The man joined her and looked at the lawn where the violent scene had taken place. He then assessed the stormy sky, and his wet hand slid around her waist and tightened. To Angelika, it felt like a husbandly, possessive touch, telling her to stay inside and out of danger.
Just as the pleasure of the moment rang through her body, he seemed to notice what he had done, and reacted in surprise. He pushed her away hard enough that she bounced off the window frame, her cheek smarting from the impact.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted, his eyes darting. “I’m not this strong. My body isn’t my own.” To add to his humiliation, under the muslin cloth, his penis was growing erect. He looked at Angelika’s waist, her thighs in trousers, and the situation became more prominent. “I didn’t mean to push you. What is happening?”
The hotness in her cheekbone was a reminder of reality. This was nothing like her girlish daydreams, and she refused to lasso her creation as her brother did.
“It’s up to you if you come with me now, but life will be hard for you with no clothes or money or shelter. If the villagers see you like this, they’ll assume you’ve escaped an asylum and will beat you to death. If you come willingly, I will give you warmth, a bed, food, and answers.”
Silently she left the room, and he followed her.
As she crossed the lawn that separated the barn from the manor house, he was still behind her, limping and biting back groans. She felt his attention on the rear of her body acutely. Apart from the involuntary circulatory response from his new penis, there was no indication that he found her even remotely appealing.
Only she felt a connection, and it was a familiar situation.
If Angelika saw a man more than twice, and could somewhat guesstimate where and when she might see him again, she fell into rapturous infatuation. The baker’s pockmarked delivery boy had no idea that he starred in Miss Frankenstein’s most romantic fantasies; ditto the neighbor’s footman, the goatherd who used their back laneway, and, for a shameful time, Victor’s elderly bookbinder.
Angelika had a passionate heart, but as she walked through the dark foyer of the manor and up the left-hand curved staircase, it finally struck her how unromantic this was. Instead of being patient and letting fate decide, in typical Frankenstein fashion, she had been too proactive.
“You’ve become rather quiet,” the man behind her said. She turned on the staircase and saw he was only on the second stair, struggling to raise each leg.
“It’s difficult?” She went to his side and put his arm around her shoulder. “I’ll help you. Lean on me.”
“I think I’m dying.” He was matter-of-fact about it. “I’m turning blue.” He resisted her help for as long as he could, but then grew heavier against her, until the remaining stairs seemed to Angelika to stretch upward like a mountain summit. Not once did he complain, and she was in awe of his sheer strength of will.
Now that they were pressed together, she could hear a wheeze in his lungs. I did this to him, she told herself in a daze. I have put him through this terrible agony, and for what? To have a handsome man around the house to have afternoon tea with? What was I playing at?
“I’m so sorry about this. My brother is a bad influence on me.”
Up and up they toiled, until they halted, puffing with exertion, on the landing, beneath the portrait of Angelika’s mother. The expression of the painting changed, depending on the angle and circumstance.
Right now, Caroline Frankenstein was deeply unimpressed.
“I’m clearly doing my best, Mama,” Angelika said up at the frame. “Come now.” She steered the man left. “My bedchamber is at the end; we just need to make it that far.”
“Your brother might not approve.”
“A man in my bathtub will not be the strangest thing happening today.”
His body leaned into hers, like it wanted her feel and scent. Against her hip, his member retained its rigidity. “Why does my body keep doing this?” He pulled back with distaste in his features and pushed at himself with his palm. “I want you to know, from the neck down, this is not me.”
He was completely correct, but it still hurt her feelings.
“My hands want to touch you, but I don’t want to, and my—” He focused downward again. “Everything is different. I have no memories, but I know this isn’t me. What did you do?”
At the end of the hall, Mary appeared with swinging buckets, blessedly breaking the moment. She snapped, “Finally. You’ve been an age. Get him in. Don’t waste my hard work.” She marched off, grumbling.