A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(59)
Author: Tessa Dare

“So, Mr. Sand,” she said, smiling. “What takes you and your lady friend to the Grantham fair?”

Minerva held her breath, foolishly hoping to be claimed as something other than his sister. Something more than a mistress.

“Business,” Colin said easily. “We’re circus folk.”

Circus folk?

“Circus folk?” several of the girls echoed.

“Yes, of course.” He lazily riffled a hand through his hair. “I walk the tightrope, and my lady here . . .” He stretched his arm around Minerva, drawing her close. “She’s a first-rate sword swallower.”

Oh my God.

Minerva clapped a hand over her mouth and made helpless snuffling sounds into her palm. “Caught a bit of straw dust,” she explained a few moments later, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes.

She slid a look at Colin. The man was unbelievably shameless. Incorrigibly handsome. And—oh, heavens. She was a feather’s brush away from falling hopelessly in love with him.

“A sword swallower,” the brunette echoed, casting a skeptical glance at Minerva.

“Oh yes. She has a rare talent. You must believe me when I say, I’ve spent several years in the circus world, and I’ve never seen her like. You should have seen her performance just last night. Sheer brilliance, I tell you. She has this way of—”

Minerva elbowed him, hard.

“What?” He caught her by the chin, turning her face to his. His eyes danced with amusement. “Really, pet. You are entirely too modest.”

She took a long, dizzying tumble through his warm, affectionate gaze. And then he kissed her. Not quite on the mouth, not quite on the cheek. Just at the corner of her smile.

The wagon hit a rut in the lane, jolting them apart. Minerva laid her head on his shoulder and sighed with happiness.

Across the wagon, the rest of the women sighed with disappointment.

Yes, girls. Go weep in your aprons. He’s taken. For today, at least.

Minerva laced her hand with Colin’s and gave it a squeeze of thanks. Along with all the blissful pleasure he’d so masterfully coaxed from her body, he’d now introduced her to an entirely new sensation.

So this was how it felt to be envied.

“Well,” said the brunette, “you never do know who you’ll meet along the Great North Road, do you? Just yesterday, my brother said one of his friends passed time with a long-lost prince.”

Everyone in the wagon laughed, except Minerva. Colin’s arm tightened around her shoulders.

“No, really,” the girl went on. “He was a prince, traveling in common clothes.”

Beside her, another young woman shook her head. “Your brother’s spinning tales again, Becky. Imagine, a long-lost prince in disguise, traveling this stretch of road. What’s he doing? Coming to the fair?” She giggled. “I’d never give that tale any credit.”

“I don’t know.” Minerva smiled to herself, nestling closer to Colin. “I could believe it.”

“Well.” The brunette arched an eyebrow. “If this prince does exist—he’d better hope he doesn’t meet with my brother’s friends. They’ve a score to settle with His Majesty.”

Chapter Twenty-one

There was no leaving Grantham tonight. Not for love, money, giant lizards, or whatever fool motive was now driving Colin on this quest.

Every wagon, coach, and pony cart in the county must have been rolling into town for the fair. None of them were leaving.

He fought his way through the jostling throng of horses and carts, back to where he’d left Minerva. As a cartload of crated chickens rolled out of his way, he caught sight of her through the flurry of white feathers.

He stopped dead in his tracks, transfixed. Admiring.

She sat atop her precious trunk of course, chin propped in her hand. She’d allowed her spectacles to slide down toward the tip of her nose, so she could peer over them—as she always did when regarding something more than a dozen paces distant. Her long dark hair tumbled about her shoulders in fetching waves, and the late afternoon sun gave it warm, reddish highlights. With her teeth, she worried that plump, sweet bottom lip, and her toes tapped in time to some distant music.

She was lovely. Just the picture of a wide-eyed country lass, taking in the fair.

“Nothing,” he said, approaching her. “Perhaps we’d have better luck later this evening.” He cast a look over his shoulder, toward the bustling green. “For the meantime, we might as well see the fair.”

“But we haven’t any money.” She pushed her spectacles back up on her nose and held up a thin gold coin between her fingertips. “This one sovereign must stretch all the way to Edinburgh.”

He took it from her and slipped it in his breast pocket. “It costs nothing to look. And we’ll need to eat something, sometime. But we’ll be frugal.”

“A frugal brother and sister?” she asked, peering up at him. “A frugal gentleman and his mistress? Or frugal circus folk?”

“Frugal sweethearts.” He extended a hand to her. “Just for today. All right?”

“All right.” Smiling, she put her hand in his, and he pulled her to her feet.

Ah, the sweet, unveiled affection in her eyes . . . it warmed his heart, and then wrung it fierce. A better man wouldn’t play this ‘sweethearts’ game with her when he knew very well it couldn’t lead to more.

But he wasn’t a better man. He was Colin Sandhurst, reckless, incorrigible rogue—and damn it, he couldn’t resist. He wanted to amuse her, spoil her, feed her sweets and delicacies. Steal a kiss or two, when she wasn’t expecting it. He wanted to be a besotted young buck squiring his girl around the fair.

In other words, he wanted to live honestly. Just for the day.

He hefted Francine’s trunk and balanced it on his right shoulder, offering Minerva his left arm. Together they moved through the crowds and past the church. They walked down the rows of prize livestock brought for show, giving the pigs and stoats ridiculous names, then debating which deserved the ribbon and why.

“Hamlet must get the ribbon,” Minerva argued. “His eyes are the brightest, and his haunches the most fat. He also keeps himself quite clean for a pig.”

“But Hamlet is a prince. I thought you bestowed your greatest favor on knights.” He pointed. “Perhaps you’d prefer Sir Francis Bacon over there.”

“The filthy one wallowing and grunting in the mud?”