unique.” Because she refused to adopt the role society tried to press upon her, she had always fought to fit in, even at the college. Lecturers and students alike couldn’t understand why she couldn’t be content to sit in the corner and darn socks.
He set down whatever he had been using. “And why is that, pray tell?”
“She might have ideas and opinions of her own.”
“I don’t see a woman’s ideas and opinions being a problem.”
“They can make a man feel threatened.”
“ Certain men, perhaps. I am not so easily intimidated.”
She was hardly convinced but wasn’t angling for an argument. “If you say so.”
“Are you ever going to turn around?” he asked.
“Are you covered?”
“I thought you wanted to see my cock.”
Any other woman would have gasped at this comment, but she smiled at the humor in his voice. “I can’t say I am entirely opposed to it.”
When she turned, she knew she had succeeded in shocking him . He looked a little stunned, but he quickly rallied.
“You might want to think a little longer before you make a statement like that to an unscrupulous body snatcher.”
At the moment, he didn’t look unscrupulous. His clothes were basic and serviceable but better than what most men wore in these parts—and that only reminded her of how she must look, especially by contrast.
She confronted the mirror and gasped when she saw the red marks he had made on her skin. A deep purple bruise stood out on her neck like a brand. “Look at me!” she said. “Look at what you have done!”
“I noticed.”
He didn’t seem to be taking any pleasure in the harm he had caused, but she could detect no contrition, either. “I can’t go out like this. Everyone will assume I am your . . . your whore!”
“Your clothes won’t help. Where on earth did you find them?”
“The rag-and-bone bag. I thought they were the perfect costume.”
“Indeed they are. You will fit right in. Just don’t get separated from me or, pretty as you are, you might find yourself approached by any number of men.” He came up behind her and lifted her chin to study, in the mirror, the marks he had made.
“Are you satisfied?” she asked.
The thumb of the hand that held her face moved over her bottom lip. “Hardly,” he muttered, but he obviously didn’t expect a response. Growing purposeful again, he let go of her and went to the door to peer out.
“Do you see anyone? Is Jack out there?”
“He doesn’t seem to be up quite yet.” He closed the door and waved her over to his toothbrush and comb. “It would be best if we get out of here as soon as possible. You have fifteen minutes, at the most. I suggest you do what you can to accomplish your toilette.”
She recalled Tom saying Max wouldn’t let anyone touch his things. “You don’t mind if I use these . . . these personal implements?”
“Anyone who smells as good as you do can’t be too dirty,” he said.
“I am very conscientious about my cleanliness,” she assured him.
“I believe that. But even if I didn’t, some sacrifices have to be made.” His gaze returned to the mark on her neck. “You won’t be the only one making them, I assure you.”
When she hesitated—it seemed so invasive to put his toothbrush in her mouth—he said, “Would you rather go without?”
“No,” she replied and quickly availed herself of all he offered before he changed his mind.
He watched her while he waited, but she made him step out of the room and into the hall when she used the chamber pot.
Max strode down the street, his hand at Abigail’s elbow as he propelled her along with him. He didn’t like being out with the surgeon’s daughter. He couldn’t help worrying that someone might recognize him. On this side of town that wasn’t likely, especially garbed as simply as he was and walking with a woman who could easily pass for a low-class prostitute—thanks to what she was wearing and what he had done to her face and neck.
He set down whatever he had been using. “And why is that, pray tell?”
“She might have ideas and opinions of her own.”
“I don’t see a woman’s ideas and opinions being a problem.”
“They can make a man feel threatened.”
“ Certain men, perhaps. I am not so easily intimidated.”
She was hardly convinced but wasn’t angling for an argument. “If you say so.”
“Are you ever going to turn around?” he asked.
“Are you covered?”
“I thought you wanted to see my cock.”
Any other woman would have gasped at this comment, but she smiled at the humor in his voice. “I can’t say I am entirely opposed to it.”
When she turned, she knew she had succeeded in shocking him . He looked a little stunned, but he quickly rallied.
“You might want to think a little longer before you make a statement like that to an unscrupulous body snatcher.”
At the moment, he didn’t look unscrupulous. His clothes were basic and serviceable but better than what most men wore in these parts—and that only reminded her of how she must look, especially by contrast.
She confronted the mirror and gasped when she saw the red marks he had made on her skin. A deep purple bruise stood out on her neck like a brand. “Look at me!” she said. “Look at what you have done!”
“I noticed.”
He didn’t seem to be taking any pleasure in the harm he had caused, but she could detect no contrition, either. “I can’t go out like this. Everyone will assume I am your . . . your whore!”
“Your clothes won’t help. Where on earth did you find them?”
“The rag-and-bone bag. I thought they were the perfect costume.”
“Indeed they are. You will fit right in. Just don’t get separated from me or, pretty as you are, you might find yourself approached by any number of men.” He came up behind her and lifted her chin to study, in the mirror, the marks he had made.
“Are you satisfied?” she asked.
The thumb of the hand that held her face moved over her bottom lip. “Hardly,” he muttered, but he obviously didn’t expect a response. Growing purposeful again, he let go of her and went to the door to peer out.
“Do you see anyone? Is Jack out there?”
“He doesn’t seem to be up quite yet.” He closed the door and waved her over to his toothbrush and comb. “It would be best if we get out of here as soon as possible. You have fifteen minutes, at the most. I suggest you do what you can to accomplish your toilette.”
She recalled Tom saying Max wouldn’t let anyone touch his things. “You don’t mind if I use these . . . these personal implements?”
“Anyone who smells as good as you do can’t be too dirty,” he said.
“I am very conscientious about my cleanliness,” she assured him.
“I believe that. But even if I didn’t, some sacrifices have to be made.” His gaze returned to the mark on her neck. “You won’t be the only one making them, I assure you.”
When she hesitated—it seemed so invasive to put his toothbrush in her mouth—he said, “Would you rather go without?”
“No,” she replied and quickly availed herself of all he offered before he changed his mind.
He watched her while he waited, but she made him step out of the room and into the hall when she used the chamber pot.
Max strode down the street, his hand at Abigail’s elbow as he propelled her along with him. He didn’t like being out with the surgeon’s daughter. He couldn’t help worrying that someone might recognize him. On this side of town that wasn’t likely, especially garbed as simply as he was and walking with a woman who could easily pass for a low-class prostitute—thanks to what she was wearing and what he had done to her face and neck.
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