Once Upon a Winter’s Eve (Spindle Cove #1.5)(24)
Author: Tessa Dare

“The ladies use it in the summertime,” she said. “For pleasure jaunts around the cove, or up the canal. No one will notice it’s missing for months.”

He grimaced. “It’s pink.”

“Christian, this is hardly the time to complain about color schemes.”

“No, no. I just would rather it be blue or brown or black. Some darker color.”

“I’d hate for you to take a fisherman’s craft, just to abandon it. The fishermen need their livelihood.”

He scouted the small shed. “Found some pitch,” he said. “We’ll blacken the thing. Give me the lamp, and I’ll warm it.”

They worked together, daubing the boat’s exterior with a hasty layer of dark, sticky pitch. Then they hoisted the inverted craft between them, carrying its weight on their shoulders and rigging the smugglers lantern to hang in the center.

All too soon, they were in the cove, making their farewells. A thin layer of clouds had covered the moon, diffusing its light to a warm, creamy glow. Scattered snowflakes began to fall.

Forcing down the sadness in her chest, Violet went about lighting the lantern. “Remember the signals?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I know this cove in the dark. Just keep your eyes on me. I won’t steer you wrong.”

With his fingertips, Christian turned her face to his. “I know you won’t.”

Christian held her there, allowing himself this one last, lingering minute to memorize her every feature. To simply behold his love. His lady.

And what a lady she was. Pride swelled his heart. Violet was his ideal partner. Brave, clever, discreet, swift with a gun, possessed of an extraordinary facility with languages…

And she was so beautiful. Her skin glowed in the first, faintly yearning hint of dawn. Her eyes were big and blue enough to hold the entirety of this magical night. God, how he wished he didn’t have to leave her behind. If only he could—

“Take me with you.” Her whispered plea wrenched at his heart. She held on to his coat with both hands and pulled up on her toes. “Please, Christian. Take me with you. I can help you. I know I can do it. You know my French is impeccable, and I’ll perfect the Breton. I’ll blend right in as your wi—”

She swallowed hard and lowered herself to the ground. “That is…unless the humble farmhand already has a wife.”

“No,” he assured her, smiling a little. “No, Violet. The humble farmhand does not have a wife. Nor a sweetheart, nor a lover.” He pulled the folding knife from his coat and severed a stray lock of her hair, then pocketed it. “The humble farmhand has a braided lock of golden hair. He keeps it stashed behind a loose board, and sometimes he foolishly kisses it in the dark. He is alone.”

“He needn’t be.”

A snowflake dipped and swirled and clung to her cheek, instantly melting into a teardrop. He kissed it away, then hugged her close. “I wish I could. I wish I could take you with me as my wife. But it wouldn’t be safe. Not now, not like this. I’d be putting lives other than my own at risk. And imagine, if you disappeared so suddenly…by all appearances, abducted by a raving Frenchman…? Your family would suffer so much worry and pain. Spindle Cove would cease to be a haven for the ladies who need it. No reasonable families would send their daughters or sisters to such a place.”

“I know.” She buried her face in his neck. “I know you’re right, on every score. I only wish…”

“Oh, my love.” He cinched his arms around her waist. “I wish it too.”

He held and kissed her just as long as he safely could. And then he held and kissed her for several seconds longer. But he knew it must end.

Even a love this true, this strong had no chance to stave off daybreak.

He pulled away. “You do this for me, Violet. You must go back to Town and go on living your life, and you must do it all without breathing a word of this night. Not to anyone, not even our families. My own father does not know the particulars of my assignment, nor should he. It’s for my safety. Do you understand? Beneath everything, you are my lady. But to the world, you must behave as if this night never occurred.”

She nodded, biting her lip.

“Promise me,” he said.

“I promise. And you must do the same.”

“Yes. Or ya.” He swore. “I’ve spoken a dangerous amount of English tonight.”

She pulled back and looked at him, her gaze sharpening in the night.

“Violet? What is it?”

She released her grip on his lapel. Before he could spend a split heartbeat to wonder what she was on about, her palm connected with his cheek.

Lord above. She’d struck him. Square across the face, and hard enough to force his head to the right.

“Who are you?” she asked.

When he hesitated, another blow whipped his head left. In his vision, a chorus of dancing snowflakes wished him a very merry Christmas.

He blinked the pain away, whispering, “Corentin Morvan eo ma anv.” My name is Corentin Morvan.

“Louder.” Her fist drove into his gut. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

“Me a zo un tamm peizant.” He groaned the words. I am a humble farmhand.

“Liar.” She reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the folding knife. In less than a second, she had the blade snapped open. Its edge gleamed white under the moon.

With one hand, she caught him by the collar. With the other, she held the knife to his throat. Cold steel caught him just below the jaw, threatening the soft, vulnerable place where his pulse raced.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Tell the truth.”

The Breton spouted from his lips. Like blood spurting from some vital wound. “My name is Corentin Morvan. I am a humble farmhand. I sleep in the barn loft. I know nothing. By the Virgin and all her saints, I swear this to be true.”

Pulling at his collar, she lowered the knife to his exposed chest. There, she applied pressure to the blade, scoring his skin. Once, and then again. Two neat, fiery lines of pain etched just beneath his collarbone. His eyes watered as he suppressed the urge to lash out or curse. Wincing, he looked down.

Thin red slashes made the shape of a tiny V.

She’d marked him. The act was shocking. Barbaric. Wildly arousing.

“You are mine.” She tugged his collar and pulled his face down to hers. “You are mine. Do not forget it.”

Her lips claimed his. The ferocity and passion in her kiss set his mind spinning. His body responded with raw, visceral need.