A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(106)

Bluebells waved drunkenly on their slender stalks, begging to be plucked. As she went, she stopped to gather them, along with primrose and a few remaining daffodils. She had quite a posy accumulated by the time she climbed the hill. As she neared the ridge’s apex, a smile bloomed across her face. She warmed with joy, just anticipating the sight of the familiar granite facade.

But it wasn’t Riverchase she first glimpsed as she crested the hill.

It was Colin, walking down the same path—toward her.

“Hullo,” he called, drawing near. “I was just on my way to the village.”

“What for?”

“To see you, naturally.”

“Oh. Well, I was on my way to see you.” She gave him a shy smile, feeling that familiar touch of giddiness.

He gestured at her bouquet of wildflowers. “Collecting flowers today? Not rocks?”

“I like flowers sometimes.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Vases of flowers are much easier to send round to the cottage.” His gloved fingertip caressed her cheek. “Miss Minerva, may I . . . ?”

“A kiss?”

He nodded.

She offered her cheek to him, leaning in to accept the tender, courtly gesture. But at the last moment, he turned her face to his and kissed her on the lips instead. Oh, he was ever the scoundrel, and she was glad of it. Their kiss was brief, but warm and sweet as the afternoon sun.

After a moment, he straightened. His gaze wandered her form. “You look . . .” He shook his head, smiling a little. “Cataclysmic with beauty today.”

She swallowed, taking a moment to recover from his masculine splendor. “You rather devastate me, too.”

“I’d like to think my kiss can take all the credit for that lovely blush, but I doubt it’s the truth. What has you so self-satisfied?”

“The kiss has a great deal to do with it. But the post came through this morning.” She fished a pair of envelopes from her pocket. “I had two rather interesting letters. The first is from my mother. She extends her felicitations on our marriage.”

She handed him the letter from Spindle Cove. He unfolded the page and scanned its contents. As he read, the corner of his mouth curled in amusement.

“I’m sorry,” Minerva said. “I know she’s dreadful.”

“She’s not. She’s a mother who wants the best for her daughters.”

“She’s mistaken, is what she is. I didn’t tell her we’d married. I only said we’d stopped at your estate, and she shouldn’t expect me back for a month or more. But she’s obviously assumed.”

“They’ve all assumed. I had a letter from Bram just the other day. He wanted to know why I hadn’t sent the solicitors written proof of our marriage yet. ‘Don’t I want my money?’ he asked.”

Together, they turned to walk toward Riverchase.

“They’ll learn the truth eventually,” she mused.

“Yes, they will. You said you had two interesting letters. Who sent the other?”

“Sir Alisdair Kent.”

She noted a slight hitch in his step. The subtle hint of jealousy thrilled her more than it ought.

“Oh, truly?” he said, in a purposely offhand tone. “And what did the good Sir Alisdair have to say?”

“Not much. Only that the Royal Geological Journal has declined to publish my paper about Francine.”

“What?” He stopped dead and turned to her. The affectionate sparkle in his eyes became a flash of something irate, verging on murderous. “Oh, Min. That’s bollocks. They can’t have done that to you.”

She shrugged. “Sir Alisdair said he tried to argue on my behalf, but the other journal editors would not be convinced. My evidence was specious, they said; my conclusions were too great of a reach . . .”

“Codswallop.” His jaw tightened. “Cowardly bastards. They just won’t be outdone by a woman, that’s all.”

“Perhaps.”

He shook his head ruefully. “I’m sorry, Min. We should have gone in to the symposium that day. You could have presented your findings in person. If only they’d all heard you speak, you could have convinced them.”

“No, don’t be sorry.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Don’t ever be sorry, Colin. I never will be.”

They stood there for a long moment, smiling a little and gazing into each other’s eyes. Lately, they could spend hours like this—a palpable happiness and love welling in the space between them.

Minerva couldn’t wait to be his wife. But she would never regret refusing to marry him that day in Edinburgh, at the threshold of the Royal Geological Society.

He’d been through so much just to get her to that doorway. Faced his deepest fears, committed feats of daring. Opened his heart to her, and his home as well. He’d given her courage and strength and hours of laughter. Not to mention passion, and all those fervent words of love. In proposing to her, he’d made the bravest leap of faith she could imagine.

In return, Minerva wanted to give him this much, at least. The proper courtship he’d wanted. A chance for their love to take root and grow. When she recited those wedding vows, she wanted him to know they were vows of freely given, lasting devotion, not a hasty grab at scientific glory.