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 ap
pearance 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.
Out the window, the dirty houses had given way to sunlit fields, a patchwork blanket sewn by a drunken hand, irregular plots of green and brown and yellow stitched together by zigzagging hedges. Mama’s voice murmured through her mind: When the horns sounded, nothing could stop us; I jumped every hedgerow without fear.
It was easier to think of Mama now that the distance between them was closing; her throat no longer ached at every recollection. She felt certain they would not arrive too late. Mama’s courage was subtle, but Hong Kong had proved her powers of endurance. And Ashmore had said that they would reach Plymouth before seven o’clock this evening, and by noon tomorrow they would be in Providence. She’d felt such gratitude to him when he told her that. He might not trust her, but he was taking her seriously. Why, he’d compared her to a knife. Even in the carriage coming from Whitechapel, he had been wary of her. His insight had seemed an inconvenience then, but now it made her feel almost warm toward him. He was right—she was not inconsequential, and he was smart to be cautious with her.
She was going to bite him again, very hard.
An instinct made her look away from the window. The young man on the opposite bench quickly dropped his eyes. His dull blond hair was greased so thickly that it was a wonder it hadn’t slid off his scalp, and the creases in his trousers were sharp enough to cut glass. Did boys of sixteen not roughhouse here? Were all youthful spirits trammeled by this stultifying society? When he peeked up again, she gave him an encouraging smile. It misfired. He flushed and swallowed and directed a mortified glower at his knees.
Oh, this was silly; she would not sit three feet away from these people and pretend they were not there. She held up the magazine. “I never thought I would say it, but I much prefer Godey’s Lady’s Book.”
Phin sighed into the newspaper. He’d been braced for some mischief for the last half hour, and he could not blame the boy for inciting it with sultry stares. Miss Masters had promised to dress inconspicuously for the journey, but she had failed. Her dress was high-necked, long-sleeved, and, thank God, corseted, but its red and white pinstripes also charted with dizzying precision the pronounced peak of her bust. It still might have served, had she managed to occupy her seat unnoticeably. But in spite of her petite size, Miss Masters overflowed. First her skirts encroached over his shoe. Then her elbow came up against his along the armrest separating their seats. Her every fidget gave him a sweet little nuzzle, and God almighty, did she fidget.
At least she was wearing petticoats today. He knew this because they rustled constantly, the noise evoking scarlet taffeta, black ribbons, garters and silk stockings, smooth white thighs, and everything between them. Also nipples. Pink nipples. What demon had bid him request that information, he would never know, but in the many long hours since he’d acquired it, his brain had been reminding him of it regularly. Pink, fragrant, busty, rustling—the wriggling Miss Masters was the stuff of adolescent fantasy, and the more she squirmed, the younger and more scatterbrained Phin felt. Later, he felt sure, all this would amuse him, but he had no desire to embarrass himself in a train. Meanwhile, with every brush of her elbow against his, his mind insisted more strongly that the contact was deliberate. She kissed like the devil’s minion; torture would naturally find a place in her repertoire. And if she was driving a grown man mad, what chance had a boy?
The boy had his mother, that was what. The matron gave a loud sniff, and redirected Miss Masters’s remark to herself. “I do not know the magazine.”
With the easy cheer of the tone-deaf, Miss Masters mistook this rebuff for interest. “Oh, it’s American,” she said. “I am American, you see.”
The boy bounced in his seat. “I knew it from the get-go!”
Silence, and a dark look from his mother, put a stark period to his triumph. Slowly he subsided into the upholstery.
But Miss Masters could not let the mute remonstrance stand. She had a very bad habit of speaking to people who didn’t concern her; for instance, chambermaids. This morning, when Phin had passed the scrawny blond maid in the hall, he had asked her, with some puzzlement, if she smelled gardenias. The girl’s blanch had told him everything. Miss Masters was not content with threatening to hire away his staff, oh, no. First, she would perfume it. He had surprised himself by wanting to laugh.
Miss Masters’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I must say, it’s quite instructive to compare our respective railroad systems
.” It was unclear for whom, among her involuntary audience, she intended this observation. “For example, why can’t you check your baggage before you travel here? In America, after you book your ticket, a baggage wagon comes to your home, and they take all your luggage in exchange for a little brass tag—”
Phin cut in. “Yes. You mentioned this at the station.” In great detail. He’d suspected that she was trying to test his patience, although her motive seemed obscure.
She gave him a wounded look. Whether it was genuine, or whether she defaulted to featherbrain when in public, was something else he hadn’t figured out yet. “Well, I am telling these people. Perhaps they don’t know of American improvements. And if you don’t know that a better system exists, how on earth can you agitate for it?”
Her endorsement of agitation appeared to alarm two-thirds of the opposite bench. The ginger-haired man craned fully from the waist toward the window, taking great interest in a passing cornfield. The matron glowered. The lad, meanwhile, gazed at her in a steamy, openmouthed trance.
Phin refolded his newspaper and rose to replace it in the satchel on the rack above his seat. “Miss Masters. Will you step outside for a moment? I wish to show you a most interesting feature, thoroughly unique to the English railway.”
They emerged into the narrow aisle that ran alongside the compartments; she clutched at the wall for balance and said something about superior American railway tracks. “This line is a twelve-gauge,” Phin said with a frown. “Matches anything in the States.” And then, catching himself, waved away her reply. “What I meant to say is that this journey will go better if you refrain from drawing attention to us.”
Written on Your Skin Page 17
