Chapter Two #2
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you should not accost a stranger?
” she countered, trying to twist away, but he held fast, his thumbs pressed against the ridge of her collarbones where no man had ever touched her before, as a dull flush, centered in the middle of her chest was rapidly spreading outward, settled under her skin.
“Unhand me, sir! I’ve a coach to catch and no time to dally. ”
“A coach to where?” he asked casually, as if they were having a mild conversation over tea instead of a heated exchange at the base of an institution she had just been soundly rejected from.
Left to her own devices, she would have preferred to lick her proverbial wounds in private while she analyzed every word spoken between herself and Dr. Bard.
She wanted to take thorough notes on their conversation before she forgot his pronunciation and his tone when he’d told her that she had wasted his time.
As if the hours she had spent traveling here only to be told within the first five minutes to leave were immaterial.
And why? For what reason? Simply because she was a woman, ever destined to be viewed as inferior by men?
Well, Abigail did not believe in destiny.
She believed in science.
She believed in medicine.
She believed in herself, and she was not going to allow anyone—even the Dean of Columbia College Medical School—to shake that belief.
Nor was she going to permit an annoyingly handsome stranger to detain her a moment longer, no matter that his eyes were the same rich hue as the bark on the spruce tree outside her bedroom window or that his hands felt like rough velvet on her skin.
“My destination is none of your concern,” she snapped.
Those rough velvet hands shifted lower, his thumbs falling into the hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse was beating in an increasingly erratic rhythm.
Behind him, a few random passersby gave them a sideways glance as they shuffled past, but no one bothered to stop.
Who were they to interfere in a lovers’ quarrel?
Never mind that this man was not her lover.
Firstly, because she didn’t have a lover, and secondly, even if she did, she wouldn’t pick him.
Not if the human species were threatened and he were the last male to propagate with in all of America.
When her mother had died, everyone Abigail knew and even those she didn’t had encouraged her to find a husband.
Marriage, they’d told her, was the best means she had of providing for herself.
It would keep her safe. It would offer security.
Most importantly, it would help fend off the growing rumors that she was a bit .
. . odd. But Abigail had taken one look around at all of the male prospects that the small town of Lisbon had to offer and she decided, then and there, that her future did not lie with a beau, but with a book.
Knowledge, not marriage, would be her doorway to a life beyond the traditional role that Society would have her fill, and she’d pursued that knowledge with unwavering dedication and determination.
Had she occasionally glanced up from her studies and felt a mild twinge of envy when she saw a couple arm in arm, their heads bent together as they exchanged words of affection with nary a care in the world but each other?
Yes. If she were being truthful, she had.
But if she ever sought a relationship, it would be with a man of high intellect, humility, and good manners.
Not this . . . not this oafish scoundrel who lacked the mental capacity to follow a clear command.
“I must insist that you release me!”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious to learn who I am?” he asked, lifting a dark brow. There was a glint of amusement in his gaze, but his mouth was flat. The hard slant of it almost cruel as his grip tightened imperceptibly, the pads of his thumbs drawing absent circles on her flesh.
“No.” Her patience having reached its end, she dropped her satchel, locked her hands together to form a fist, and sent that fist upward, effectively breaking his arms apart and freeing herself from his grasp.
“Bloody hell,” he exclaimed, amber eyes widening as he rubbed his forearm. “How did you do that?”
“It is a matter of basic physics. If you would move aside—”
“Try it again.” With an arrogance that was breathtaking in its scope, he put his hands back on her shoulders.
Grinding her molars together—a terrible habit that only revealed itself during moments of great stress—she paired the upward sweep of her fists with a stomp on his instep, but before she could spin away, his arms shot out with predatory speed and wrapped her in a closed embrace.
Like a rabbit that suddenly found itself locked in the jaws of a hungry fox, her first instinct was to flee, but when she tried to push away, she was dismayed to find herself held fast in bands of iron.
Given that she lived alone, Abigail had thought it prudent to have a rudimentary understanding of physical self-defense.
Through repetitive movement and quite a few falls, she’d taught herself how to use her own weight as leverage against a much larger opponent.
But nothing in her training had prepared her to be pinned to the broad chest of a complete stranger with nowhere to run and no way to escape.
“What now?” he asked, his voice a husky, rumbling taunt in her ear as he held her head to his heart, the muffled thump thump of the organ audible even through his greatcoat.
Pressed unwillingly into such an intimate embrace, she couldn’t help but notice other things about him.
Tiny, personal details, like his scent .
. . sandalwood with a hint of lemon. Or the button in front of her nose that wasn’t brass or pewter, but pure gold, a sign of great wealth.
Or the way his hands were molded to her body, as if he’d held her before and had intimate knowledge of the curves purposefully hidden beneath layers of cotton and wool.
Abigail gritted her molars with such force she wouldn’t have been surprised if one cracked and popped right out of her mouth. “Now, I pivot slightly to create just enough space between our bodies to bring my knee between your legs and jab it into your—”
He released her with such abruptness that she lost her balance and stumbled, bumping into a pillar at the base of the steps.
Snatching up her satchel and holding it against her heaving bosom as if it were an iron shield instead of a rather sad lump of worn leather, she prepared herself for another attack, but to her bemusement the stranger flung out his arms in a gesture of surrender before sinking into a formal bow that had her brows snapping together.
“It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.
” He raised his head to grace her with a particularly roguish grin that likely worked to charm a majority of women, but it wasn’t going to work on her.
Not at all. Not even the tiniest bit. Was that a dimple in his left cheek?
“My most fervent apologies, Lady Abigail. Please forgive me.”
The sound of her name on his lips gave her a start. “You . . . you know who I am?”
His grin faded as he straightened to his full height. “But of course. A man ought to know his own fiancée, shouldn’t he?”
An icy chill swept down the middle of Abigail’s spine.
“You’re mistaken, sir. You have me confused for someone else.
” If she were a rabbit, it was at this point that she would have rather gnawed off her own paw than remain clasped in the fox’s sharp teeth staring down the barrel of its gullet. “If you would excuse me—”
“No, I don’t think so.” The grin was entirely gone.
Without it, his countenance was cold and foreboding.
His gaze harsh and commanding. The charming, devil-may-care scoundrel had vanished.
In his place stood a merciless knight with a sword pressed to her neck.
And with his next words, he drew the first pinprick of blood.
“I’ve come a long way to find you, Abigail.
Now that I have, I’ve no intention of letting you go. ”