A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(74)
Author: Tessa Dare

This particular one narrowed her eyes and said, “You.”

Damnation. Really, what were the chances?

“Why, Mrs. Fontley,” he said, forcing a grin. “How lovely to see you again. And fortunate, too. As you can see, we’re in a bit of a muddle.”

“You ought to be in prison, you villain.”

“I say.” Mr. Fontley’s face squeezed into the frame. “You have quite a lot of nerve, Sand. If that is your real name.”

“It’s not, actually. I lied to you in London, and that was wrong. But I’ll tell you the truth now. I’m a rather useless insomniac viscount, but”—he gestured at Minerva—“my companion here is a brilliant geologist. There’s a symposium, you see. We need to get to Edinburgh by tomorrow, so she can present her findings about giant lizards and possibly alter our understanding of the world’s natural history.”

Mrs. Fontley squawked in disbelief. “Lizards? First cobras, now lizards.”

“No, no. This is nothing like the cobras. I swear on my life, this time I’m telling you the absolute truth.”

Mr. Fontley signaled the driver with a knock on the roof. “Onward.”

“Please. You can’t leave us here.” Colin grabbed the door latch.

Through the window, Mrs. Fontley beat at his fingers with a folded parasol. “Get away from our carriage, you vile people.”

“Gilbert!” Minerva rapped at the coach’s front window. “Gilbert, please. Can’t you convince them to help us?”

The youth pressed his fingertips to the glass and gave her a sorrowful look. “I’ll pray for you.”

The driver whipped the team into motion, and Colin had to pull Minerva away lest she be caught under the wheels. As the coach departed, the footmen tossed down two rectangular objects. They landed in the center of the road with a sick thud, spattering them both with mud.

Minerva’s trunks.

Colin stared at them, trying to laugh. He couldn’t. None of this was amusing anymore.

Pushing rain off his face, he turned to Minerva and found her watching him.

“Don’t bother,” he told her. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “You’re going to say that this is all my fault. That if I’d never lied to the Fontleys, they would have helped us just now.”

She didn’t say anything. Just crossed her arms and looked at her boots, encased in mud.

“But then I would say to you,” he went on, “that if I hadn’t lied to the Fontleys, we would have never come this far at all.”

She frowned at him. “Do you often have arguments with yourself?”

“And then you’ll say, ‘But Colin . . .’ ” He raised his voice in a lilting imitation of hers. “ ‘If only we had taken the mail coach, we’d already be in Edinburgh.’ And on that score, you would be right.”

“Please don’t put words in my m—”

He waved her off. “You’re shivering. Did you have a cloak in one of those trunks?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“Damn it, don’t tell me you’re fine.” The rain picked up strength, and he had to raise his voice to shout through it. “You’re wet, and getting wetter. You’re here, and not in Scotland. You’re . . .”

You’re with me, and not some better man.

“So don’t tell me you’re fine, Min.”

“Very well,” she finally shouted back, balling her hands into fists. “I’m not fine. I’m disappointed and heartbroken and m-miserably cold. Are you happy now?”

God damn it. He pushed both hands through his hair and stared down the road. Such a simple thing, a road. Just a strip of dirt running from one place to another. And everyone else in the civilized world, when they wanted to travel from one place to another, would simply get inside a blasted carriage and ride there. Any other man in England could have already delivered her to Edinburgh.

Any other man would be waiting out this downpour with her in a safe, dry place.

He strode to the post-chaise door and held it open. “Get inside.”

Minerva gave up arguing and got inside. Colin joined her, shutting the door behind them. It was a tight fit, what with three occupants. Francine had been riding inside the cab ever since the rain began.

Once he’d wrestled out of his wet coat and draped it over her lap, Colin unknotted his neck cloth. He slid the length of fabric free, using the drier bits to swab his face and neck.

She watched him with concern.

“I’m fine,” he said. “It won’t be long. I gave the postilion explicit directions. He’ll return soon, and we’ll be on our way. Everything will be fine.”

“Then what are you doing with the pistol?”

As she looked on, he retrieved the gun from under the seat and began to load it with ball and powder.

“Simple precaution,” he said. “Stuck like this, we’re a sitting target for thieves.”

She didn’t know how to interpret his dark mood. This was more than just the closeness of the carriage. He seemed to be blaming himself for everything, the weather included. And she was angry with herself for letting him goad her into heaping yet more recriminations. None of this was his fault.

“Colin, this entire journey was my idea. I’m sorry to have put you—”

“We don’t need to discuss it.” He recapped the powder horn.

She tried to respect his wish for silence, but it wasn’t easy.

After a minute, he said lightly, “It’s just a shame it’s not better weather. His fingers drummed against the windowpane. “All sorts of impressive crags and boulders in this area. You’d be in heaven.”

She flicked a glance at the window and the square of gray downpour it held. “So you’ve journeyed this way before.”

“Oh, countless times.”

Countless times? That made no sense. She thought he’d avoided the country, ever since . . .

“Oh dear.” The chilling realization sank into her bones. She reached for his hand. “Colin. We’re not close to your home?”

The silence confirmed what he wouldn’t say. Her heart pinched. So this was why he knew where the postilion could find fresh horses. He’d simply sent the man to his own estate.

“Was it very near here?” she asked. “The accident?”

He drew a slow breath that seemed the product of great effort. “Actually, no. It wasn’t terribly near.”