Free A Matter of Grave Concern by Brenda Novak Page B

remarkably well. Miss Hale may not have been the most disciplined or cautious woman he had ever met, but she had plenty of other attributes. Max couldn’t fault her courage.
    “Well, there was Bransby, of course,” she said. “He’s the porter at the college—and the poor soul you set upon when you stole back the corpse I purchased!”
    “A harmless fellow.”
    “Getting on in years. How could you have frightened him so?”
    “I was more worried about making sure he didn’t sustain serious harm. We left him no worse for the wear. I saw to it.”
    She couldn’t argue that. Bran had been flustered, but that was all. “Anyway, he has worked for us as far back as I can remember. And then there’s Mrs. Fitzgerald, the housekeeper at the college. She came to us when my mother died.”
    Servants? Max was beginning to get the idea. Evidently, Abigail had been left on her own to grow up as best she could, with the aid of some house help and a library of medical journals. No wonder she had led such a sheltered life. He was willing to bet she had never circulated enough to attract many beaux. How else could such a beauty have remained untouched?
    The image of her as the lonely girl she must have been evoked his protective instincts, but he tamped them down. He had his hands full with his missing sister. And once he’d done right by Madeline, he had to return to his usual life with all the responsibilities that entailed.
     

Chapter 7
    The minutes passed like hours until Abigail thought morning might never come. Considering the uncertainty she faced, she wasn’t sure she wanted it to. But, if Max Wilder was suffering similar anxiety, it didn’t seem to be bothering him. He looked to be sleeping peacefully.
    Although she had spent plenty of time scowling at his back, she was too stubborn to climb in with him. What kind of woman would that make her?
    Certainly not an admirable one . . .
    But she had to admit that he wasn’t quite as bad as Big Jack. Although Max had stopped her from leaving when he might have let her go, which she highly resented and refused to forget, he could have done so much more than scruff her neck with his beard growth.
    If he were Big Jack he would have.
    And yet . . . Max Wilder couldn’t be classified as a saint. There was something dangerous about him, something bordering on the uncivilized. From what she had seen so far, he dared more than a man should. He flouted whatever rule he chose to flout, and seemed to have no compunction about asserting his will in any given situation, regardless of how it affected others.
    Still, he didn’t make her skin crawl as she thought he should. He was a resurrection man, the very dregs of society. Her father—anyone with good sense, really—would be appalled that she could find anything redeeming about him.
    So why did those few seconds when he touched his lips to hers loom so large in her mind?
    Because it hadn’t been an entirely unpleasant experience, she realized. Just the memory of it made her body grow warm and weak, as if she would lean into his strength if she could. Although she had never reacted to a man like that before, she was fairly confident those were signs of attraction , as shocking and scandalous as it was to acknowledge.
    Her poor mother must be rolling over in her grave . . .
    “Are you done pouting?”
    She stiffened when his voice issued out of the dark. So he wasn’t asleep, after all. She was sort of glad about that—it mitigated her jealousy. But she wanted to shush him at the same time, to tell him to be quiet for fear he would wake Jack or that other terrible man. They hadn’t come to demand that he hand her over, as she feared they might, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t if they had half an inkling Max was finished with her.
    “Don’t pretend you are asleep,” he said when she didn’t respond. “I can hear you shifting around, looking for some way to get comfortable. Are you really going to force yourself