so upright as an English country town. Ha! Poor Mama would be so shocked.

Her calves began to tremble, and she pulled away. His hand followed, cupping her neck. “The room at the inn is ours,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered. All that lavender growing against the windows, and the rosemary inside, promising comfort, and the pleasures of a warm, clean bed.

She was not sure what she had expected of Ashmore. Her liaison with Henry had been carried on in darkness, in the silent hush of silk-draped bedrooms with curtains drawn, lights doused, voices hushed at his request, lest his servants, his sister, his nephew, a host of ears overhear. Sex with Henry, in her memory, tasted of his shame, and darkness, and his mounting frustration with her refusal to let him make her “honorable,” to wear his ring so he might lie down with her and turn the lamps up beforehand.

But their room at the inn, when Ashmore unlocked the door, gave her a foretaste of how different this would be. The chamber was flooded with the lambent light of late afternoon, picking molten highlights from the floorboards exposed by the edge of the rug. When she turned back, she found him still at the door, in no hurry to shut out the light. He made no move at all, in fact. He stood and stared at her, not at her breasts or her hips, but at her, his eyes dark and deep. He seemed to be deliberating on something, and her body appreciated the implications, although her mind was not so sure of them; pulses began to quicken in every secret part of her as he looked.

“Are you awaiting an invitation?” A marvel that her voice could sound so confident, in defiance of the weakness in her knees.

“No,” he said. “The light on your face is quite beautiful. You look dipped in gold.”

She took a breath. Compliments to her beauty were routine. There was no cause to find his words miraculous. But this time, at least, her reply was very easy to give. “Come and kiss me, then.”

He smiled a little. With one hand, he flipped open the buttons on his jacket. It dropped to the ground and he stepped away from it, now working on his waistcoat. Even the finest jacket worked against him by disguising this silhouette now bared by his shirtsleeves, the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips. Her gaze wandered lower, to the distinct bulge in his trousers. She felt a little foolish for flushing, as though the sight came as a surprise. He had been ready for her for some time; she had felt his hardness when she kissed him on the village green.

“Your turn,” he said softly.

This startled her; he was not fully undressed yet. But her hesitation was brief; she had ingenuity at her disposal, if no experience in this sort of game. She started with her gloves, loosening them finger by finger as he settled back against the door to watch. He looked too comfortable lounging there, too indolent, as though this were all a game for his amusement, and so she drew out the process, taking each finger in her teeth to draw the gloves off bit by bit. But he seemed amenable to waiting; only when she reached up to her hair to pluck out the pins did a low noise come from his throat. “Let me,” he said, and she turned, seeing the bright blue sky glowing through the tree limbs outside the window as his footsteps approached.

His fingers settled at the crook of her neck, warm and firm. Lips pressed against her nape, opening, a hot, moist pressure that lingered there as his hand slowly moved down to cup her breast. His teeth closed lightly on her neck, and for a long moment he made no other move. He simply held her there, as if to warn her that her decision was made now, and the view out the window should not concern her; all she needed to know was how wholly she stood in his grasp.

And then his other hand delved into her chignon. The heavy weight of her hair fell coiled over her shoulder; a light touch threaded through it, pulling it behind her back, smoothing through the length of it. She closed her eyes, lulled by these strokes, surprised by his gentleness. This was not what she’d expected of him; she wasn’t sure if it was what she wanted. It felt too much like tenderness, while what had sprung up between them outside was more elemental and fierce, nothing to do with caring.

Nothing between them had to do with caring. Her eyes opened; she was frowning. “Let my hair alone,” she said.

His laughter was soft and hot against her neck. It sounded wicked, raising goose bumps along her flesh. “No,” he said, and the mean edge to his voice lent his slow, deliberate strokes through her hair some new and mysterious significance.

“Yes.” She tried to turn and face him. Her hair pulled by the roots; he had wound it around his hand to hold her in place.

His lips touched her ear. “No,” he repeated very softly. His hand cupped her breast again, then slid down slowly over her abdomen, pressing into her skirts, finding the space between her thighs. He cupped her mound and pulled her back against his body, his cock pressed now against her lower back, while outside the oak branches waved against the sky. His fingers rippled, once, and she felt herself grow moist and heard a whimper die in her throat.

She forced herself to swallow. “All right then,” she said coolly. “Do as you like. Maybe I’ll be impressed.”

“I do hope so,” he said. A steady pressure exerted itself on her hair, gently pulling her head toward her left shoulder. She shut her eyes and submitted, feeling the delicate flick of his tongue along her neck. His hand released her mound, and she felt the loss as a pang, only slightly alleviated when she realized his hands had moved to the hooks of her gown. She should not have worn a corset, she thought distantly. It made things so much more complicated. In one of her artistic gowns, she might already be naked and this curiosity might be sated; already she would know what his lips felt like on her breast.

But she’d underestimated his cleverness. The gown parted around her, sagging with an audible puff as though protesting its mistress’s lack of manners, letting a man handle it so rudely. Now came the hiss and slap of laces being loosened; his hands at her waist lifted her out of the tangle, and redirected her to face him.

His face was intent, almost fierce in the sunlight. His eyes and hair were no lighter for the sun on them, a deep rich brown immune to auburn. But the fine contours of his lips seemed newly beautiful to her, hewn with greater precision than those of Bernini’s anguished saints. She reached up to touch them, and he sucked her finger into his mouth, watching her all the while, as though he wished to know what she thought of this, as though it mattered to him very much. Her own lips parted; she would have told him how her bones seemed to be liquid and a tremor was starting within her, but when he released her finger, his little smile told her not to bother. He took her wet finger in his hand and directed it down his chin, over his throat, trailing it to the hollow beneath his Adam’s apple, never looking away from her. It came to her then that she had, perhaps, overestimated herself: she knew nothing of the games his smile hinted at.