From The Ashes (The Ministry of Curiosities #6)(67)

He indicated I should sit then he too sat. He picked up the paper again. "These are the documents Mannering stole from Bell. I decided to take another look at them."

"Any reason in particular?"

"Frustration at getting nowhere. I don't think Marchbank is our killer."

"Eliminating him is progress."

"Not enough. Not nearly enough." He rested his elbow on the chair arm and skimmed his top lip with the side of his finger. "Tell me what you think of these. A fresh set of eyes might reveal something I missed."

"I doubt it. You don't miss much." I accepted them anyway. They were mostly brief letters, asking for progress reports on the 'assignment' with the occasional mention of payment. I read each one, some twice. I held the paper to the light, but saw no watermark or other special markings. "There's nothing to identify the killer in these."

"True," he said, although I got the feeling he was holding something back.

I looked again. "I suppose they tell us a little of the sort of person he is. Or she."

"Go on."

"I think it's a man. The hand is neat but sharp. There are no feminine loops or flourishes."

"Almost too sharp." He leaned forward and pointed to the capital letters. All had small but noticeable ink blotches. "It's as if the writer thought for a moment after putting pen to paper, but before writing. As if they were consciously altering the style and shape of their letters."

I saw it now too. "So that doesn't eliminate a female writer."

"Perhaps not. It does indicate that the author is attempting to hide their identity. Because he knows we'll recognize his hand?" He moved his chair alongside mine and leaned in to read. It took me a moment to gather my scattered wits together and concentrate.

"The sentence formation isn't feminine," I said. "It's quite abrupt, and to the point."

"Yes."

"That probably rules out Lady Harcourt, after all."

"And leaves in all the men." He stretched out his legs and rubbed his forehead.

"You're tired," I said.

"Frustrated with the investigation and this arrangement…it can't go on."

"Do you mean us both living here?" I hadn't thought it too terrible of late, but that could have been because we were both preoccupied and busy.

"No, I meant you having to remain inside. You should be out shopping, riding, and doing things young women do at this time of year."

"It hasn't been so bad, but thank you for the consideration. I think Dr. Fawkner has it much worse."

"He deserves it."

"We can't keep him forever. And we must consider the supernaturals too. It's almost Christmas and they'll want to be home."

He drew in his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. His hair hung loose around his face, the dark twists obscuring his eyes. I ached to touch his shoulder to offer some comfort.

That thought shocked me to the core. When had I gone from hating him to caring? I didn't want to care. I didn't want to forgive. I didn't want to be at the mercy of his whims again.

I stood and looked away, but my heart remained heavy. "You know there's an easy solution. One that will draw the killer out."

"No, Charlie," he said with quiet conviction. "That is not a solution."

"It is. It's the only one we have."

He got to his feet. "I said no."

I lifted my chin and couldn't help the smile that stretched my lips. "You are no longer the leader. You can't order me about." I had him now.

He opened his mouth and shut it again. He seemed to be warring with himself. I wondered if he wanted to remind me that he could lock me in my room, or that he owned the house and was therefore still master here, but decided those were unwise words considering our history.

"You don't play fair," was all he said.

I laughed. "Says the man who wrote the book on devious play."

The corner of his mouth lifted. He took a step toward me so I quickly retreated to the door and opened it. He wouldn't attempt anything foolish where others could see.

I was wrong. He caught up to me in the corridor and hooked me by the waist. His ragged breathing warmed my forehead, and his hand braced against my hip. He lifted the other hand to my face and gently stroked his thumb across my cheek. He tracked its path with his dark, heated gaze.

The exquisite touch thrilled me, yet pained me at the same time. I wanted more of it, yet I wanted to shove him away from me. I wanted to wallow in his embrace, but I wanted to shout at him too. What was wrong with me? Why was I so conflicted? The choice should have been easy. Mere days ago, when he'd come for me at Inglemere, it had been easy. I'd been determined never to forgive him.

And now here I was, allowing him to tear my self-control to shreds and make a mess of my convictions.

He leaned in and I closed my eyes. He did not kiss me, however, but rested his forehead against mine. "Charlie," he whispered.

With enormous effort, I drew away from him, out of his reach. I forced myself to hold his gaze, but it wasn't easy with the confusion I saw there. I hated seeing him like that.

"You can't keep doing this, Lincoln," I said. "You can't keep changing your mind. You want me, then you don't want me, now you want me again. It's hell on my nerves."