Because You're Mine (7 page)

“Because a girl like you doesn't inspire
politeness
in a man.” He put a stinging emphasis on the word.

Madeline stiffened and walked away from the library table, brushing by him as she headed to the door. “If you're saying that I've behaved in an improper manner—” She stopped with a gasp as he reached for her, his large hands seeming to burn through her sleeves. Roughly he pulled her to face him.

“I'm saying that when a man looks at you, he can't help thinking…”

He fell silent, staring at her for a long moment. Madeline swallowed, and his gaze flickered to the tiny movement. She wondered if he desired her, and what she should do to encourage him. Her heart skipped several beats as she realized that he was staring at her as if he intended to devour her just as he had accused Lord Drake of doing.

Her fingers trembled with the urge to touch his face, to explore the scratchy surface where his beard had begun to grow…the bold shape of his nose, the arches of his brows…the hard, wide mouth. She wanted to coax his lips to soften and press against hers…she wanted to lose herself in his arms.

Scott let go of her with a suddenness that nearly caused her to fall backward. His face turned blank. “Forgive me,” he said in a monotone. “My behavior was uncalled for.”

Madeline's knees were weak. There was a throbbing sensation in the pit of her stomach. She inched toward the table and gripped the side to keep herself steady. “I…” Her lips were strangely dry, and she moistened them before trying again. “I won't speak to Lord Drake again, Mr. Scott.”

“Do what you like,” he said flatly. “I have no right to object to your choice of companions.”

Bewildered, Madeline stared at his profile. One moment he had been in a fury, and the next he was completely indifferent. She must have done something wrong, missed some opportunity that a woman of more experience would have taken advantage of. As a seductress, she was an utter failure.

She waited for him to leave the room, but he was silent and unmoving. It appeared that every muscle of his body was tightly bunched. It seemed as if he were fighting some tremendous inner battle.

“Mr. Scott?” she asked softly. “If you don't mind…would you finish what you were going to say?”

His head turned. His searing blue eyes stared into hers.

“You said that when a man looks at me,” Madeline prompted, “he can't help thinking…”

The tension grew until Mr. Scott shook his head with a muffled laugh. “My God,” he muttered, striding from the room. “I'd like to know what I've done to deserve this.”

For the next two weeks Logan discovered himself to be the object of the strangest persecution he had ever experienced. Every time he turned a corner, Madeline was there, unrelentingly helpful, nearly driving him mad with her attentions. When he entered his office in the morning, she had already been there, leaving a napkin filled with iced buns or a steaming pot of tea on his desk. She ran to fetch things before he was even aware that he needed them…she studied his habits—how much sugar he liked in his tea, how much starch he preferred in his shirts.

Madeline's eager devotion both annoyed and embarrassed Logan, but at the same time…he couldn't remember when, or if, anyone had ever been so quick to meet his needs. She made certain that his costumes were always clean, mended, and pressed; brought reference books from the theater library when he needed them; and kept his office and his dressing room organized.

It was constantly on the tip of Logan's tongue to tell her to leave him alone, yet he couldn't seem to get the words out. It was convenient to have her close at hand…and oddly pleasant to watch her small, expressive face as she took dictation or sorted stacks of notices freshly arrived from the printer's shop. On the odd days when she was too busy to come straight to his office, he found himself watching the clock for her arrival.

“You took your time,” he said when she came to help with his correspondence one morning. “I've been waiting for you.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” she said breathlessly, “but Mrs. Lyttleton needed my assistance with some costume fittings—”

“You spend too much time at the costume shop. If Mrs. Lyttleton is overburdened, tell her to hire another seamstress. I have mail that needs to be answered.”

“Yes, sir,” she said obediently, a small smile touching her lips.

Realizing that he had sounded jealous and possessive, Logan scowled. “My correspondence is a damned sight more important than Mrs. Lyttleton's fripperies,” he said, feeling the need to justify himself. Madeline smiled and sat beside him in her accustomed place.

Logan kept her working in his office a good deal of the time, rationalizing that it was the safest place for an accident-prone girl like Madeline to be. She had a fearlessness that provoked him mightily, as he found her engaged in activities that ranged from hammering nails in the carpenter's shop to crawling across the fly-floor built high above the ground. This last instance was too much for Logan, as he walked onto the stage one day and discovered a small group of stagehands watching Madeline work far above them. She held a rope in one hand and was busily threading it through a pulley that was nailed to the grid ten feet below the roof of the theater. “Good work, lass!” one of the men called, while another laughed admiringly. “Agile as a monkey, that girl.”

Logan's breath seemed to leave his body. One misstep, and Madeline would plummet to the boards far below. He clenched his jaw to keep from shouting, which might startle her and result in a fatal accident. Breaking out in a heavy sweat, Logan swore silently and strode to a spiral staircase built behind the proscenium. He ascended rapidly, taking the narrow steps three at a time, until he had reached the catwalk, a two-foot-wide bridge suspended just below the fly-floor and slung on iron stirrups from the iron grid.

“I've finished,” Madeline called, swaying slightly as she looked over the edge of the fly-floor. “My goodness, it's a long way down!” She started as she saw Logan beneath her. “Mr. Scott,” she said in surprise, “what are you doing up here?”

“What are
you
doing,” he countered grimly, “aside from letting everyone have a glimpse up your skirts? No wonder you're so damned popular around here.”

For the first time she looked at him with anger, her mouth tightening. “That's unfair, Mr. Scott. I'm only doing my job, which is to help wherever I'm needed—”

“Not at the risk of your life,” he snapped. “Although at the moment I'm tempted to break your pretty neck myself and save you the trouble. Now give me your hand.”

“I can climb down myself—”

“
Now
,” he said between his teeth. She complied reluctantly, and his hand closed around her wrist in a bruising vise, hauling her off the fly-floor and into his arms. The catwalk vibrated from the force of the motion.

Madeline yelped at the indignity of being slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour. “Put me down,” she scolded as Logan made his way down the spiral staircase. “I don't need your help!” Ignoring her protests, he continued to carry her until they had reached the stage, and he deposited her roughly on her feet.

Glaring at the sheepish stagehands standing nearby, Logan spoke with ominous softness. “I'd like someone to explain why Miss Ridley was performing a job that I pay my stagehands to do.”

“Miss Ridley volunteered,” one of them said abashedly. “She pointed out that as she is so small and spry, she could get it done in half the time—”

“From now on,” Logan interrupted, “if anyone asks Miss Ridley to set one finger on a rope, scaffold, or set piece, I'll dismiss him on the spot.” His forbidding gaze moved to Madeline, who was flushed and furious, one small hand rubbing her sore wrist where he had gripped her too hard. “I won't apologize for that,” he said curtly. “I was tempted to do something far worse, believe me.”

Mr. Scott's unaccountable anger seemed to last long into the day, continuing through the rehearsal of the Capital's newest production,
Haunted
. Madeline fumed silently as she prompted the actors during their line readings. She avoided looking at Mr. Scott, thinking angrily that in spite of all she had done for him, he snapped at her more frequently than he did anyone else. It was obvious to the entire company. In fact, the stagehands, crew members, and actors all went out of their way to show their friendly sympathy. They murmured words of encouragement as she passed by, and made great shows of thanking her for helping with the rehearsal.

“Maddy knows my lines better than I do,” Arlyss remarked to everyone in general, standing in the middle of the stage. “She's the best prompter I've ever had.”

“She is,” Stephen Maitland agreed loudly. “And it's a wonder that Maddy has time to study the play, considering the way she's always running errands for everyone.”

Julia smiled indulgently and patted Madeline's shoulder as they sat together in the first row of theater seats. “Maddy has enough energy for ten people.”

Madeline blushed uncomfortably.

“Pardon me,” came Logan Scott's cutting voice from the stage, “but I was under the impression that we were conducting a rehearsal.” He sat in an armchair in front of a set of flats, rolling a whiskey bottle between his large hands. “Shall we get on with it?” he asked acidly.

“As soon as I find out what my line is,” Arlyss replied sweetly.

Logan glowered at Madeline. “Give her the bloody line, Miss Ridley.”

The displeasure of the company wasn't lost on Logan. Sardonically he reflected that everyone was protective of the girl and regarded him as a bully. To hell with them all. He had built this place, and he would treat his employees any way he saw fit. Grimly he plowed through the afternoon's work, ending the rehearsal nearly an hour earlier than usual.

Julia approached him in his office afterward, her brow knitted with consternation. “I heard about what happened between you and Maddy this morning,” she remarked. “Don't you think you're being rather hard on her?”

“You're right,” he said sarcastically. “The next time she volunteers to put herself in danger, I won't interfere.”

“It's not that,” Julia said. “For heaven's sake, Logan, I know how protective you are of your employees. I understand why you were cross with her earlier in the day. What I
don't
understand is your constant harshness with her. She's always at your beck and call—in fact, she's more your assistant than mine. The Capital is running far more smoothly because of her. You should be delighted with Madeline, and yet you act like a surly child whenever she's near.”

Logan glared at her, infuriated. “That's enough, Julia.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, immediately softening her tone. “It's just that you haven't been yourself lately. I'm concerned about you.”

“There would be no need for concern if you hadn't hired the girl in the first place.”

Julia looked at him in dawning wonder. “I'm beginning to think you don't dislike her at all. I wonder if the problem isn't quite the opposite. Nearly every man at the Capital imagines himself in love with her. Is it possible that you're afraid of falling for her yourself?”

Logan concealed a sudden flare of outrage behind a mocking glance. “Of all the cracked notions you've ever had—”

“I'm right,” Julia said, staring at him keenly. “You're fighting an attraction to her. Why not admit it?”

“I don't have time to discuss your addled theories,” Logan muttered. “If you wouldn't mind leaving, I have work to do.”

Julia didn't move. “I'm aware of your belief that you can turn your emotions on and off at will. You're always the master of your heart, and never the other way around. But emotions are terribly inconvenient, Logan…they don't always behave as one would wish.”

“Go to hell,” Logan said, and strode from the office.

After the rehearsal had concluded and everyone had left the stage, Madeline swept the floor vigorously, stirring up a cloud of dust that billowed I around her knees. “Arrogant…ungrateful…tyrant…” she muttered, venting her anger with each stroke of the broom. As she worked her way to stage right, she stopped near a loosely wrapped canvas package filled with foils used earlier in the day.

Reaching down, Madeline extracted one of the swords and grasped the handle. It was light and well balanced, whistling as she swished it through the air. Enjoying herself, she tried to imitate some of the movements she had seen that morning, lunging and thrusting with the foil in her hand. “Take that…and
that
…” she said, stabbing at an imaginary Mr. Scott.

“You look as though you're swatting flies,” came a sardonic voice from nearby.

Startled, Madeline saw Mr. Scott emerging from backstage, and she wanted to sink through the floor. Why did he have to be the one to witness her making a fool of herself? She expected him to make some remark that would cause her eternal humiliation…but his blue eyes gleamed with amusement.

“Whom are you attempting to skewer?” he asked, smiling in a way that revealed he was well aware of her invisible opponent's identity. When she didn't reply, he surprised her by taking her wrist in a gentle grip. His hand was very warm on her skin. “Here, this is how to handle the thing properly. Loosen your grip.” He adjusted her hand, his fingers pressing over hers. Madeline tried to relax, but it wasn't easy. He was standing so close, and her pulse was racing madly. “Imitate the way I'm standing,” he continued, “and keep your knees slightly flexed.”

Madeline risked a glance at him. His hair was rumpled, as if he had been tugging it distractedly, and she longed to smooth the thick locks. “You're always directing, aren't you?”

“You're not the first woman to accuse me of that,” he said wryly, and nudged the sword to the proper angle. “Now lunge forward with your right foot, bend your knee and extend the sword…yes, exactly like that. A stageworthy move if I've ever seen one.”

He was so close that Madeline could see the fine texture of his skin, the dark stubble that roughened his jaw, the gleam of auburn in his long lashes. With his face relaxed and his lips curved in a smile, he seemed a little younger than usual, a little more approachable.