A Week to Be Wicked (12 page)

“But—”

He raised a hand. “If my entertaining the Fontleys with a few exaggerated tales counts as wicked, I suggest you learn to embrace wickedness. For at least the remainder of the week. Their offer of transport is a true boon. It will save a great deal of money and perhaps preserve your reputation, as well. You have a chaperone.”

She knew it was true. “That’s all very well. But now I’m the one who must ride in a carriage with them for days, living out your absurd fictions.”

“Exactly. So why not have fun with it?”

“Fun?”

He took her by the shoulders and waited for her to meet his gaze. Minerva did so, with no slight reluctance. It was impossible to think clearly when she looked into those brilliant hazel eyes.

“Live in the moment, M. This is your chance to crawl out of that shell. There’s an interesting, confident girl in there somewhere. She comes out for a peek every now and then. Try
being
her, for just a few days. You won’t progress very far on this journey otherwise.”

Minerva bit her lip. She wanted to think there
was
an interesting, confident girl inside her, and that, at last, someone saw that girl clearly. But for all she knew, he was working the same trick he’d played on the Fontleys. Puffing her up with false praises. Telling her just what she wanted to hear.

Lying to her. Again.

“It’s only a few harmless exaggerations.” He walked her slowly toward the carriage. “Think of it like running down a slope. If you attempt to slow down and choose your steps, you’re bound to trip up and stumble. But if you simply let yourself run with the story, everything will come out fine.”

“Are you ready, Miss Sand?” Mr. Fontley said. “Mrs. Fontley and the children are already inside.”

Minerva nodded.

Colin handed her into the carriage. Once she’d taken a seat beside Lettie and arranged her skirts, her “brother” closed the coach door and popped his head through the open window.

“I’ll be riding nearby, M. Never fear. If you have any need of me whatsoever, you know what to do.” He flashed a smile and called out, “Tallyho!”

In unison, Lettie and Gilbert called back, “You’re cracked!”

With a little groan, Minerva buried her face in her hands.

“I
t’s always been like this between me and M,” Colin said. As they walked through a little wooded area, he pushed aside branches so she could pass. “Ever since we were in our cradles.”

“Truly?” Lettie asked. “Even as babies?”

Minerva rolled her eyes. How did he have the energy to keep manufacturing this poppycock? She was exhausted. By the time they’d stopped for luncheon and a change of horses, she’d been running down his figurative slope all morning, churning out one vague falsehood after another to satisfy the Fontleys’ boundless curiosity. She’d hoped to find some brief escape by declaring her intent to walk and stretch her legs.

But of course, Colin
would
decide to accompany her. And Lettie and Gilbert
would
jump to follow.

“Oh yes,” Colin continued, leading them all on the path. “My sister and I have always had this deep, unspoken connection. We have whole conversations without exchanging a word.”

He looked to her then. She held his gaze.

He was right. They could have a whole conversation without exchanging a word. And the conversation they had right now went like this:

Colin, shut it.

I don’t think I will, M.

Then I’ll make you.

Really? How?

I’m not certain, but it will be slow and painful. And I won’t leave any evidence.

“She saved my life once,” he told the young Fontleys.

“Who?” Lettie asked. “Miss Em?”

“Yes indeed. She delivered me, single-handedly, from death’s clutches. It’s a grand story.”

Striding through the ankle-high grasses, Minerva choked on a laugh.
Oh, I’m sure it is.

“Do tell us. I’m certain the tale does Miss Sand great credit.” Gilbert looked to Minerva with admiration in his eyes. And quite possibly a glimmer of infatuation.

Oh dear. Of all the times for a young man to finally take a fancy to her.

“Well, it all started deep in the jungle,” Colin said. “While we were out exploring one day, I was bitten by a rare, highly venomous beetle.”

Lettie’s eyes sparked. “And Miss Em cut open the wound and sucked out the venom!”

“No, no. She couldn’t do that. The poison was too fast acting.”

“So she dragged you back home, to get help?”

“I’m afraid not.” Colin shook his head. “I was too heavy for her.”

“So I left him dying and went home for dinner,” Minerva said cheerfully. “The end.”

Gilbert laughed. “Of course you didn’t. You ran for help, didn’t you?”

“She did,” Colin said.

They’d reached the stream’s edge. Colin propped one foot on a fallen log.

“And I’ll wager,” said Lettie, flouncing down next to his boot, “that she dashed like mad all the way home, and then made it back just in time. Bringing along some native doctor to cure you with his mystic chanting and powders.”

Smiling at the girl’s imagination, Colin shook his head. “No. Actually, by the time she returned with help, it was too late. She couldn’t heal me. I had died.”

Everyone went silent.

“But . . .” Lettie frowned. “But that can’t be. Here you are.”

“What happened?” Gilbert asked.

Yes, what happened?
Minerva almost added herself. Even she was breathless to learn what came next, when he’d lay dying in the jungle after a rare Ceylonese beetle bite.

Nothing happened, you ninny. It’s all a lie.

Colin cleared his throat. “Well, I can’t tell you precisely what happened. Because I slumped unconscious on the jungle floor, and I don’t remember anything after that. I’d fallen into a deep coma, it seems. The signs of life were so faint, my own family believed I was dead. They prayed over me, prepared my body and put it in a wooden coffin. And the next thing I knew, I woke up underground. In the dark. Buried alive.”

“Cor,” Lettie cried, clinging to his boot. “Whatever did you do?”

“I cried. I wailed. I clawed at the planks sealing me in until my fingernails were torn to bloody nubs. I despaired and trembled. I screamed until my throat was raw.” His voice had taken on a strange quality. He looked up, searching Minerva’s gaze. “And somehow, she heard me. Didn’t you, M? You heard me, calling through the darkness. I was alone and frightened. But in the dark of night, you heard the anguished cries of my heart.”

Minerva swallowed back the lump rising in her throat. She didn’t like this story anymore. She wasn’t sure what Colin was playing at. Obviously this description of his boyhood self, trapped and screaming in the dark, was meant for her. It would seem he hadn’t forgotten last night’s episode. He remembered it. All of it. And now he wished to . . . what, precisely? Thank her for her help? Mock her for her concern?

He asked, “Do you want to tell the next bit, M?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t.”

He turned to the children. “She came running out to the burial site, began digging through the dirt with her bare hands. When I heard those noises . . . well, I thought at first I’d truly died, and the hounds of hell were scratching at my coffin.”

Lettie squeaked and bit her knuckle.

“To this day, I have no fondness for dogs,” he said.

“Oh, how sad.”

In her memory, Minerva heard the echo of his savage cries.
Get back, you bloody bitch.

“I tried to call out, but couldn’t. The air was growing more and more close, and I could scarcely take a breath. As the sounds drew nearer, I managed to suck just a gasp of air into my lungs. Enough to call out one word.” He paused dramatically, then whispered, “Tallyho?”

The children held their breath.

“And you can guess what sweet magic I heard in return.”

“You’re cracked,” they replied in hushed unison.

“Exactly,” Colin said. “She’d saved me from the very clutches of death. My dear, daring sister.”

Their eyes met, and Minerva had to look away. She didn’t know what to feel, but she felt . . . something. And she felt it deeply.

Gilbert turned to her. “How brave you were, Miss Sand.”

She fluttered a hand. “Not really.”

“She’s too modest. Always was.” Rising from the fallen log, Colin playfully chucked her under the chin before leading the way back to the road. “Just wait until you hear about M and the cobra.”

Chapter Ten

“A
nd that”—Colin tapped his fork against his now-empty dinner plate—”is the story of the cobra.” He sat back in his chair, feeling satisfied.

All the Fontleys turned their gaze from him and looked to Minerva, awed.

Minerva glared at him. “I am not a snake charmer.”

“Of course not. Snake charmers need a flute.” He turned to the Fontleys. “I tell you, she had the creature entranced with her sweet voice alone. It wouldn’t leave her side after that day. The scaly thing slithered in her footsteps, all over Ceylon. We made a pet of it. Named it Sir Alisdair.”

Under the table, something sharp jabbed him in the thigh. He covered his yelp of pain with a cough.

Colin knew he’d pay for this later. But he couldn’t resist provoking her. Never had been able to resist it, ever since they’d first met. Today, of all days, he wanted to draw her out, push her beyond those boundaries she’d erected.

He wanted to be surprised.

And more than that—he wanted to keep the attention on her. Because if he gave her the chance to direct conversation, he knew she’d steer it in an unpleasant direction. One that involved last night. He didn’t want to discuss last night. In his own, circumspect way, he’d told her all she needed to know. As much as he’d ever told anyone.

“Miss Sand,” Gilbert Fontley said, “how can we convince you to sing?”

Shock flared in her eyes. “You can’t.”

“Mr. Fontley is quite the lover of music,” their mother said, patting her husband’s arm. “As am I. Miss Sand, we would be so pleased to hear you. Do oblige us, dear. There’s a pianoforte, just there.”

“But . . .” She swallowed hard and said weakly, “I couldn’t possibly.”

Colin watched her as she surveyed the inn’s crowded dining room. In a village as small as this one, the inn’s dining room also served as the village public house. There were probably above thirty souls in the room, equally divided between travelers passing the night and local men enjoying a pint with the fellows. A good crowd.

Young Miss Lettie joined the campaign. “Oh please, Miss Em. Do sing for us.”

“Come on, M,” Colin said jovially. “Just one or two songs.”

Minerva’s jaw tightened. “But
brother
, you know I gave up singing. After that horrific incident with the . . . millipede and the coconut and the . . . the stolen rubies.” Before he could press for details, she jumped to add, “Which we have sworn a pact on our parents’ graves to never, ever discuss.”

He smiled. Now she was catching the spirit. “That’s true. But it’s my birthday. And you always make an exception on my birthday.”

“You know very well it’s not—”

“It’s your birthday, Sand?” Mr. Fontley exclaimed over her. “Well, why didn’t you say so? We should drink to your health.” The older gentleman called the serving girl and ordered sherry for the table.

As glasses were passed around, Minerva said pointedly, “But brother, you never drink spirits.”

“I do on my birthday.” He raised the glass in salute, then drank.

He heard her growl.

“Won’t you sing, Miss Em?” Lettie pleaded again. “I so long for a bit of music. And it is Mr. Sand’s birthday.”

Soon all the Fontleys joined in the encouragement.

She turned to him and said simply, “
Colin
.” Her wide, dark eyes held a frantic plea for reprieve.
Don’t make me do this.

He felt a twinge of conscience, but he wouldn’t intervene. He’d come to recognize that look in her eyes. Her eyes always caught that wild, desperate spark just before she did something extraordinary.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll sing.”

She lifted the sherry glass in front of her, drained it in a single swallow, and set it down with a decisive
clink
. Then she flattened both hands on the tabletop and pushed to her feet.

In slow, determined strides, she walked to the pianoforte. She removed her spectacles and held them folded in her hand. She pressed her finger down on a single piano key and, closing her eyes, hummed the pitch.

And then she opened her mouth and sang.

Well. She sang very, very well.

Surprise.

The crowded room went so quiet, so quickly, Colin could practically hear the jaws dropping. The song she’d chosen was an old, familiar ballad. No fancy scales or operatic trills. Just a simple, straightforward melody that suited her clear, lyrical voice. It wasn’t a song fit for a musicale, or even one of the Spindle Cove ladies’ salons. But it was perfect for a small country inn. The sort of tune that didn’t gavotte, didn’t mince around. That didn’t bother dazzling the ear or engaging the mind, but went straight for the guts.

And the heart.

Good Lord. It was a bloody fool thing to think—let alone
say
—but her song arrowed straight for his heart.

No way around it. Colin was charmed. As charmed as a Ceylonese cobra.

More than that, he was proud.

When the ballad’s lovers met their inevitably tragic end, and the crowd broke into enthusiastic applause, Colin clapped along with the rest. “That’s my girl,” he murmured.

Though she wasn’t, really. He had no right to claim her. To think that all this time—every day that he’d resided in Spindle Cove—this had been inside her. This glorious, soul-stirring song. The courage to unleash it before a crowd of strangers. The sweetness to calm him in the night, when he clawed his way back from hell.

How had he never seen any of this? How had he never known?

The Fontleys—and everyone else—shouted for another song. Minerva shook her head, demurring.

“Just one more,” Colin called to her, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Sing my favorite.”

She gave him a look of strained patience, but she relented.

Another key struck. Another quietly hummed pitch.

Another moment of sheer revelation.

She’d warmed to it now. The singing, the attention. Her voice gained strength and confidence. She sang with her eyes wide open, and she sang directly to him. Well, he’d asked for that, hadn’t he? And it was the best not-an-actual-birthday gift Colin had ever received. Those sultry, ripe lips held him in thrall. Every time she drew a quick breath between phrases, her breasts fairly jumped for his attention.

If her first song had touched his heart . . . well, this one stroked him a ways lower.

It occurred to Colin that he should probably take pains not to be caught slavering over his own “sister.” But a glance around the place told him he wasn’t the only male in the room so affected.

Gilbert Fontley, in particular, was very bad off.

Without taking his eyes from Minerva, the young man leaned toward Colin. “Mr. Sand, do you think it’s possible to fall in love in the space of a single day?”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t know. I only fall in love at night. Never lasts beyond breakfast, though.”

Gilbert sent him a confused look. “B-but . . . But I thought you—”

“We all have our demons, Gilbert.” He clapped the young man on the shoulder and leaned close. “A word of advice. Cleave to the bosom of the Church.”

Minerva finished her ballad, and this time he could tell no amount of calling or applause would persuade her to sing again. Even as everyone in the room leaped to their feet, shouting encouragement, she replaced her spectacles and began to make her way back to the table.

Colin pushed back his chair, meaning to welcome her back with some words of sincere praise. But as she started across the room, a large, unshaven man holding a tankard lumbered into her path. He engaged her in some sort of conversation. Colin couldn’t make out their words over the din, but he didn’t need words to understand what was happening.

That disgusting lout wanted his girl.

And Minerva wanted nothing to do with the disgusting lout. The brute put a grimy paw on her arm, and she stumbled in her effort to pull away. Her spectacles went just slightly askew. That small detail—that tiny evidence of her disquiet—was enough to make Colin see twenty shades of red.

He punched to his feet, craving blood.

“S
ir, unhand me.” Minerva tugged against the revolting brute’s grip. His breath reeked of ale and garlic. His body reeked of . . . other things, better left unnamed.

“Jes’ another song, love.” He held her elbow with one hand and pawed at her waist with the other. “Come sit on my lap, give me a private performance.”

His hand brushed her bottom.

Minerva recoiled. She felt dirty. Other women might know how to deflect this kind of unwanted attention, but she didn’t. This never happened to her.

Then she caught sight of Colin, cutting a path to her through the crowded room. His stride was almost easy, unconcerned. But as he drew close, she could view the tense set of his jaw and the cold fury in his eyes.

He nudged the drunken lout with his arm. “Excuse me,” he said, “but is that your hand on my sister?”

The burly man straightened and adopted an affected, aristocratic tone. “I rather think it might be, guv.”

“Well, then.” Colin clapped him on the shoulder. “This is my hand on you.”

He drove a full-force punch straight into the lout’s gut. Then followed it with a smashing blow to the face.

Minerva’s hands flew to her own mouth, covering her startled cry.

The man didn’t even reel or blink. He simply went down. Hard. Taking an entire table and the accompanying glassware with him. The sounds of breaking glass and splintering wood crashed through the room, drawing everyone’s attention.

Colin stood over the brute, shaking out his hand and breathing hard. The look on his face was one of barely restrained fury.

“Don’t touch her,” he said, his voice like cold steel. “
Ever
.”

He put a hand to Minerva’s elbow and, with a nod in the Fontleys’ direction, ushered her from the room. As they left, the dining room erupted into chaos. She flinched at the sounds of chairs scraping across floors, and angry voices lifting.

She distinctly heard Mr. Fontley shout, “How dare you molest that young lady.”

And then Gilbert’s reedy tenor. “You’ll burn in hell for that. She’s a woman of God.”

They both paused on the bottom riser of the stairs. And broke into simultaneous laughter.

“We’d better get upstairs,” she said.

“Are you well?” he asked, stopping her in the upstairs corridor. His gaze scanned her from head to toe. “He didn’t harm you in any way?”

“No. No, thank you.” She swallowed. “And you?”

He unlatched the door. “Best birthday ever.”

They tumbled through the entry of their suite, laughing. As Minerva went to light the lamp, Colin slung his weight into a chair.

“You,” she said, “are unbelievable.”

“Come now.” He grinned up at her. “Admit it. That was fun.”

She felt the corner of her mouth tip, despite her. “I . . . I
never
do that.”

“You never do what? Sing ballads in a public house? Inspire tavern brawls?”

“Any of it. I never do any of it. I never even do this.” She reached for his hand, turning it over in the light. “Oh, you’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

Perhaps, but Minerva hurried to fetch the washbasin and soap. She needed something to do. Otherwise, this restless, coursing energy she felt would spill out in other ways. Dangerous ways.

Even as she gathered the materials, her hands trembled. The man was a devil. Mayhem personified. She never knew what wild tale he’d spin or what ill-considered action he’d take next. Over the course of their journey, he could put everything at risk—her reputation, her safety, her scientific standing.

Perhaps even her heart.

But she had to admit . . . he did make things fun.

Returning to the table with a clean handkerchief, she examined his wound more closely. He was right, it was just a scratch along his knuckles. But he’d incurred the injury defending
her
. Minerva wanted to kiss this brave, wounded hand. She settled for dabbing it with a moist cloth.

She touched his signet ring. “I wager that man will be wearing your family crest on his cheek for weeks.”

He laughed a little. “Good. He deserved far worse.”

“I couldn’t believe how easily you laid him flat,” she said. “And he was so big. Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Boxing club.” He stretched his fingers and winced a bit. “All the London bucks are mad for boxing. Gentleman Jackson’s and so forth. The better question is . . .” His voice darkened. “Where did you learn to sing like that?”

“Like what?” She kept her head bowed, examining his wound.

“Like . . .
that
. I’ve been living in Spindle Cove more than half a year now, and I’ve attended countless numbers of those wretched salons, not to mention all the informal soirees at the rooming house. Church on Sundays. I’ve heard Diana sing many times. I’ve heard Charlotte sing many times. For God’s sake, I’ve even heard your mother sing. But never you.”