Page 24 of Echoes of Twilight (Dawn of Alaska #4)

24

B ryony gripped the brush in her hand tightly, yanking it down her hair with more force than necessary. The action only caused her scalp to smart from the pulling, and the bristles to tangle in her hair.

She gave the brush another tug, but that just further tangled the bristles in the snarled knot near her shoulder.

She didn’t care. Not about the brush. Not about the tangled mess her hair was in after falling into the river. And not about some influential politician her father and brother wanted her to marry.

Richard had been dead only two days, and they already had a new plan for her life.

But this time she wasn’t going to listen to what they wanted her to do. She didn’t care how much they objected. She’d wasted too many years of her life thinking she’d end up married to Richard simply because her father had always told her that’s what she’d do.

Even as the years went on and she saw more of his personality, learned of his mistresses and his illegitimate child, saw how he treated people he wasn’t friends with and people who couldn’t help him get what he wanted, she’d felt trapped, like she had no other choice. Like she needed to marry Richard because he would one day hold a position that controlled her father’s research funding.

But now that he was gone...

Now that she’d met Mikhail, and he’d told her she had talents and abilities that she should develop for God and maybe even use to help others...

Now that she knew he had two sisters who had somehow made a way for themselves in professions dominated by men...

Her chest ached as she reached up and fingered the brush still stuck in her hair. Her long tresses had been a disaster even before getting into the canoe that morning. She hadn’t had time to fully brush them in the first place, and then the waves had turned her hair into an impossible mess.

She sighed, staring out at the river, large and strong as it flowed north toward the ocean.

Maybe she’d take a knife to her hair and lop it off. If she didn’t have enough hair to pull into some fancy coiffure, maybe no one would want to marry her when she returned to Washington, DC.

Then she’d find a job at... well, probably at one of the government agencies looking for a secretary or typist. There were always agencies needing women to type up reports and file papers. It sounded incredibly boring, but she had enough experience doing those things for her father that she should be able to get a job rather easily.

Or maybe she could find a job sketching plants or animals or some other such thing that a scientist like her father would find useful. She wouldn’t be working in the field of science, per se, but at least she’d be doing something she enjoyed and using the abilities God had given her.

She’d have to move out of her father’s house. He certainly wouldn’t want her there if she wasn’t going to marry whatever man he picked next.

But if she was going to be honest, she was tired of living with her father and Heath anyway. There were multiple boarding houses for women in Washington, DC. Surely she could find a room in one of them. And she had enough money put by to pay for the first month or two of lodging before she started getting paychecks from whatever job she found.

She looked down at the journal sitting beside her on the log. While she still wasn’t sure what she’d end up doing with this one, maybe now that Richard was dead, she’d get all of the royalties from her previous field guides, not just half. In fact, if what Mikhail said was accurate and Richard had been keeping more than his share to begin with, she might get an even larger sum than she’d previously thought possible. Would that be enough money to...

What? What would she do with extra money? She couldn’t exactly gallivant off on an expedition by herself to write another field guide, not as a single woman.

So where did that leave her? With enough money to buy a house? Was that what she wanted to do with anything extra she earned?

Maybe she was being too maudlin. After all, whatever government agency she ended up working for, the office was sure to be filled with men. Perhaps one of them would take a fancy to her. He would have honey brown hair and golden eyes and a smile that he only showed every now and then. But that was all right. She wouldn’t care, because he would treat her with such kindness that...

No. She pressed her eyes shut, well aware of the image that was filling her mind. It wasn’t of some handsome stranger. It was of the man sleeping by the fire. The man who had risked his own life that very morning to save hers.

She shook her head, her throat tight, then reached for the brush a third time.

It took her a ridiculously long time before she was finally able to free the brush from the vicious, snarled knot by her shoulder, but even after that, her hair didn’t want to be brushed. Every stroke fought her, getting stuck multiple times no matter how gentle she tried to be.

She was back to contemplating lopping off her hair and throwing her brush into the river, when a hand closed over hers on the handle.

She whirled around, her heart hammering against her chest.

But there was no Tlingit warrior standing behind her with a gun drawn. It was Mikhail, with his own hair brushed and pulled back into one of the queues he often wore. He wore his fur parka but had left it unbuttoned, leaving the front open with his cream shirt and the little V of skin showing over his collarbone.

“Let me help.” His voice sounded deep and rough.

Because he’d slept for most of the afternoon? Surely that was it.

He tugged the brush away from her. “This is the biggest mess I’ve ever seen.”

“You want to brush my hair?” No one had ever offered to help brush it before. Well, besides the nanny she’d had for a few years after her mother died.

He didn’t answer, just sat on the log beside her and started moving the brush down her tresses in slow, gentle strokes. “The river made a mess of this earlier, but I’m surprised you leave it down at all.”

Oh, that. She let out another sigh. “I don’t have anything to pull it back with. Father forgot some of the supplies he’d meant to bring and ended up using most of the ties and hairpins I brought to dry specimens he didn’t want pressed. They’re in the box at the bottom of the trunk.”

“So you gave everything to him... and resigned yourself to spending extra time each day untangling your hair in the wilderness?”

Was Mikhail angry? He looked that way with the way his brow was drawn down and his jaw was set in a stern line. But his hands were gentle as he worked through the snarls.

“My father needed them. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Save a handful of them for yourself so you didn’t have to spend months taking forty-five minutes to work the tangles out of your hair at the end of each day.” Again, Mikhail’s voice sounded deep and rough, but there was nothing rough about how he brushed her hair. In fact, the rhythmic pull of the bristles through her locks felt calming.

“I did. They lasted until after Jack died. I tried making a fishing pole so we could eat fish for our meals, but I must not have done something right, because I broke the last handful of ties trying to hold different parts of the pole together.”

“Of course you did.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment, nothing but the sound of the river and wind filling her ears.

Then he reached behind his head and pulled loose the leather tie holding his own hair in place. A few strands of his golden brown hair fell forward, brushing against his brow as he handed her the strip. “Use this. My hair isn’t nearly as long as yours, and it won’t tangle as much. Besides I have more ties in my pack. I thought you left your hair free because you wanted it that way. Otherwise, I would have said something sooner.”

She blinked, not quite sure of what to do as she held out her hand for the strip of leather. It was warm from being tied in his hair. “It’s your job to keep me alive, not to help me manage my hair. Honestly, I was contemplating cutting it off when you walked up.”

The brush stilled on her head, and he leaned forward, his breath brushing her ear. “Don’t cut it, angel. It’s far too beautiful.”

Angel. He’d called her that after the Tlingit men had found her. Where had the name come from? Certainly he didn’t think she was some type of heavenly being or savior.

And did he really think her hair was that beautiful? She drew in a shaky breath and shifted to see him better, even though he was still brushing her hair.

But that was a mistake, because turning to face him only reminded her of how close they were sitting. Only made her aware of the subtle heat radiating from the strip of his shirt that was visible beneath his open coat. Only made her aware of the scents of water and wind and something deep and masculine wafting from his skin.

He reached up to brush another lock of hair, using his opposite hand to work at a particularly large knot from beneath. The movement caused his knuckles to brush against her neck, and hummingbirds exploded in her stomach, warring with each other for which one could beat its wings the fastest.

She dropped her gaze to her lap, but it didn’t stop her from noticing every last thing about Mikhail. How the low rasp of his breathing mingled with the quiet scratch of the brush’s bristles. How the wind stirred a lock of his honey brown hair until it brushed against her cheek. The tickling sensation sent goose bumps down her arms.

Her lips parted, suddenly dry, and when her eyes darted back up, they found his.

Mikhail’s hand stilled, the brush hovering just above her shoulder. Then he set it down and reached out with his other hand. His fingers were gentle as he tilted her face toward his. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Her voice was barely audible above the rushing of the river.

“Like you want me to...” He gave his head a small shake, his eyes still pinned to hers, and leaned in.

The moment his lips brushed hers, every last thought fled her mind. There was only the warmth of his hand as it slid from her hair down her back, the soft pressure of his lips as they lingered against hers.

His scent surrounded her again, that hint of earth and musk and man pushing away the smells of air and water and snow. She tried to kiss him back, though she didn’t have the first clue what she was doing. In fact, she wasn’t even sure where to put her hands. She eventually settled for wrapping her arms around his neck. It had the effect of bringing their bodies closer, causing his chest to press against hers, and making it seem as though the warmth of his body could somehow seep through layers of coats and shirts and underthings until it reached her very skin.

She tilted her head, her fingers tightening on his coat, and let herself melt into the kiss, all thoughts of tangled hair and icy rivers and potential fiancés forgotten. She could stay like this forever, safe and warm in his arms, surrounded by a man who saw her as a person with hopes and dreams of her own, as a person with special talents and abilities.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, he broke the kiss and pulled back. His breath mingled with hers as they hovered there, close enough that she could feel the faint warmth of his exhale against her lips. His golden eyes searched hers for a moment, as though trying to make sense of what had just happened.

A faint crease marred his brow, and he swallowed, his thumb lingering for one final brush across her cheek before he dropped his hand. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Bryony blinked, sucking the air back into her oxygen-starved lungs. “Why not?”

“Just don’t cut your hair,” he said softly, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “It’s far too beautiful to cut.”

Then he rose to his feet, leaving her sitting there on the log—with the memory of his kiss still burning on her lips.