Read Online Written on Your Skin by Meredith Duran - Free Book Online Page A

kindly on small weaknesses, so she stuck her hand beneath her skirts. “I had occasion to meet him in the Orient, shortly before my stepfather’s arrest. He went by the name of Phineas Monroe.”
    Ridland’s face became so rigid that he looked like an effigy of himself. “No. That will not be possible.”
    His strong reaction puzzled her. A horrible explanation presented itself. “Is he dead?”
    His expression did not change. No, she decided, Monroe was still kicking. Something else accounted for this iciness. “I am not able to divulge such information. I am sorry, Miss Masters.”
    She sighed. He wasn’t sorry at all. “So am I.” After all, Monroe was the only man in the service of the British government who she knew for certain had not worked for her stepfather four years ago.
    Ridland was still staring at her. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
    “Yes,” she said. “I think it is.”
    His expression darkened. His hand on the back of the chair curled into a fist. Not promising, that. She rose to put distance between them, deciding on the fly to go to the bookshelf. She lifted her chin as she walked, the better to display the line of her neck, which a number of gentlemen had assured her put them in mind of a swan’s. Surely it would prove harder on the conscience to hurt a swan than a hedgehog, although she could use a few sharp quills right now, and the helpful capacity to curl into a bristling ball.
    “I hope you will not force me to harsher measures, Miss Masters.”
    She selected a volume at random. Harsher measures. Such terrible poetry in two words, such evocative power: a lightless, windowless room, thirst clawing at her throat, the air thickened with heat, her mother’s distant screams. If he thought to scare her, he was going to have to work harder; she rather thought she’d already seen the worst. “Yes,” she said, and took a seat at the window. “That would be unfortunate.”
    The book was an atlas. How lovely. She could look at all the places Ridland wouldn’t allow her to go.
    “I will return in an hour,” he said. “Consider your nails, Miss Masters. Do you like them? If you cooperate, you’ll be allowed to keep them.”
    When the door slammed, she tossed down the book. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them together against her mouth. It struck her as a prayerful gesture. Maybe what she needed to do was pray. But God helped those who helped themselves; the past four years had proved that, at least. Now was not the time to begin to doubt her own ingenuity.
    The floral pattern on the wallpaper seemed to ripple before her eyes. How stupid it had been to gamble on writing that letter. Now he would want secrets, and she had none she felt able to give him. I know of a traitor in your ranks, she might say, but if he happened to be the turncoat, such tidings would hardly gratify him. She had taken his measure now, and it seemed likely that her nails would not be the last thing she lost to him.
    Open the curtain, she thought. Look again.
    The prospect of finding an empty rooftop made her tremble.
    Just do it. Wondering is harder than knowing.
    Her eyes fell on the discarded book. And then she blinked, and focused on the print. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. Providence. Providence, Cornwall, located very near to a place called Land’s End. Could that be a coincidence?
    A sign. She wrenched the curtains open.
    Nothing. A sob broke from her throat. And then, through the rising tears, she caught a brief stir of movement, and everything in her seized and lifted.
    She pressed her nose flat to the glass, her fingers splayed against the cold pane. Mr. Tarbury crouched on the roof opposite, in the shadow of a chimney. The gray tomcat was preening beneath the stroke of his hand. Mr. Tarbury was a great admirer of cats; it took him a long, agonizing minute to look up and notice her. Then he tapped his chest and gestured in her direction.
    Yes, she mouthed, nodding so