A Week to Be Wicked

“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.”



It 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.



She watched him for a few minutes. Placing the straw in a thick layer, then pinning it down with twists of split hazel. He lifted a flat-head tool that looked something between a currycomb and a mallet. With swift, strong arcs of his arm, he pounded the thatch into place. He paused to wipe his brow and toss a comment to his fellow laborers. From the way they all laughed, she supposed it must have been a good joke.



Minerva found herself caught between admiration and envy. She seemed doomed to move through life feeling the perpetual outsider, whereas Colin could fit in anywhere. But for the first time, she saw his charm in a different light. Not as lubricant, of either a social or sexual variety, but simply as an expression of his true self.



He caught sight of her and lifted a hand in greeting. “Tallyho!”



She couldn’t help but smile and shake her head, whispering, “You’re cracked.”



Cracked indeed.



Cracked open, more like. Come out of his shell.



How funny. He was forever chiding Minerva, telling her to emerge from her protective cage. But didn’t everyone have a shell? Hard, external armor protecting the soft, vulnerable creature beneath?



Perhaps, she thought, people were more like ammonites than one would suppose. Perhaps they too built shells on a consistent, unchanging factor—some quality or circumstance established in their youth. Each chamber in the shell just an enlargement of the previous. Growing year after year, until they spiraled around and locked themselves in place.



Colin’s shell had been formed by tragedy. His parents’ death had defined the shape of that first protective chamber. He’d owned it, grown to fill the shape of it, enlarged it with room after mournful, troubled room. But what if the person inside those many hollow, echoing chambers wasn’t a tragedy at all? Just a man who genuinely enjoyed life and loved people, but happened to have two dead parents and a stubborn case of insomnia?



And who was she, beneath all her layers? A bookish, awkward girl who couldn’t be bothered to care for anything but fossils and rocks? Or a bold, adventurous woman who’d risked everything—not on the hopes of achieving professional acclaim, but on the slim chance of love. Of finding that one person who could understand her, appreciate her, and let her understand and appreciate him.



She couldn’t lie. In Spindle Cove, she’d entertained vain fancies that Sir Alisdair Kent might be that man. But now, looking back, she had to own another difficult truth. Whenever she’d imagined herself with Sir Alisdair—gazing deep into eyes that reflected acceptance, desire, affection, and trust—those eyes had looked a great deal like Bristol diamonds. And they were anchored by a strong jaw and single, reluctant dimple.



She was so confused. In the immediate future, she wanted—needed—to share Francine’s footprint with the scientific community. Beyond that, Minerva didn’t know what she wanted anymore. And even if she could discern what future she wanted . . .



How would she bear it if that future didn’t want her?



When the thatching was finished, the laborers gathered at long, planked tables for a simple midday meal. Minerva helped the other women pass baskets of fresh bread, sausages, and hard cheese. Ale flowed freely from a cask.



The general mood turned from one of work to one of anticipation. The men washed and put on their coats, and the girls removed aprons and tied ribbons in each other’s hair. The wagon that had so recently been heaped with straw for thatching was swept and hitched to a strong, sturdy team.



“Our chariot awaits.” Colin extended a hand to Minerva. “After you.”



He helped her into the wagon, and then loaded the trunk. She pushed it to the far end of the wagon bed, and they sat in a row—all three of them. Minerva folded her legs beneath her. Colin stretched his out. Francine kept her foot in the box.