“I don’t think I would be opposed to that,” she whispered.
“Abby, you can’t make such a monumental decision right now. Neither of us is in a position to think clearly at the moment.”
“Can we talk about it in the morning, then?”
“That would be advisable.”
After several seconds of silence, she said good night and slid toward the far edge of the bed, but it wasn’t two hours later that they found each other again. All it took was for Abigail to slide her hand down his arm and entwine her fingers with his, and it was as if those two hours had never elapsed. In the matter of a few short minutes, he had her clothes off, his mouth at her breast and his hand between her thighs.
Chapter 13
Abigail had never felt anything like the pleasure pouring through her—and not just because of the sexual nature of Max’s touch. Since her mother died, she’d had so little physical affection. Her father had occasionally patted her on the head when she was a girl and, in those first years, there had been a nanny to bathe and look after her. But, like her governesses, her nannies had come and gone so often that she hadn’t grown attached to any of them. One left to marry after only two months. Another moved to the United States before the year was out. Yet another, caught stealing from the larder, was sacked. After that, it was the servants at the college who kept an eye on her for her father, but they remained so distant and formal that she never felt they truly cared. Until now she hadn’t even realized how desperately she craved human contact and could hardly believe that Max, of all people, was making her feel important, even vital in some way.
Although she hadn’t meant to tempt him beyond his resistance when she reached out a few minutes earlier, she certainly hadn’t done anything to discourage him when he drew her back into his arms. He kept trying to break contact, however—at least at first. Every few seconds, he would pull away, try to catch his breath and overcome the temptation she posed. She probably should have done more to help him, since his self-respect seemed to hinge on his resistance. But they were locked in the same small room, where there was no way to escape such poignant desire. It simply would not recede no matter how long they stared into the darkness, willing their heartbeats to slow. As soon as she touched him, he had turned into her as if he had been lying there, battling the same impulse.
“What’s one night?” she asked. If she was never going to marry, she didn’t see why she shouldn’t take this opportunity to learn what it would be like to lie with a man. Max was a resurrectionist, which wasn’t an occupation anyone could admire—even her, despite the college’s dependence on the specimens they provided—but she liked him in spite of that. Truth be told, he was unlike any man she had ever met. He seemed so knowledgeable, so worldly and capable.
The rasp of his breathing sounded in her ear as his fingers sought out various places on her body she hadn’t even known could be so receptive to a man’s caress—and before long, the only thing that mattered was obtaining the satisfaction her body sought. Max could provide that. But when she started to undo the buttons on his trousers, he stopped her.
“Abby, no. We can’t.”
She froze, startled by his refusal. “Why?”
“Because what I have done is bad enough.”
“You don’t want me?” she asked.
He framed her face with his large hands as if he was trying to convey more than the words he was saying. “I want what is best for you. That means I have to think beyond this night.”
“You’re afraid I might conceive.”
“That’s part of it, yes. I won’t risk a bastard. And there can be no future for us. You understand, don’t you?”
She wasn’t asking for a future with him. Her father would never allow her to marry a member of the London Supply Company or any other sack ’em up man. When she returned to the college, whatever happened at No. 8 Farmer’s Landing would have to be forgotten.
“There isn’t any preventative we can use?” She had heard about sponges and something called a womb shield from Dr. Bartello, who taught midwifery every day at the college—at half past ten. But she had no idea where to get such items, especially late at night. She would have listened more carefully to that part of his lectures if she had ever dreamed she would have a need. But she had been more interested in birthing babies than preventing them.
He rested his forehead against hers. “Nothing at hand. And even if there were, abstinence will protect you far better. Besides, I have no experience with virgins, Abby. If I pressed inside you as I am dying to do, it would only hurt you.”
“You said it was pleasurable for a woman to ride a hard cock. And yours is certainly hard.”
“Indeed it is,” he said with a ragged chuckle. “But it’s something you have to grow accustomed to. Your body isn’t used to accepting a man.”
“I will adjust,” she insisted. “That is what women have done since the beginning of creation, isn’t it?”
“That’s your damn curiosity talking again,” he said gruffly. “But I can’t listen to that. I know you will live to regret giving me something so precious just for the sake of experience.”
She stared up at him. “That’s it, then?” She started to push him away, but he held her fast.
“Wait, it doesn’t have to end quite as badly as this.”
“Just go to sleep,” she said.
He had thought he would enjoy turning the tables on her, but that wasn’t the case—not if he couldn’t fulfill the desire he had created. “Abby, stop.”
“I don’t understand your refusal. You’re shaking with need.”
“I don’t deny it. But I would rather not hate myself when this is over.”
“Fine. Sleep, like I said.”
“In a few minutes. First, I’m going to give you a little something to remember me by, something to show you that making love can be every bit as pleasurable for a woman. That way, if you do marry, you will know to demand more of your husband. He should meet your needs as you should meet his.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked. “You just refused to go any further.”
He didn’t answer. He was too busy creating a trail of kisses down her abdomen.
Although she expected him to stop before he moved much lower than her belly button, he didn’t. He continued on that downward path.
Shocked, she tried to cross her legs. She felt so exposed and . . . and embarrassed. But he wouldn’t have it.
“Don’t fight me.” He held her thighs apart. “I promise you will like this,” he said—and she did. From the first wet glide of his tongue, she could hardly lie still and her enjoyment grew from there.
When she couldn’t take any more, Abby fisted her hands in the bedding and began to plead with him. “Max! Max, please. You are driving me mad, making me want . . . making me want . . .”
“I know what you want, and I am going to give it to you,” he promised. “All you have to do is trust me—trust me and forsake all inhibition and reservation.”
She was no longer resisting. She just didn’t know how to do as he said, couldn’t make it happen—and then . . .
A flood of sensation welled up and swept through her body, and she knew nothing could ever feel better.
When the first delicious spasm hit, she cried out in surprise—and heard Max make a similar sound, only his contained more frustration than exultation. He undid his trousers and lifted himself over her as if he would bury himself inside her. But, with a muttered curse, he dropped down beside her and guided her hand to what he had exposed instead.
When Abigail woke, she and Max were naked and tangled up in each other. She knew, as the daughter of the head surgeon at Aldersgate College, she should get up right away and put on her clothes. Only a strumpet could be so indifferent to the fact that she was lying with a man she had barely met without so much as her shift. But she
was so satisfied and comfortable that it was hard to care enough to drag herself away from him. They had their privacy. And Max felt better against her bare skin than a yard of silk. Although he had refrained from taking her maidenhead, what they had done felt just as intimate. He had told her that those in the bawd-houses called it “tipping the velvet.” She wondered if those higher born knew about such a thing—but couldn’t imagine any of the wives of the surgeons she had met allowing their husbands to kiss them where Max had kissed her.
When she lifted a hand to smooth the hair out of her face, she realized Max was awake and watching her beneath the fringe of his dark lashes.
“You were right.” She offered him a smile.
He arched an eyebrow in question.
“A live cock is infinitely more interesting than a dead one.”
“For the love of God, Abby.” He rubbed a hand over his face, then pinched the bridge of his nose.
“That was a compliment,” she said, slightly put out by his reaction. “You have every right to be proud. Although I don’t have a great deal to compare you to, you are certainly not lacking in size—”
“Abby!”
He had choked out her name as if she had said something terribly wrong, which was puzzling. He had been willing to discuss his cock the morning before. So why was it wrong to mention it now that she could actually offer an opinion?
“You seem to have awakened in a sour mood,” she said.
“I’ve got to get you back to the college before I ruin your life. But if I return you . . .” He sighed. “Never mind.”
She might have promised him that she wouldn’t tell anyone about him or the gang so long as he freed her. But she wasn’t entirely sure she could keep that promise. Someone had to investigate the circumstances surrounding the death of the woman who had been on the sofa. If she maintained her silence that might never happen.
She studied Max’s handsome face, telling herself it wasn’t because she was suddenly reluctant to leave him that she had less interest in returning home.
“That sounds like the same problem you had yesterday,” she said, “so I don’t know why you have to be so gruff.”
“Today the problem is worse than it was yesterday.”
“Because . . .”
A muscle moved in his cheek as his gaze lowered to the place where the sheet barely covered her breasts. “I hadn’t bedded you yesterday.”
“You didn’t bed me last night, either.” She slid on top of him and felt gratified when his member stiffened in response. She loved that she had the power to arouse him so quickly.
“You’re flirting with danger, Abby,” he warned as he watched her with heavy-lidded eyes.
She gave him a sultry look. “So push me away.”
When he lifted his hand, she thought he was going to do just that. Max was not a man to be trifled with. But he didn’t. He cupped her breast while grabbing a fistful of her hair and dragging her mouth to his.
“Do you really want to provoke me?” he asked against her lips.
His kiss wasn’t nearly as gentle as those he had given her in the night but, after spending much of the past thirty-six hours with him, she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. He was merely frustrated. He wanted her as much as ever but wouldn’t let himself take her.
“If you are trying to frighten me, it won’t work,” she said and ran her tongue against his as he had taught her hours before.
With a curse, he let go of her hair and devoured her kiss. Then his hands circled her waist, positioning her such that she could slide onto his hard shaft if she wanted to take the initiative.
Her heart pounded with the daring of it. She lifted her head to stare into his eyes, but he seemed to realize that she would indeed give him her virginity and lifted her to one side before rolling out of bed.
“Why am I letting you torture me?” he grumbled.
She made a face at his back. “You’re the one holding me here against my will.”
“No wonder it’s strange to me that you should be so happy!”
“You have introduced me to a new, sensual world. Is it so terrible that I am eager to explore it while I have the chance? Can you honestly tell me that any woman wouldn’t like . . . what did you call it? Tipping the velvet?”
“That is not a term for you to repeat,” he said.
He sounded a great deal like her father. “Fine. I won’t. Apparently, it would please you better if we pretended to still be strangers this morning, which makes no sense—not now that we have been so intimate.”
“Don’t talk like that, either.”
“Why?”
He grimaced. “Because it reminds me that I have not acted honorably!”
“I thought you didn’t care about honor.”
“My honor was lost when I held you against your will. But I have to draw a line somewhere.”
“Then be miserable, if that’s what you want. But must I be miserable with you? Would you rather I was unhappy?”
He sighed. “I fear I am setting you up for just that.”
She combed her fingers through her hair as she watched him dress, which was enjoyable in itself. “Because you were right?”
He wouldn’t look back at her. “About . . .”
“The fact that I would like your cock?”
“Abby, you have no idea what that kind of talk does to me,” he growled. “You must stop!”
She laughed that he could be so easily flustered. “You can be vulgar in an attempt to shock me, but I can’t do the same to you? Who would have thought that a body snatcher could be such a prig?”
He shook his head. “I never should have touched you.”
Suddenly, Abby felt a little sick. “Do you regret it?”
“Yes! No! I mean . . . I should.”
“But . . .”
Finally dressed, he whirled to face her. “I can’t feel good about it because you don’t know, damn it!”
“Don’t know what?”
“Anything!”
“Are you disappointed in my lack of experience?”
“Of course not.”
“It seemed to me you liked it when I touched you, when I kissed you—”
“Abby, that goes without question. You saw and felt what you did to me. But you cannot leave yourself so vulnerable, so—”
He never got the chance to finish. Borax began to bark. Then there was a rap at the door downstairs and a male voice rang out, “Open up! This is the Metropolitan Police.”
When Max hurried out of the room, he happened to meet up in the hallway with Jack who, surprisingly enough, seemed more excited by their unwanted visitor than concerned.
“I guess now you’re gonna have to answer for treatin’ the surgeon’s daughter like a dirty puzzle, huh?” he said and chortled, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
Max wasn’t always familiar with Jack’s slang. They hadn’t grown up in the same class. But he knew a dirty puzzle probably wasn’t much different than a bob tail, or disgusting whore, which is what Jack called most women. “Don’t talk about Abby like that,” he said, “or we’re going to have a problem long before we make it downstairs.”
A blast of sour whiskey breath hit Max as Jack laughed. “You got that girl’s quim on the brain, I tell you. Let’s see what this constable thinks of you wapping the surgeon’s little beauty.”
Max cut Jack off before he could get past him. “You realize we’re in this together.”
“I haven’t touched her!” Jack said.
“Only because I wouldn’t let you. Anyway, if Edwin Hale isn’t at the door, too, it’s possible this isn’t about Abby.”
Jack looked perplexed. “Of course it’s about Abby. What else could it be?”
“Remember that maid we ran into approaching Sir William’s last night? It could be an inq
uiry into what we were carrying in the bag. Given the size and shape, and Sir William’s occupation, it wouldn’t be hard to guess our purpose there. It could even be that the police have already visited Sir William, ascertained the identity of that corpse and want to find out where and how we got hold of it.”
The levity fled Jack’s face.
“I suggest you spend a few minutes thinking about what you might say if that woman didn’t expire of natural causes,” Max said.
“Did you lock the surgeon’s daughter in?” Jack whispered, now somber as a priest.
“I did,” Max replied and took the stairs two at a time.
Another knock resounded, this one more impatient than the last. “Open up!”
When Max did just that, the constable standing on the stoop shifted on his feet as if he wasn’t quite comfortable in his stiff blue uniform. Edwin Hale wasn’t with him; he was alone.
“Is there a problem, sir?” Max asked.
The constable angled his head to peer past him and seemed to take note of Jack, who was making a show of putting water on to boil. “I’m looking for two men—Maximillian Wilder and Jack Hurtsill.”
“I’m Wilder.” Max pressed a hand to his chest before indicating Jack. “That’s Hurtsill.”
The constable’s lips curved into a smug smile. “I’m afraid we have received a complaint against the both of you.”
Max cleared his throat. “Regarding . . .”
“A certain young woman you are holding against her will.”
This was about Abby. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Max spread his hands to signify that he had nothing to hide.
“Is that so?” The constable’s eyes narrowed; he had pegged that response for the lie that it was. “Because a bloke by the name of Tom Westbrook claims he has been living here with you and has seen the woman with his own eyes.”
A Matter of Grave Concern Page 14