Written on Your Skin Read Online Free PDF Page B

over his hat. He had looked over her muddied gown in a cold silence, then instructed her to go and change; she was too old to be frolicking like an urchin, he said sternly.
    It had not been his right to upbraid her. But he had taken it anyway. And at twelve years old, she’d already been wiser than Mama. She had known to suspect any man who claimed entitlements that did not belong to him. “I told her it would be better for us to starve,” she whispered. “But she didn’t trust me. She said my fears were girlish.”
    Jane spoke very gently. “And how could you expect her to trust you? Or anyone, for that matter? Dearest, she doesn’t even trust herself.”
    Her thoughts now felt too raw and hot to share. Looking up, she mustered a smile. Sometimes the act of aping cheer made her feel more cheerful. Lies were like medicine, that way. “Dear heart, your eye must feel awful. Why don’t you go and rest, and let me watch him for a while.” She did not want insightful company at present. If she had to share a room with someone, better that he be unconscious.
    “Are you sure?” But Jane had come to her feet. “I admit, I have a terrible headache. I only wish I knew what ailed the man.”
    “Malaria, maybe.”
    “A very odd case of it, then. He doesn’t sweat at all. In fact, it reminds me of nothing so much as that poor Wilkins boy who used to live down the street from my parents. The doctor tried to cure his tetanus with belladonna, and ended up killing him with it. I would give Mr. Monroe a little morphine to see if that improved things, but—well, why would he have eaten nightshade? Unless he’s an epileptic, and didn’t tell us?” She shook her head. “Has Mr. Bonham sent any word as to when the doctor might come?”
    “No, but I’m sure he’ll come soon.” Mina glanced at the bed. “I hope he will,” she added more soberly. Mr. Monroe looked very poorly.
    When Jane had departed, Mina perched on the little stool by the bed. It was no normal flush that stained Monroe’s cheeks, but an angry rash that rose in welts. She reached out to touch his cheek, but at the last moment, her fingers curled away. He had not wanted her to touch him in the hallway earlier. She hadn’t understood it. Only a week ago, he’d been so attentive…and she was Collins’s stepdaughter, after all. Spurning her overtures was like refusing a shield in the midst of battle.
    Her eyes strayed down his length. They had removed his jacket, and the white lawn of his shirt clung to his lean torso. If he really was contagious, she’d certainly caught it when she kissed him. She touched her lower lip. He had bitten her, very softly, there. And she had liked it. For three weeks, she had liked him—his wit, and his quiet way, and how closely he listened. She had liked him so much that once or twice she had been tempted to cast aside all caution and speak to him honestly. Do not do business with Collins, she’d wanted to say. You’re too good for him.
    The memory made her sigh. So naïve. He had shown his true colors now; how she would have regretted it if she’d revealed hers beforehand! She was usually smarter than that. Maybe his looks had blinded her.
    She considered him critically. He was handsome, no doubt. But she should have seen the arrogance in his face. The sharp blade of his nose seemed designed for looking down on women whose behavior did not match his standards. You wouldn’t want others to think you intemperate. Well, and people might think him an overbearing, painfully sober bore, but she had not remarked on it, had she? Those sharp cheekbones bespoke haughtiness, and the stark square of his jaw, inflexibility. Have a care, Miss Masters. I don’t think that would be wise. She could not interpret the cleft in his squared-off chin, but it probably accounted for his vanity.
    She sat back, irritated with herself. To think she’d chased him down a hall! He was a typical specimen…apart from those delicious lashes of