Written on Your Skin (13 page)

Lord, she hated cats.

Ashmore was sitting up now, smiling in disbelief. “Are you having me on, Miss Masters?”

“Oh, dear. Do you take exception to my dismissal of mold? But it’s not a very entertaining form of life, is it? I’m sure you understand why I preferred Mongol.”

He spoke very soberly. “Mongol was the dog’s name?”

“Yes. But in retrospect, I should have named him Attila.” She paused to radiate astonishment. “My goodness. Isn’t it amazing how after years and years of remembering something, it’s still possible to have new thoughts about the memory?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Memories hold little purchase on me.”

Was he warning her not to count on his debt to her? “I’m so sorry to hear that. You’ve suffered some injury to the brain, then? I suppose it could have been the poison. I thought I’d treated you in time, but, yes, that would account for a weakness of the memory. Although if I had as many names as you do, I should have a hard time keeping track of things as well. Granville, Ashmore, Monroe—Monroe was fictional, I take it?”

“Fictional,” he said slowly, “yes. You understand, I did not want to advertise my identity to Collins.”

“Or to anyone,” she said sweetly.

He paused, studying her. “Or to anyone. And I did not mean that I lack memories, Miss Masters. It was a figure of speech only.”

“Oh!” She giggled. “A figure. Really, sir. You must not think me a loose woman simply because of these unusual circumstances.”

He made a choking sound. She gasped. Leaning forward, she cried, “If you cannot breathe, flap your hands!”

The advice seemed only to exacerbate his respiratory ailment. She moved onto his bench and began to pound his back, more enthusiastically, perhaps, than a doctor would recommend. It felt good to hit him.

And lo, her ministrations wrought a miraculous recovery. “Miss Masters!” He twisted to catch her hands. Two impressions struck her as his fingers tightened around hers: he could subdue her as easily as lint, and he moved with shocking quickness. “I was not choking,” he said. “Rather I was laughing at you!”

“Oh.” She bit her lip and retreated to her side of the compartment, stuffing her hands into the depths of her skirts. His agility unnerved her. He was trained to move quickly, she supposed. Even if she’d been armed, she wondered whether she would have managed to squeeze off a shot before he struck the gun from her hand. Remember that, she told herself. “I’m sorry. Laughing at me? You’ve grown unaccustomed to American girls, then. We speak very plainly. Don’t you remember? Still…I can’t think of anything I said that was remotely amusing.”

He shoved a hand through his dark hair. “I think it amusing that you are of this planet, Miss Masters.”

“Is there another option?” She opened her eyes very wide. “You can’t mean you credit that rumor about the man on the moon!”

His chin cut down. He considered her narrowly. “What are you about here?”

“What do you mean?”

“You cannot be serious.”

It seemed she’d been cutting it rather too fat. “Can’t I? Why not?”

“Not even you can be this…obtuse.”

Not even she? Apparently she’d made a very good impression on him, four years ago. She wondered how he’d managed to explain her cleverness to himself, as he fled the scene of what otherwise would have been his execution. He deserved a bit of twitting. “No, indeed, I’m hardly obtuse!” She lifted her voice. “Why, I can recite history and paint watercolors and play the piano—”

He clapped both hands to his ears. “Pax, Miss Masters! I will concede anything to keep that shrill note from your voice.”

“I do get a bit loud,” she conceded. “But I am death on the pedals; you should just hear my sonatas!” When she said no more, he slowly removed his hands. “Shall I tell you,” she began, but stopped when he promptly covered his ears again. “I am not being shrill,” she said loudly. “I am speaking in a perfectly pleasant manner!”

“But why are you still speaking at all?”

“Because I have yet to finish my thought!”

“And why, pray tell, is that necessary?”

“Well, really, sir! As the saying goes, a thought or meal left half complete ends the battle in defeat.”

He caught his breath. “By God,” he said, and clapped a hand to his mouth. A laugh slipped out through his fingers. He really did have remarkable eyes, dark and thickly lashed, and when he was amused, they looked deceptively kind. “Did you make that one up on the spot? Did you?”

“Of course not. It’s a famous proverb. My father—my real father, my goodness, not Collins—used to say it all the time.”

“Oh, he did?”

“He did.”

He lowered his hand, unveiling a grin. “How…remarkable.”

“Yes, but the credit must not go to him, for he did not coin it. Although who knows who made up those sayings? No one even tries to find out. I tell you, I have often suspected a vast conspiracy revolving around this gentleman, Anonymous. Who was he really? Why all the secrecy?” With a sniff, she tightened her shawl about her shoulders. “I sometimes think that he didn’t exist at all. Just think of what would happen if we learned we’d been cozened into crediting the advice of some no-name charlatan! Someone should really undertake an inquiry into Anonymous’s origins. I say, wouldn’t that be a fit calling for you? I seem to remember that you had a gift for uncovering information.”

His expression sobered. “And now we get around to it.”

“It? Where?” She looked out the window. “All I see is fog.”

“Ridland believes you to be in possession of information that could assist the search for Collins.” When she turned back, he was studying her very closely. “He says something I find very curious. He says you vowed not to divulge the information to anyone but me. Is that so?”

Ridland had misrepresented her. She had not promised to divulge any information to anyone. Only if Ashmore proved himself newly trustworthy would she reconsider her stance. “Well, I supposed you would help me.”

“Why is that?”

“My memory occasionally falters as well,” she said. “But I seem to recall—oh, forgive me if I’m wrong—that I did you a favor in Hong Kong.”

“Oh, your memory seems fine to me.” He paused. “You did me a great favor, in fact. But I believe it was of your own accord. If I might be so bold as to advise you, I suggest you never depend on a man to repay what he did not willingly borrow.”

She nearly snorted. “Oh, I do not depend on anything, sir. Believe me.” When his eyes narrowed, she cursed herself. Clumsy to speak sharply unless there was an aim to it. “You know my mother,” she went on more softly. “You’ve met her. I’d hoped you might have it in your heart to help me find her.”

His stony expression did not suggest the soul of a humanitarian. How a man with such beautiful eyes could use them so coldly, she did not understand. “Then I advise you to adjust your expectations. I agreed to protect you; that is all.”

“But—”

“And you should consider it a very special favor to you. Once I came into the title, I stepped out of the game.”

How nice for him. He had decided to wash his hands of the matter, but he deigned to keep her prisoner while other men mucked it up. “Silly me. I supposed you would grant me a favor that matched the magnitude of the one I did for you.”

“And so I am,” he said. “I’m keeping you alive and safe.”

“From whom?”

He made an incredulous noise. “From Collins.”

“Collins doesn’t give two figs about me. He already has my mother. Why should he care about me?”

He looked her over very skeptically before he nodded. Somehow, that small hesitation managed to invest his agreement with an insult, as if he, too, doubted that any reason existed to care for her at all. “Then you shall have to learn patience,” he said. “The government’s best men are searching for him.”

Certainly they were. But some of them did not answer to Her Majesty. At least one of them answered to Collins. “If you cannot help me, I’ve no interest in staying with you. You may drop me at Claridge’s.”

He had the gall to laugh. His teeth were very white; had she any interest in impressing him, she might have covered her own mouth and regretted her weakness for a good Bordeaux. “Claridge’s.” He snorted. “Miss Masters, you seem to be laboring under a grievous misapprehension. You are no longer on a pleasure tour. The Crown has taken you into custody. I gave my word that I would supervise you, and I mean to keep it.”

Her breath was coming shorter. She dug her fingernails into the seat cushion. “Yet you have no care for your debt to me. But really, why should I be surprised? I already knew that you have no honor.”

He went very still. “Oh? And what cause have you to know that?”

The old anger leapt up in her, roughening her voice. “You break your promises.”

His face darkened. He braced his hands on either wall of the coach and leaned toward her. The banquette was not yielding enough to accommodate the withdrawal her instincts demanded. “Speak plainly,” he said, and the softness of his tone, paired with the natural roughness of his voice, made the words sound like a purr. “What promises have I broken?”

Her fingers were knotting. She forced them to relax, and tilted her head to affect puzzlement. “Do you not remember, then?”

His mouth quirked into a half-smile. He tilted his own head, mocking her posturing. It was mean of him, really, because he thought her too much of an idiot to realize it, which meant the joke was private, made at her expense. “Remind me, if you please.”

She had not seen this rotten streak in him before. It chafed her temper to realize she’d misjudged him so badly. Even had she been as dim-witted as she pretended, she would not have deserved such treatment. Setting aside his impoverished logic about unsolicited favors, she had saved his life; of all people, he owed her a bit of respect.

Ah, but she’d forgotten to factor in her new knowledge of his status. Men in his position were not taught how to give respect. They knew only how to demand it.

“Very well.” Forget featherheaded; it would only give him further excuses to belittle her. She leaned forward, too, coming so close to him that their mouths almost touched. He smelled…clean. She inhaled. Yes, he used bayberry soap. Heat radiated from him. The scent diluted her annoyance; one could almost luxuriate in his warmth, as one did before a fire.

His eyes fell to her lips. “Oh, I remember that,” he murmured. “No need for a reminder.”

She laughed in surprise. He was referring to the kiss, of course, and her humor was all for herself: how absurd that her vanity should be pricked by his disinterest. Something about the man, some inherent quality that she would like to excise with a scalpel, simply destroyed her better sense. “Yes,” she said, “it was terrible, wasn’t it? I would do a far better job of it now—had I any interest in doing so.”

His lips curved. “Good to see you do not want for pride, Miss Masters.”

“Oh, it is not pride that speaks there,” she said. “It is truth.”

His brow arched. He caught on very quickly. “By all means, then, give it a go. I am game to be taught better.”

How smug he was. She should have realized he was titled from the moment she’d first met him. He fit every description her mother had ever given of an overbred Englishman. Alas for him, she was no milkwater London girl.

She lifted her hand to her mouth and bit down on the tip of her middle finger. He was not expecting this; it won his immediate attention. She sucked her finger into her mouth, and color crept over his cheeks. Not so immovable now, was he?

She released her finger with a wet, sucking noise. “I do not kiss men who might as well be strangers.” She set her wet finger to his mouth, feeling the cool pull of his startled indrawn breath. He had a long, lovely mouth, with a sharply grooved philtrum that lent his upper lip definition. His lower lip seemed to pout a little; she gave it a soft, slow stroke, fighting the temptation to move down farther, to stroke that dimple in his square chin. One step at a time, Mina. “But perhaps we will get to know each other better,” she murmured.

His breath exited in an audible rush. He sat back, staring. She found him far more beautiful like this, rumpled and off guard, not smirking anymore, not smug.

He drew another breath, slower, as he held her eyes. He licked his lips and said quietly, “You don’t taste foolish, Miss Masters.”

Her heart tripped. A prickle moved down the backs of her knees. “I don’t take that as a compliment.”

“I didn’t mean to praise you. Perhaps what you taste like is cunning. I should warn you,” he said meditatively, and cupped his jaw with one broad hand, his thumb rubbing across his lip as hers had done. Watching him touch himself caused a stirring low in her belly. Oh, yes, that was a useful warning, all right.

Letting his hand drop, he smiled a little, as if he saw the response she fought to hide. “I react very badly to manipulation,” he murmured. “I have no idea what you’re about here. But you should know that I have decided, very recently, to brook no interference in any corner of my life.”

“What a marvelous luxury for you.” It took no effort at all to sound sober. “Myself, I would like the opportunity to make such decisions.”

He frowned and looked out the window. “Yes,” he said. “It is a privilege.”