The cut was thin and shallow, not bad at all. She concentrated on that, which only helped a very little bit. “I do hope this won’t be a daily occurrence,” she said, keeping her voice steady and not at all breathless. “I’m not any sort of trained nurse, you know.”
“For your sake, Miss Seymour”—MacAlasdair’s voice was very close to her ear, a deep rumble that went through her body and almost made her drop the cloth she was using—“I’ll do my utmost to avoid it.”
“How generous of you,” said Mina, and looked up into a pair of gold-brown eyes fixed intently on hers.
She stepped back quickly. “I think that’s as much as I can do,” she said, and cleared her throat. “I can’t sew it up and I can’t get you any other clothes. And what—what about you?”
As she spoke, she turned back to Professor Carter. That was a relief on one level—although also a disappointment in a way Mina resolved not to think about—but the thought of leaving the professor alone was more alarming, and in a wholly unmixed way. “If people are trying to kill you or spy on you,” Mina said, “shouldn’t you come back with us? Or leave London for a bit?”
“No, I think not,” said Professor Carter. “If Ward had wanted me dead, he would have made some overt move in that direction. I think I’m more valuable to him as a living source of information—and this bracelet should prevent him trying to get anything out of me the way he did Moore, poor fellow.” He raised his arm again to show the silver bracelet and looked toward MacAlasdair for confirmation.
MacAlasdair nodded, but reluctantly. “As far as I know,” he said. “Even so—”
“Even so, we’ve had this discussion,” said the professor. “I’ve no reason to believe Ward’s reach is limited to London, and your house is far from impregnable. In fact, if he makes another try at it, I might be in more danger there than here. And I would far prefer to remain where I am for the present time. I’ll discuss it with you again if anything changes materially, MacAlasdair, but nothing has.”
He was still tense, but far less so than he had been after MacAlasdair’s previous visit or during the week just before it. Watching him, Mina wondered suddenly if the difference might have had to do with secrecy, or even with worry over her welfare. Perhaps they’d each been trying to protect the other all along.
Eight
Although Mina hated to admit as much even to herself, and although the proverbial wild horses couldn’t have dragged the confession out of her anywhere near MacAlasdair, the first few days of her captivity were actually a jolly good time. She slept until nine, as she’d not done since she was sixteen and laid up with influenza; she managed to finish all of the mending that she’d been putting off, and even added a new collar to her second-best blouse; and she finished reading King Solomon’s Mines, which she’d been working on since the new year.
She became almost used to breakfast with MacAlasdair. It was generally a silent affair, but as Mina had suspected, a less uncomfortable one than the similarly quiet meal she’d had below stairs. She didn’t get the same sense of suppressed conversation or of scrutiny, only of a man who wasn’t often up to speech before noon. Mostly, the two of them read the paper.
The first time Mina picked up a section, MacAlasdair hadn’t been able to completely suppress his surprised look, and Mina had bristled inwardly. “I’m very fond of the Times,” she had said in her most polished, clipped voice. “I’m glad to see you get it.”
“Always happy to oblige a lady,” he’d said, recovering quickly.
To his credit, MacAlasdair didn’t put even the slightest irony on lady, nor did he ask whether she’d started reading the Times after she’d come to work for Professor Carter. Mina was slightly disappointed about the latter. She’d prepared an indignant response, and MacAlasdair never had to know that she had started reading that particular paper about the same time as she’d begun looking for secretarial posts, with an eye toward impressing her employers.
After all, she’d quickly started being interested for other reasons—and perhaps the other reasons had been there all along, just looking for an excuse.
Mina took her other meals with Mrs. Hastings, volunteering to take the cook a tray while her knee mended. It was a good excuse to get out of dinner and supper without making much more work for the servants, and MacAlasdair hadn’t invited her to join him for those meals. He ate them out at his club, more often than not, and ate supper very late indeed. So, while the rest of the servants sought their own amusements for the hours between sunset and starlight, Mina sat upstairs, talked with the cook, and tried not to think about the creature penned in some room downstairs.
She wasn’t entirely sure what MacAlasdair did when he wasn’t eating breakfast or being a dragon. Neither was Mrs. Hennings when Mina very casually brought the conversation around to that subject. He went out a lot these days. He hadn’t back when he’d first arrived. He didn’t really tell anyone where or why.
Mina hoped that at least some of his trips had to do with hunting down Ward. She wasn’t completely comfortable sharing a house with a sometimes-dragon. She was even less easy knowing that somewhere in the city was a man who hated both her host and Professor Carter, and who could summon shadow demons and conjure mists. If she’d been the kind of woman who lost sleep over anything, she would have spent a few restless nights on that account.
As it was, she took shameless advantage of both free time and food, and managed to enjoy herself tolerably well—for the first three days or so. (It helped that the first two were rainy.) Then came an evening when she’d finished both her book and her mending, when Mrs. Hennings was down in the kitchen again and not inclined toward conversation, and when Mina was certain she couldn’t have slept any longer if she’d polished off a bottle of laudanum. Professor Carter was all right, MacAlasdair had told her that morning, but he had nothing for her yet.
She couldn’t go out.
She didn’t need to. MacAlasdair’s house was large enough for any amount of exploring.
Mina began with the servants’ hall, although that didn’t take very long. The bare walls and wooden floors weren’t particularly interesting, and she was hardly going to enter anyone’s bedroom. Even if she’d been willing to pry, which she wasn’t, it would only have been another room like hers, except perhaps smaller. There was no attic room at the top of this house, no imprisoned wife like the ones from Florrie’s imagination.
The thought made Mina smile. Then, descending the stairs, she wondered if MacAlasdair might not have a wife after all. Not a mad one, of course, but it was common enough for even normal men to take a house in the city and leave their wives and children in the country, if they were rich enough. MacAlasdair was.
Perhaps his kind kept their women locked up, as a rule.
That line of thought brought up several other questions: just what kind of women were these hypothetical wives, anyhow? It didn’t seem likely that dragon-men just grew on trees, though Mina supposed it was possible. Who did they marry, then? Mortal women? Did that…work?
Mina was glad nobody was around, since she could feel her cheeks burning. The memory of MacAlasdair with his shirt off came to her unbidden, and a small unwelcome voice in the back of her head said: He certainly looked like a man then.