A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(103)

“Minerva, these are your findings. These are your peers. This should be your moment.”

“Yes, but . . .” Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, and she impatiently blinked them back. “They won’t let me in.”

“They won’t let unmarried ladies in. So marry me. Right here and now.”

She stared at him, shocked. His Bristol-diamond eyes shone, brilliant and sincere. “Marry? But we . . . we can’t possibly—”

He took her hands. “This is Scotland, Minerva. We don’t need a license or a church. We only need witnesses. Barrington here can serve as one, and—”

He turned, just as another man opened the door and joined them on the stoop.

“What’s going on here?” the newcomer asked in a deep, solemn voice.

Minerva’s eyes swept him from boots to crown. He was tall and handsome and . . . well, tall and handsome some more. He struck quite the fine figure, silhouetted in the door.

He asked, “Barrington, who are these people?”

“Oh, good,” Colin said. “This fine-looking fellow can serve as our second witness. We have Mr. Barrington, and we have”—he clapped the newcomer on the shoulder—“Mr. . . . ?”

The man blinked at Colin’s presumptuous gesture. “I’m Sir Alisdair Kent.”

Minerva clapped a hand over her shocked laughter.

“Right.” Colin’s hand made two slow, heavy pats on Sir Alisdair’s shoulder, as he sized the man up with a sweeping gaze. “Right. You would be.” He heaved a sigh and turned to Minerva. “This is probably where I should step aside and let you two get more acquainted—”

No!

“But I won’t,” he finished.

Her heart flipped. Thank heaven.

He wrapped her gloved hands in both of his and stared deeply into her eyes.

“Minerva, I love you. I’d been waiting to tell you so at a better moment. In some more romantic time and place.” He threw a glance at their surroundings. “But here and now will have to do.”

“Here is fine,” she managed. “Now is good.”

He squeezed her hands. “I love you. I love that you’re clever and loyal and curious and kind. I love that you’re often so fearless and bold and strong—but I also love that you’re occasionally not, because then I can be strong for you. I love that I can tell you anything. Anything at all. And I love that you always have something surprising to say. I love that you call things by their right names. That you aren’t afraid to call a tit a tit, or a c**k a—”

“I beg your pardon,” Sir Alisdair interjected, “but what in God’s name are you on about?”

Minerva couldn’t help but laugh.

“Do you mind?” Colin told the man irritably. “I promised this woman months of tender courtship, and thanks to your Society and its inane, archaic rules, I must cram it all into the space of five minutes. The least you could do is not interrupt.”

Sir Alisdair spoke directly to Minerva. “Is this man harassing you, Miss . . .” He paused. “It is Miss Highwood?”

“Yes,” she said gently. “Yes, it is Miss Highwood. I apologize for the confusion. And I’m so sorry if I’ve caused you any . . . disappointment.”

His mouth quirked as he looked her up and down. “Merely surprise, Miss Highwood. Merely surprise.”

“Yes, yes. She’s a very surprising woman.” Colin cleared his throat. “Once again, man. Do you mind?”

Smiling, Minerva pulled Colin a few steps away. “Never mind him. Carry on.”

Once they had a bit of privacy, his eyes gentled. “As I was saying, pet. I love that you call things by their right names. That you’re bold enough to call a tit a tit, and a c**k a cock. But most of all, I love that even after this mad, reckless week with me—even with your heart and reputation and future hanging in the balance—you were brave enough to call love love.” His hands framed her face. “Because that’s exactly what this is. I love you, Minerva.” A look of exultant joy lit his eyes, as though he’d just unearthed the scientific discovery of a lifetime. “We love each other.”

A knot rose in her throat. “Yes. We do.”

“I want to be with you, for the rest of our lives.”

“I want that, too.”

“Then here.” He released her hands. Catching his glove between his teeth, he tugged it loose and then discarded the thing entirely. His fingers went to the signet ring on his little finger, and he twisted it back and forth. And back and forth. He grimaced. “This may take a moment.”

“Colin, really. You don’t have to—”

“Almost have it,” he said through gritted teeth. His face was red and contorted with effort. “Wait . . . wait . . .”

He turned away and crouched, still tugging at the ring. Minerva began to grow worried for him.

“There.” Panting for breath and wearing an expression of triumph, he held up the ring for her inspection. “I haven’t removed this ring since I was a boy. It was my father’s of course, and it came to me after his death. It started out on my thumb, then made its way down every finger. It’s been on that last finger so long, it almost became a part of me. But now I want you to wear it.”