With one arm, he drew Mina—he couldn’t keep thinking of her as Miss Seymour, not now—even closer, pinning her to his body, feeling the outline of her through far too many layers of cloth. She could feel him, Stephen was sure. He was hard and aching, hungry as he’d almost never been for a woman, even in his youth. She didn’t draw back from his arousal, though she did catch her breath. Stephen wound his free hand in her hair and kissed her more deeply, stroking his tongue against hers and sliding his other hand down from her waist.
His palm was gliding over Mina’s hip when she pulled away. She shoved at him when she did it, the hands that had been clenched on his coat now flat and forceful. The gesture wasn’t quite as good as a bucket of cold water, but it sufficed. Stephen dropped his hands and took a step backwards.
Panting, Mina stared up at him. Her hair was disheveled now, light-brown strands tumbling down around her face. Her eyes were dark and her lips slightly swollen, but the face she turned on Stephen was full of cold anger.
“That didn’t prove a bloody thing,” she said, the East End as thick in her voice as Stephen had ever heard it. “Not one thing,mylord. An’ if you try winning an argument that way again, I’ll leave straight away, an’ you and your money can both go to Hell.”
She spun on her heel, her loosened hair almost hitting Stephen in the face, and stormed out.
Nine
Mina almost didn’t come down to breakfast the next morning.
It hadn’t been a good night. She’d left MacAlasdair’s company without any clear idea of where she was going and had finally sought refuge in her room. There she’d tried unsuccessfully to start reading her book again, tried even less successfully to lie down and calm her mind, and ended up alternately pacing the room and hitting the pillow.
She should have slapped MacAlasdair, she thought, lord or not.Dragonor not. After all, he obviously wasn’t willing to kill her, and if the kiss had actually proved anything, it was that in some respects, he was just a man like any other.
She wished she had something to throw at the wall, but she didn’t own anything breakable in her room. Not that MacAlasdair would notice if she broke the lamp or the mirror; he probably didn’t even know they existed.
But no. It didn’t do to get into that habit. It didn’t do to lose control. She’d done quite enough ofthatfor one evening already.
That, of course, was the other problem: she’d liked kissing MacAlasdair.
Actually, she’d liked it quite a lot.
He hadn’t been the first man to kiss Mina—though the others had been boys, really, and she’d been much younger as well. She’d gone further than that with one of them, though never as far as he’d wanted. Even at seventeen, Mina had known what risks she didn’t want to take. She’d liked the experience then too, and had, in truth, wanted more herself. Sometimes her breasts would ache, after their…encounters…or the place between her legs, and she’d had some idea of what satisfaction her body craved.
The feelings had seemed almost overwhelming. Mina had understood how girls could get carried away. In comparison to the longing she felt now, even through her rage, those earlier sensations were pale and cold and abstract.
Perhaps it was that she was older, or that Stephen was older—well,mucholder—than those lads from her past. Perhaps it was that she was better rested now and better fed. But Mina didn’t think either of those reasons explained all the difference. Even remembering MacAlasdair’s mouth over hers, or the strength in his arms as he held her against him, had her body longing to repeat the experience. Andnotremembering was hard work.
She didn’t even like MacAlasdair, not really. She certainly hadn’twantedto kiss him—not really—not then, at least. It had been horrible and arrogant and forceful.
And Mina kept wondering what it would be like to do it again.
Eventually, the remnants of lust subsided, the pacing wore her body out, and she could make herself sleep, though her dreams were restless and she was glad not to remember them in the morning. When she woke, for the first time since she’d come to MacAlasdair’s house, she looked at the door as a safeguard. If she stayed in her room, she wouldn’t have to face him yet.
But, if she stayed in her room, he’d know she didn’t want to face him. She wouldn’t see Professor Carter, either, and she wouldn’t get out of the house. MacAlasdair would have won—and Mina would still be trapped and probably start climbing the walls any day.
She dressed and thought of girding her loins, then tried not to think about loins again.
When Mina strode into the dining room, it was with every particle of self-possession, every ounce of formality and propriety that she’d learned since she’d decided to become secretary to a scholar. Every muscle in her back felt rigid. She blessed her foundation garments.
MacAlasdair was at the head of the table as usual, with her place set nearby. As usual, he lowered the paper as Mina entered the room.
When he met her eyes, there suddenly seemed to be much less space around them. He filled the room as he filled the chair: big, powerful, commanding.
Mina quickly took her seat. Only then did she notice a difference in the table. At her right hand, a little ways away from her breakfast dishes, was a silver tray. Someone had laid out several sheets of stationery on its surface, as well as two envelopes, three black fountain pens, and a sheet of stamps.
Mina blinked.
Right, then.
Slowly, with careful, controlled movements, she poured tea. Added sugar and cream. Buttered a scone. Pretended that she wasn’t watching MacAlasdair out of the corner of her eye.
Then, when she could trust herself, she spoke. “That’s quite…comprehensive. Everything a correspondent could ask for.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said MacAlasdair. “I’ll be meeting with Carter this noontime, if you’ll be ready by then.” He sounded very casual, but his gaze never left Mina’s face.
