A Week to Be Wicked (27 page)

“I thought you were the one who argued against having any expectations at all. Isn’t that your grand life philosophy? You said expectations lead to disappointments. That if you expect nothing, you’re always surprised.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “In that case . . .”

He turned to her. His hazel eyes sparked with intensity.

“Surprise.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You’re marrying me.”

Chapter Twenty-four

W
ell, Colin thought. He’d certainly managed to surprise her.

Whether the surprise fell into the “pleasant” or “unpleasant” category, he wasn’t sure. The latter, he suspected.

She didn’t move a muscle. But behind her spectacles, her eyelashes worked like twin ebony fans. “Marry?
You
?”

He tried not to take offense. “I must say, Minerva. That’s not exactly the breathless, overjoyed acceptance a man might wish to hear.”

“That wasn’t exactly the ardent, heartfelt proposal that might warrant one. In fact, I’m not sure it counts as a proposal at all.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” He lightened his tone. “You have a temporary reprieve. Right now, out of bed with you. We have to make haste if we’re going to reach York tonight.”

“Wait, wait.” As he sat up, she grabbed his arm. “I’m so confused. Is this like one of those silly duels gentlemen arrange for show? You fire off a haphazard proposal at dawn, it sails straight over my head, and somehow honor is satisfied?”

“No, it’s not like that at all. I’m serious. I mean to marry you.”

“But I thought you’d sworn off marriage.”

He shrugged. “I seem to recall you saying something similar.”

“Exactly. Colin, I do appreciate the gesture.” She bit her lip. “I think. But I won’t marry you simply because you’re feeling a sudden twinge of conscience. We both knew from the outset I’d be ruined.”

“In appearance, yes. But this is actuality.”

“In actuality, I don’t feel ruined at all.” She gave him a sheepish half smile. “Only a bit tender in places. Did last night feel like some grave mistake to you?”

He touched her cheek. “God, no. The furthest thing from it.”

He let his gaze wander her sweet, lovely face. After the night they’d shared, something in his soul finally felt put right.

“Then what’s this truly about? What on earth can you be thinking?”

She struggled to sit up. The bedsheets slipped to her hips, revealing her bare torso.

Colin’s breath left his body. Damn if she didn’t look just exactly the way she had that first night. Her spectacles slipped to the end of her nose, her unbound hair tumbling about her shoulders, her bared breasts tempting him with their touchable perfection.

A low groan rattled loose from his chest.

“I’m thinking,” he said, “that last night was inevitable, and I should have known as much the day we left Spindle Cove. I’m thinking that what I
ought
to do, as a gentleman, is call an immediate halt to this journey and make swift arrangements for a proper wedding.” He stayed her objection with a touch to her lips. “I’m thinking what I’d
like
to do is push you back on that bed, bar the door, and spend the next week learning your body from the inside out. But mostly, Min . . .”

He pushed her spectacles back up her nose, so that she could focus on his face.

“I’m thinking that I made you two promises. To get you to your symposium, and to do so without seducing you. I’ve broken one of those. But I damn well mean to make good on the other.” He rose from the bed and offered her a hand. “So I’m thinking this conversation will have to wait. We have no time to waste.”

With a bewildered shake of her head, she took his hand. “All right.”

Taking a leather bucket from the shepherd’s hut, Colin fetched water from a nearby stream. While Minerva performed her ablutions inside the dwelling, he doused himself in the frigid water—shirt and all.

His shirt needed washing, and he needed a bracing, icy bath to punish his lustful loins into submission. He’d taken her virtue last night. Then he’d taken her again this morning. He’d broken all his own rules, forsaken what few remaining principles he held. No matter what objections she raised or how many of his own stupid words she threw back at him, his conscience insisted there was only one course of action.

He must marry her.

But he
had
to get her to that symposium first.

She didn’t want to marry him simply because he’d ruined her, and Colin didn’t want that either. No, he wanted her to marry him because he’d helped her triumph. He would prove to her—to himself—that he could be good for her.

As he submerged himself in the cold water, an insidious, shadowy doubt swirled through his thoughts.

The road to Edinburgh is paved with good intentions.

He forced the doubt away, rising to the surface and pushing the water from his face. This time was different. Today, everything was different. For God’s sake, he hated the country—and yet, here he was in the middle of a pasture, making his way to a shepherd’s hut, absurdly wishing he could lease it as a summer home.

When he returned to the hut, soaked and shivering, Minerva gave him a baleful look through her spectacles. “You’ll catch cold.”

He shrugged, wringing out his shirttails. “The sun will dry it soon enough. First order of business when we reach York”—he yanked his breeches up and fastened them under his dripping shirt—”is fresh clothes.”

“Are you sure it’s even possible to make the symposium?” She counted the days on her fingers. “Only three more nights between now and then.”

“We will make it. We’ll reach York tonight. From there, with our replenished funds, it’s a new journey. We’ll take just a few hours to eat and shop and hire a post-chaise, and then we’ll be off.”

“But you’ll be miserable. Post-chaises are so small and cramped. Not to mention expensive. We won’t have enough funds to rent you horses past York.”

“They’re the fastest way. If we travel straight through, we’ll make Edinburgh just in time.”

“Travel straight through? We won’t stop for nights?” Her eyes filled with concern.

He shook his head. “There won’t be time.”

“But Colin—”

“And we haven’t time to debate it, either.” He picked up one side of Francine’s trunk. “Let’s be on our way.”

M
oney made everything easier. They found a proper breakfast, a ride to the next coaching town, and from there, Colin rented a horse to ride alongside her coach. His last horse of the journey.

They reached York in late afternoon. He sought out the largest and best of the coaching inns. Holding Minerva close at his side, he approached the innkeeper.

“What can I do for you, sir?” the distracted innkeeper asked.

“We’ll need a good dinner. A few hours’ use of a room, just to rest and change. And then I’ll need to inquire about hiring a post-chaise to take us north.”

“How far north are you traveling?” the innkeeper asked.

“Edinburgh. We mean to travel straight through.”

“Is that so?” The man eyed them with suspicion, his rheumy eyes ranging over their bedraggled attire.

“I’ll pay in advance,” Colin offered.

“Oh, indeed. That you most certainly will.” The innkeeper cocked one eyebrow and rubbed the top of his head. He named a figure, and Colin counted out the money.

He leaned forward and addressed the man in low tones. “Listen, perhaps you can help me with something else. My lady here’s been parted from her baggage. Before we continue, I need to find her a new gown. Something pretty.”

The innkeeper eyed Minerva. “My missus can find her something, I warrant.”

“The finest quality this will buy.” To the amount he’d paid for the post-chaise, Colin added several sovereigns.

Minerva gasped. “Colin, don’t. We can’t afford it.”

“It’s not negotiable. You must have it.”

“But . . .”

The innkeeper laughed. “Come now, miss. Surely he don’t have to draw you a picture. Elopement or no, a man wants his bride dressed proper.”

“But . . .” Minerva called after him as he shuffled off, disappearing through a doorway. “Sir, we’re not eloping.”

“Of course you aren’t,” he called back. “None of you young lovers are.”

She turned to Colin.

He shrugged. “There’s no use arguing. Do you think he’ll believe we’re headed for a geology symposium?”

“It’s strange,” she said, as they sat down at a table to order their dinner. “We have had uncommonly good luck today. Reasonably fine weather, except for that short rain. No loss of money or belongings. No fisticuffs. No highwaymen. I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting to see those kidnappers chasing after Prince Ampersand.”

“Oh, don’t worry about them. We will have left those highwaymen far behind. Believe me, that group wasn’t sufficiently organized or industrious to follow us beyond their own county.” He rubbed his jaw. “But I have to admit, I wouldn’t be at all shocked to see someone else catch up to us.”

“Who?”

“Bram. Or Thorne, or both. When my cousin heard of this, I can’t imagine his reaction was favorable. He knew I had no plan of marrying, as of two days before we left. And if Susanna expressed any doubts as to your willingness . . . I wouldn’t put it past him to decide you needed rescuing.”

The serving girl brought them two glasses of claret. Colin ordered them a hearty meal of beefsteak, fish stew, sauced vegetables, and apple tart. His stomach growled with hunger.

“But I left a note,” Minerva said, once the serving girl had gone. “I told my sister we’d eloped.”

“Slim evidence, on its own. You forgot to leave behind that false journal.”

“That’s true. And the real diary was less than complimentary to your character.” She cast him a cautious glance over her wineglass. “But that wasn’t all I left behind. There was something else.”

“Oh, really?” Intrigued, he leaned forward. “What?”

“You, um . . .” Blushing, she took a large gulp of wine. “You might have written me a letter.”

Chapter Twenty-five

“C
orporal Thorne!”

Samuel Thorne paused in the act of lifting his shovel. He’d know that voice anywhere.

Damn it. Not her. Not now.

“Corporal Thorne, I—” Miss Taylor turned a corner and stopped short when she caught a glimpse of him. “Oh. There you are.”

Blast. Weren’t gently bred ladies supposed to have some rules of decorum that prevented them from surprising half-dressed men at their labor? How the hell was he supposed to greet her with mud streaking his shirt and sweat matting his hair to his scalp?

Throwing aside the shovel, he hastily wiped his face with a bit of sleeve. He jerked his collar closed.

She didn’t even have the good sense to avert her eyes. She just stared at him, wide-eyed and curious. He had half a mind to pull the shirt over his head, cast it aside, and say,
Here. Look your fill. This is what years of thieving, prison labor, and battle do to a man.

He almost chuckled at the thought. Oh, she’d run screaming then.

She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt your . . . digging.”

“Why are you here, Miss Taylor? What can I do for you?”

She waved a paper clutched in her hand. “I’ve come to prove it to you. The truth of the elopement. I have here a love letter, addressed to Minerva Highwood from Lord Payne himself. Miss Charlotte found it in Minerva’s stocking drawer.”

“Impossible.” Thorne would swallow nails before he’d believe Payne to be in love with Miss Minerva Highwood. It still ate at him, that he hadn’t chased after the couple that very first night. But what was he to do, when the girl’s own mother forbade it?

Now if only Miss Taylor would let the topic rest. He suffered enough torment in her presence already, without this added deviling.

She approached and offered him the letter. “Read it for yourself.”

Good God. Now she meant to test his alphabet. Thorne eyed the envelope. A queasy feeling curdled in his gut. He knew his letters reasonably well—better than most men of his station—but he needed time and concentration to sift through a missive of that length. And he’d have an even harder time of it, trying to read with a raging beauty hovering over his shoulder. How was he supposed to put two sounds together in her presence?

He held up his grimy hands in excuse. “You’ll have to read it to me.”

She shook open the paper. “ ‘My darling beloved Minerva,’” she read aloud.

And that was the last bit he heard. Oh, she kept reading. And he kept listening. But he wasn’t hearing the words anymore—just her clear, bright voice.

So strange. She had music in her voice, even when she wasn’t singing. The melody hummed in his body. Not in a pleasant way. It hurt. The same way it would feel if he drove his shovel full-strength into soil and met unyielding rock instead. The shock of it reverberated all through his bones, his teeth.

His heart.

And now he hadn’t a damned idea what the hell she was reading anyway. He would have had better luck staring stupidly at the paper himself.

“Enough.” He held up a hand. “Payne did not write that.”

“He did. He signed his name.”

Thorne cocked his head and stared at the address on the paper’s reverse. “That’s not Payne’s handwriting.” That much he could discern without effort.

“What?” She flipped the paper back and forth.

“It’s not his hand. I know it’s not.” Wiping his hands on his breeches, he strode over to the turret Payne had been using as his personal quarters. He unlocked and opened the door, proceeding straight to the small writing desk.

He rifled through a stack of papers until he found one in the right penmanship. Then he handed it to her. “See?”

She held up the two and compared them. “You’re right. It is different penmanship.”

“I told you so. He didn’t write that letter.”

“But I don’t understand. Who else would write this, then sign it with Lord Payne’s name?”

He shrugged. “A cruel joke, perhaps. To build up her hopes. Or maybe she wrote it herself.”

“Poor Minerva.”

He watched as Miss Taylor’s bottom lip folded beneath her teeth. Then he forced himself to look elsewhere.

She said, “But somehow, it seems to have worked out anyway. They did elope together.”

He snorted, resisting the urge to tell her everything he’d learned from Mrs. Ginny Watson the other day. When confronted, the young widow had told him all about Miss Minerva’s midnight visit to Rycliff Castle. Thorne knew the truth now, beyond all doubt.

Payne and Miss Highwood had not eloped.

They would, however, end up married. He would ensure that much. If Payne dared to come back from this jaunt a bachelor, he would not remain so long. He’d walk Miss Minerva down the aisle of St. Ursula’s if Thorne had to prod him at knifepoint. Protecting the women of this village was his duty, and he took it seriously.

Which was exactly why he kept his mouth shut now.

Miss Taylor didn’t need to know the particulars of all Mrs. Watson had told him. If it pleased this girl to believe in true love and tales that ended happily for all concerned, Thorne would carry all manner of unpleasant truths to his grave. After all, this secret was hardly the first. Just one of many he’d vowed to keep, for her happiness’s sake.

She sifted through the papers.

He crossed his arms. “What, are you snooping now?”

“No,” she protested. “Well, maybe. Goodness, he writes a great many letters to his stewards.”

“Listen, I have a well to dig, and—”

“Wait.” She plucked a paper from the stack. “What’s this?” She read aloud. “ ‘Millicent . . . Madeira . . . Michaela . . . Marilyn . . .’ And this
is
written in his hand.”

“So? It’s a list of names.”

“Yes. A list of women’s names, all of them beginning with M.” A flush rose on her throat. “The letter means nothing, but this . . . this is proof. Don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t. Not at all.”

“Lord Payne always acted as though he couldn’t remember Minerva’s name. Calling her Melissa and Miranda and every other ‘M’ name under the sun. But he must have done it on purpose, don’t you see? Just to tease her. He even went to the trouble of writing out this list.”

“That proves him even more of an blackguard, to my mind.”

She clucked her tongue impatiently. “Corporal Thorne. You really don’t understand a thing about romance.”

Thorne shrugged. She was right. He understood desire. He understood wanting. He understood loyalty and bone-deep devotion that stretched back to a time before this woman’s earliest memories.

But he didn’t know a damn thing about romance.

She ought to thank God for it.

There she went, right now—flashing him a fearless smile. No one smiled like that at Thorne. But she’d always been this way. Cheerful, in the face of everything. Singing like a little angel, even when she stood at the very gates of hell.

“Don’t you know?” she said. “Apparent dislike often masks a hidden attraction.”

He felt his face go hot. “Not in this case.”

“Oh, yes. This list doesn’t prove Lord Payne’s a blackguard.” She tapped the paper against Thorne’s chest. “It proves he was
smitten
.”