A Week to Be Wicked (22 page)

To feel joined, and not alone.

He stroked a fond caress down her body and reached for the hem of her shift, drawing it up. He slid a hand beneath the frail linen, sliding a touch up the bare expanse of her thigh. She moaned, spreading her legs a little. He took the encouragement, stroking higher still. Until he cupped her sex in his hand, dewy and flushed, guarded by enticing curls.

Yes. God, yes.

He slid a finger between her slippery folds, rubbing up and down her sex. She whimpered and ground her hips, seeking his touch. He slipped his middle finger inside her tight sheath, moving in slow, shallow thrusts that she began to mimic with her mouth. When he moved faster, so did she. When he pressed his finger deeper, she sank down, taking him almost to the root.

The pleasure was so acute, so intense. He couldn’t take much more of this.

He cupped his hand, so that the heel of his palm would rub against her pearl. Moaning with pleasure, she pressed into his touch. She rolled her hips at a brisk, frantic pace, and for the first time, her own rhythm faltered.

“
Min
,” he gritted out.

She lifted her head, glassy-eyed and flushed with arousal. His left hand remained blissfully lodged between her thighs. He put his right hand over hers where she gripped the base of his erection.

“Like this.” He dragged her hand up and down. “Yes.”

They worked each other in a firm, steady rhythm, staring into one another’s eyes as the pleasure mounted. Until her eyelids flickered closed, and little frown lines appeared between her eyebrows.

“Colin,” she gasped.

“Yes, love. That’s it.” His own head rolled back on the pillow, as he stroked them both faster. “That’s it. That’s—”

She cried out. Her intimate muscles clenched and pulsed around the buried girth of his finger. And then his own climax erupted, sending pure bliss quaking through his body and white light flashing behind his eyelids.

In the aftermath, he kept his eyes closed. He slid his finger from her sex and drew her shift back down her thighs. His chest rose and fell with his heavy breaths. He tried to coax her down to lie beside him, but she stayed where she was—straddling his leg, hand curled around his flagging erection.

Now that curiosity had been satisfied and her own need slaked, he expected her to recoil from him. Surely she’d realize how callously he’d just used her, and what liberties he’d taken with her body and her trust. He fully expected her to hate and loathe him with a renewed—nay, unprecedented passion.

When he finally summoned the fortitude to lift his head and gauge her reaction, he found her replacing her spectacles. Her expression did not hint at hatred or loathing, but rather . . .

Scientific interest. Of course.

“Oh, Colin.” She dabbed a fingertip to his sticky abdomen, then rubbed her fingers together, as though testing the quality of his seed. “That was
fascinating
.”

Chapter Twenty

H
e’d been right. Things were a bit awkward in the morning.

Leaving Colin to his sleep, Minerva crept out of bed as stealthily as possible and rang for the maid. She met the servant at the door to the suite, using ridiculous pantomime to ask for a hot bath drawn in the adjoining room.

She felt a pinch of anxiety as the servants brought up the heated water and tub, cringing to imagine how this all looked. A young, unmarried woman sharing a room with a naked, sleeping lord? But the maids acted bored and businesslike, not shocked. Minerva soon realized that for servants at Winterset Grange, this was hardly a scandal. It was merely . . . Friday.

Lord, it was
Friday
. The number of days before the symposium was dwindling, and here they’d barely made it one third of the way to Edinburgh.

Despite the urgency that calculation implied, she took her time in the bath. The maids had brought her scented oils and soaps, rose petals for the bathwater and cool cucumber slices to soothe her eyes. Minerva accepted assistance in washing her hair. Then she dismissed the servants and lingered in the tub until the water went cool, feeling the soreness and tension ebb from her muscles.

As she toweled dry, she rued the fact she had nothing to wear but the same beleaguered shift and ruined silk gown from yesterday. Perhaps there were spare clothes to be found somewhere in this house, but she didn’t know that she could stomach wearing some mistress’s castoffs. But then her eye fell on her trunk. The trunk that held Francine’s footprint, Minerva’s scholarly notes, and . . .

Her trousseau.

Wrapped in the towel, she padded across the room and undid the buckles on the trunk. Carefully laying aside all her journals and papers, she removed the rolls of white cloth padding the plaster cast. For the most part, these bulky cylinders of white were embroidered bed sheets and tablecloths and pillowcases. But there were other items, of a more personal nature.

Lacy chemises. Gauzy fichus. Bosom-lifting corsets. Silk stockings and ribbon garters.

She’d forgotten these things, tucked inside her trunk for years now. It had seemed she’d never have a use for such sensual, indulgent attire. She’d all but given up on the idea of marriage.

After this journey—heavens, after last
night
—marriage seemed less likely than ever. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use these things, or that she must deny this side of herself. The items in this trunk were elegant and sensual, and they were
hers
. Whether or not she had a husband to display them for.

She unfurled a pristine white chemise, low-cut in both the front and back and worked with lace at the neckline. Setting aside the sprig of dried lavender tucked inside for freshness, she drew the sheer fabric over her body and stood before the mirror.

Twisting to view herself from different angles, she ran her hands down her torso, pulling the sheer fabric tight. Until the wine-colored buds of her nipples showed through, and the dark triangle between her legs as well. She skimmed her hands down her body again, enjoying the soft heat of her flesh beneath the cool fabric. The gentle curves of her breasts, belly, and hips. As she watched her own hands stroking over her skin, her pulse quickened.

This body
wanted
.

This body
was
wanted, by him.

In the bedchamber, Colin stirred and mumbled in his sleep. Minerva jumped, then pressed her hands to her mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

She donned a pair of sheer silk stockings and tied them with pink ribbons. She called the maid back in to lace her into a French
divorce
corset that lifted and separated her breasts to quite flattering effect. With reluctance, she put on the blue silk again. But the effect was much better with her pristine, lacy chemise peeking out at the top. And she found an embroidered white overskirt in her trunk, rather like a pinafore. It covered most of the wine stains.

Her hair was still damp, so rather than pin it all up, she merely gathered a few locks from the front and secured them with tortoiseshell combs. The rest of her hair hung loose and heavy about her shoulders.

“Good morning.”

She turned to see Colin tangled in the sheets, propped up on one elbow and rubbing his unshaven face with the other hand.

“Good morning,” she said, resisting the urge to make a girlish twirl and beg for his approval.

He blinked and focused his gaze. A smile crooked his lips. “Well, Min. Don’t you look pretty.”

Giddy joy fizzed through her. It was a simple compliment, but a perfect one. She would have doubted him, if he’d called her “lovely” or “beautiful” or “stunning.” But “pretty”? That, she could almost believe.

“Really?” she asked. She wouldn’t mind hearing it again.

“You’re the picture of a fetching country lass.” His gaze raked over her body and lingered on her enhanced, lace-framed cleavage. “You make me want to find a hayloft.”

She blushed, just as she supposed any fetching country lass would.

He yawned. “How long have you been out of bed?”

“An hour. Perhaps more.”

“And I didn’t wake?” His brow wrinkled. “Remarkable.”

The maid brought a breakfast tray. While Colin rose from bed and went about his own toilette, Minerva feasted on coddled eggs, buttered rolls, and chocolate.

“Did you save me any?” he asked, strolling back into the room some quarter-hour later.

She looked up, saw him, and let her spoon clatter to the table. “Now, that’s just unfair.”

Fifteen minutes. Twenty, at most. And in that time, he’d bathed, shaved, and dressed in a spotless pair of new breeches and a crisp, laundered shirt.

Perhaps she looked ‘pretty,’ or ‘fetching.’ But he looked magnificent.

He adjusted his cuff. “I always keep a few items of clothing here. No coat though, unhappily. I’m stuck with the same one I’ve been wearing.”

It was petty of her, to take that as some consolation. But she did.

“Now.” He sat down across from her and plucked a thick slice of toast. “About last night.”

She flinched. “Must we discuss last night?”

He buttered his toast in slow, even strokes. “I think we must. Some apologies are probably in order.”

“Oh.” Nodding, she swallowed hard. “I’m sorry for taking advantage of you.”

He choked on his bite of toast.

“No, really,” she went on. “You were exhausted and more than a little drunk, and I was unspeakably shameless.”

He shook his head and made noises of disagreement. He washed his toast down with a quick sip of tea.

“Minerva.” He reached across the table to touch her cheek. “You were . . . a revelation. Believe me, you have absolutely no reason to apologize. The shamelessness was all mine.” His eyes grew troubled. “I don’t think we should continue this journey, pet. I told myself I’d see you to Scotland unharmed. But if we continue sharing a bed, I’m at serious risk of harming you. Irrevocably.”

“How do you mean?”

One eyebrow lifted. “I think you know what I mean.”

She did know. He meant that he wanted her, more than he’d wanted any woman in his debauched, misspent life—and he wasn’t certain he could honor his promise not to seduce her.

Her pulse pounded. With exhilaration, with fear. “But we can’t go back now. We can’t just give up.”

“It’s not too late,” he said. “We could be back in London tonight. I’d take you to Bram and Susanna’s house, and we can tell everyone you’ve been their guest all this time. There may be some talk, but if my cousin throws his name behind you—you won’t be ruined.”

She stared at the tablecloth. The thought of simply turning around and returning to Spindle Cove, without ever reaching Edinburgh . . . she’d been prepared to go back ruined and disgraced. But she didn’t know that she could live with going back
defeated
.

And how could she return to her old life, and just pretend none of this ever happened? Impossible.

“Min . . .”

“We can do this, Colin. We can reach Edinburgh in time. And I can keep you in your place, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll go back to being shrewish and unattractive. I—I’ll stash a cudgel under my pillow.”

He laughed.

“Anyway, I’m satisfied now. You know, in terms of my curiosity. After last night, I’m sure I’ve seen all there is to see.”

His voice darkened in a thrilling way. “Believe me. You haven’t seen a fraction of what I could show you.”

Oh, don’t. Don’t tell me that.

“Colin, please.” She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. “Think of the money. Think of the five hundred guineas.”

He shook his head. “It’s not the money, pet.”

“Then think of Francine.”

“Francine?”

“Think of what she represents. What if long ago, before the first man ever drew breath, there were creatures like her everywhere? Giant lizards, roaming the earth. Even flying through the air.”

“Er . . .” She could tell he was struggling not to laugh.

“I know you find it amusing, but I’m being serious. Discoveries like her footprint, they’re changing history—or at least, our understanding of it. And there are a good many people who don’t like that. Geologists might seem boring, but we’re really renegades.” She smiled. “I know you’ve been with a great many women, but Francine just might be the most scandalous, heretical female to ever share your bedchamber.”

He did laugh then, good-naturedly.

Impulsively, she grabbed his hand. “Colin, please don’t take this from me. This is my dream, and I’ve already risked so much. I’d rather fail than forfeit.”

He drew a deep breath.

She held hers.

“Halford never rises before noon,” he said. “We should slip out as soon as possible, to avoid questions.”

The relief seeped through her, warm and sweet.

“Oh, thank you.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “But we have so little money. Where will we go?”

He bit into his toast and chewed. With a shrug, he eventually answered, “North.”

I
t was truly amazing, she thought, how far a man could travel on charm alone. By midmorning, Colin had wheedled them a chain of rides with tradesmen and farmers, working them toward a place where they could rejoin the Great North Road.

After pausing to chat with a local gentleman farmer, he strode back to Minerva where she waited by a rail fence.

He squinted at her through the bright morning sunlight. “He says he can offer us a ride to Grantham this afternoon, in exchange for a few hours’ work this morning. He has his farmhands thatching a cottage roof. If we help, we can have space in his wagon afterwards.”

“A ride all the way to Grantham? That would be wonderful. But . . .”

“But what?”

She tilted her head. “I take it he doesn’t realize you’re a viscount.”

“A viscount? Wearing this?” Smiling, he indicated his dusty, bedraggled topcoat. The fabric retained just a memory of its original deep blue. His boots hadn’t been blacked in days. “Not a chance. He assumes us to be common travelers, of course.”

“But . . .” How to put this in a way that wouldn’t offend his pride? “Colin, have you ever thatched a roof before?”

“Of course not,” he said gamely, helping her lift Francine’s trunk over the stile. “This is my grand opportunity.”

She took a deep breath. “If you say so.”

They crossed a hopfield, lined with neat rows of poles and ambitious green tendrils just starting to climb them. Minerva could see the cottage in the distance. Several men were scaling ladders and carting up bundles of fresh, golden longstraw to layer on the roof. They looked like ants swarming over a dish heaped with yellow custard.

“Here.” Colin removed his cravat and wound it around the pistol before shoving both into his coat pocket. Then he removed the coat altogether and handed it to her. “Look after this.”

With that, he joined the men at their labor. Minerva found herself quickly drafted into the women’s portion, sorting and bundling the straw as it was forked from the wagon. She supposed if she could be a convincing missionary or assassin, she ought to be able to do this. After all, she was used to working long hours with her rock hammer.

An hour later, her back was aching and her exposed forearms had acquired a thousand tiny abrasions. Her head felt swollen with the thick, sweet scent of the straw. She wasn’t particularly good at the work, and she could sense that she was coasting by on the other women’s forbearance. But she wouldn’t give up.

She stood tall for a minute to stretch her back. Shading her eyes with one hand, she scanned for Colin among the men. There he was, near the top of the roof, fearlessly straddling two rafters. Without a moment’s hesitation or a hint of imbalance, he walked across ten feet of narrow, sloping beam to accept a fresh bundle of straw. Of course, he’d taken to this easily—the same way he took to everything.