Written on Your Skin (25 page)

“I thought you were concerned for your mother.”

She opened her eyes, stung. “You think I’m not worried?”

“I don’t mean to accuse you.” His surprise appeared genuine; she relaxed again. “But you don’t seem impatient in the slightest. It makes a rather dramatic change from your attitude in London.”

Impatience was a terrible temptation; she did not like that he even spoke the word, as it seemed to bring the feeling into the room. Impatience sank claws into a person’s lungs, making it hard to breathe. “What good would it do to be impatient?” One did not dwell on what one could not change. She had learned how to wait in more terrible situations than this one. Action was all that mattered; when it proved impossible, needless contemplation became its own form of torture, as effective as screams, as darkness and heat and hunger. Oh, she did not want to think of these things. “It’s useless,” she said sharply.

“It keeps you sharp,” he countered. But his manner suggested he was willing to reconsider. “We know we were followed from London. He will report back to his master on the vicinity of our last appearance. This doesn’t seem the time to nap.”

“But this is precisely the time to nap.” She looked at him in bewilderment, for his words mismatched his manner; he did not seem particularly tense, lounging on the bed. “Better to be well rested if and when they find us, don’t you think?” And why must she explain this to him, of all people? “A man of intrigue should know such things.”

A peculiar expression worked its way over his face. It was not the first time she’d caught this look from him today, and it made her feel warm and unaccountably awkward in a way his lust did not. She was accustomed to leers, but not to being examined so thoughtfully and with such careful interest, as though she were a specimen in a scientist’s lab. “What is it?” she asked. She sounded a little defensive, and breathed deeply to quell a blush.

The breeze through the open window stirred his long hair, framing his slight smile. “I think you might be better cut out for this line of work than I am.”

The idea surprised a smile from her. She liked that he could picture her as an artist of escapes, flitting across the world to bring justice to thugs. Such things took skill, and a good deal of cunning. The compliment—for that was what it felt like, all the more because she doubted he’d intended it as such—moved her to generosity. “You seemed good enough at it in Hong Kong. You fooled us all completely. It was terribly clever.” Until the night he’d been poisoned, she would have wagered every future cent of her profits that he was American.

He shrugged. “I didn’t say I wasn’t good at it. But I did not choose it, and I never enjoyed it.”

Now, that was claptrap. When he’d leapt out of the train at the station, his expression had been animated, and he’d laughed when she applauded him. She set her glass on the floor, trying to decipher this altered attitude. “Not even today? You didn’t feel the tiniest thrill, jumping from the train?”

His hand was lying flat against the sheets; he turned it over to consider his empty palm. Even his fingers managed a graceful curve. When he had leapt from the train, it had looked like a step in a dance. Had she been a scientist, she might have studied him simply to educate herself on the human body’s optimal operation.

“Today…” He drew a long breath. “Well, yes, I will admit to a degree of enjoyment.”

And he did not feel comfortable with that; it was clear in the way his fingers curled suddenly, as though to call back the admission. Again, she thought of his peculiar gloss on their kiss, how he had framed it as a sin. Maybe it was some quirk of the English character that caused him to interrogate his pleasure. Her mother, too, suspected all forms of entertainment. If a gown was beautiful, she would balance her admiration by finding fault with the way it fit her. If Mina laughed too loudly, she would take her to task for rowdiness. Small things, but they added up, day in and day out, to a regime designed to crush the fun from life.

To what end, though? The world exacted harsh tolls with terrible frequency: fortunes collapsed; children suffered at their parents’ hands; illness struck good men in their prime, taking them from the world as their wives and daughters prayed fruitlessly at their bedsides. And men inflicted cruelties for no reason at all, save the sheer gratification of exercising their power. With such perils abounding, why bother to punish oneself? Prepare for the worst, and pursue the fun: this was her philosophy, which she tried to demonstrate. But Mama could never agree, and sometimes Mina wondered if what had drawn her to Collins was the promise he offered of predictable pain. Perhaps his terrible discipline had granted her a perverse sort of freedom; assured of his punishments, she’d felt able to neglect punishing herself.

Against her will, Mina felt a pull of sympathy for Ashmore. He had locked her in a room, but at least her prison had possessed walls, and windows that could be broken. People like Mama—if he was indeed one of them—carried their prisons with them. They never managed to escape, no matter how hard others might try to set them free.

Well, there was no call for him to feel glum about his successes today. “You got us off the train,” she said. “You kept him from following us. And that bit with the newspaper was monstrous clever! I think you should be proud of yourself.”

He laughed, but it was a kind sound; he seemed pleased by the encouragement. “Do you?”

“Well, I’m proud of myself,” she said with a smile. “Come, now, didn’t you think my question to the matron dreadfully well done?”

“Oh, yes, you’re a natural.”

“And so are you,” she said.

His mouth pulled, as if the praise tasted bitter. “I expect there are better things to be proud of.”

The urge came to her to go sit on the bed and stroke his hair back from his face. The prospect obscurely pleased her; more and more she liked the idea that this contained, arrogant man, who’d treated her like so much flotsam in Hong Kong, might recognize that he had something to learn from her.

She retrieved her wine. “Pride and enjoyment are different matters entirely.” Indeed, she thought, so often enjoyment came at the cost of one’s pride. For instance, if she did sit next to him on the bed, if she stroked his cheek and offered her counsel, would he snap out of this reasonableness and mock her? She would feel foolish then, embarrassed and exposed, irritated with herself for speaking so honestly. What was it about his eyes that made her want to trust him, even after he had proved himself unpredictable?

Risks, she thought. This was one she did not need to take. She tipped the glass and drank to the dregs.

“Perhaps,” he said slowly, almost to himself, “I enjoyed it because it had nothing to do with before. Because…it was for myself, after all. My own actions, my own decision.”

A curious thought struck her, that he was doing something deliberate here—peeling himself back like an onion, to show her his layers. “Yes,” she said hesitantly. “That sounds right.” When she had played dumb for Collins, it had made her teeth ache with anger. But in New York, she had batted her lashes and twirled her hair for a dozen social-climbing investors, all of them willing to waste a bit of money on a society beauty’s harebrained scheme because they hoped a connection to her would serve them. Each time, she had walked away feeling perfectly at peace with herself. “It makes all the difference, larger than night and day, really.”

He nodded. “Of course, to act on one’s own decisions requires a good deal of faith in oneself. For instance, I will admit that you were right the other day. I often wondered if you’d regretted saving me in Hong Kong.” His eyes lifted, catching hers. “And what price did you pay for it? I also wondered that.”

Her good humor evaporated. Suddenly the air seemed scant, and his regard too close, as if no space separated them at all. His questions had not been so idle or self-oriented, after all; he had ambushed her somehow, and as his steady regard held hers, it began to feel horribly intimate, as if she were skin to skin with him, utterly exposed. “If you’d really wanted to know, you could have found out long ago.”

“Perhaps I didn’t feel able to learn it,” he said quietly. “Not then. Not when I could do nothing to help you.”

Her fingers tightened around the empty cup. He spoke as if he were making a confession. But she would not absolve him. He knew nothing of his sins. He had taken care not to learn of them, and the cause for his willing ignorance did not interest her; it could make no difference to her opinion. “And now it’s in the past.” It lived in her dreams, and in the darkness she faced every night, but in all other regards, it was done. “So there’s no use speaking of it.”

“I think there is.”

“Why?” She felt angry now, and did not bother to disguise it. “So you can assuage your guilt by showing some concern? Very tardily, I might add. So you can express your sympathy?”

He was watching her very carefully, as if she were some rabid dog. “Or my regrets.”

“I have no use for your regrets.” The sediment from the wine still lingered on her tongue, gritty as the feelings clogging her throat. She ran her tongue over her teeth and swallowed. “I did very well for myself, and for my mother, too. That’s all you need to know.”

“At least tell me this.” He waited for her to look at him again. “Did it even out, in the end?”

She tossed away the tankard. It banged against the chest of drawers, and she held his eyes, not speaking, until the clatter died away. “Yes, until he escaped. Ask me in Providence tomorrow, and I hope my answer will not be different.”

He rose, one long fluid movement, shucking his jacket onto the bed as he went. She astonished herself by shrinking back, afraid—afraid!—that he was coming for her, as if he could do anything to her to make her speak of that time; she would not say a word if he throttled her—but when he only continued past, she felt foolish and unsettled, all at once. The air stirred in his wake; she caught a faint note of bayberry, and perhaps the barest trace of his sweat. When she’d kissed him again, her body had relearned his scent; it had acquired, overnight, a taste for him. It clamored now for her to stand and put her nose to his throat so she might breathe him in more deeply. She bit down on her knuckle and twisted at the waist to track his progress.

He stood at the washstand, rolling up his shirtsleeves. His forearms were thick and well muscled, dusted with dark hair; she remembered admiring the way they flexed when he was bound to a bed. She’d had him at her mercy then. He hadn’t liked it at all.

He felt too comfortable with his hold over her, maybe. Telling her his secrets did not give him a right to hers. I am going to seduce him, she thought. The conviction surfaced on an inexplicable surge of anger. If he exercised some sort of thrall over her senses, then she would break it by indulging them. He had trembled beneath her hands as she laughed at him; he did not have all the advantages.

He took up a pitcher, splashing water into the washbasin. When he reached over to retrieve the cloth draped on a hook in the wall, his shirt pulled taut, the fine lawn delineating the tight line of his waist. He dipped the cloth into the water, then began to fold it in precise increments, squeezing as he went. What a fussbudget he was. She didn’t doubt he had a system for putting on his socks.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said quietly.

She stared at his back, so maddeningly broad and expressionless. Coward, she thought. Turn around and face me. “Don’t pretend to care,” she blurted. The words horrified her; she put a hand to her mouth, too late to stop them. Flushing hot, she added, “A week, and you will never see me again.”

He did not deny this. “We’ll have to work together until then.”

She watched as he lifted his arm, neatly wiping down his broad wrists and long fingers. Steady, methodical strokes. She wondered whether he had plotted this conversation in advance, if what she had perceived as twists and turns were only another series of carefully manipulated folds. Did he think her as pliant as the rag? He would not find her so, if she put herself into his hands. “We’re working together already,” she said. “I helped you on the train.”

The cloth dropped with a splatter. He turned, one hand resting on the edge of the marble countertop, his handsome face sober. “And that was when I realized that the coming days will require trust on both our parts.” He ran a hand through his hair, and it crossed her mind to wonder why a man set on order would be content to let his hair grow so wildly. “Let me take the first step, then. I trust you might be right: Ridland may be the traitor.” He gave her a strange smile, far too cheerful for the tidings it announced. “In which case, we are not only trying to save your mother’s life, Miss Masters. We’re also saving our own.”

They took afternoon tea in the parlor downstairs, at a little table lodged beneath the bow window, oak leaves fluttering against the glass. As the barmaid was clearing away their dishes, a great ruckus sounded in the yard. A herd of children came running down the lane, their passage lent outsize presence by the cymbals they were ringing. Now came the stately progress of a young man in a morning suit and top hat and a girl in a monstrously over garnished white dress, with a garland of orange blossoms crowning her unbound brown hair.

“And there’s the coach,” Ashmore said dryly. It pulled into sight at a snail’s pace. Four young rowdies sat atop it, and an unlikely number of arms and hands sprouted from the windows, all of them tossing rice in the newlyweds’ direction.

The innkeeper’s daughter rushed up to the next window, laughing at the sight. To Mina and Ashmore, she said, “We’re shutting up to join the merriment on the green. Come along, and I’ll find John Marsh for you.”