A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(20)

He didn’t answer.

“You say it’s persisted since childhood. Is it getting better or worse with time?”

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Oh. All right.”

How sad, that he suffered so. How pathetic, that he turned to an endless chain of women to ameliorate his suffering. The idea made her nauseous. Irrationally envious. And just a little flushed, beneath her bathing costume.

A question burned inside her. She couldn’t help but ask. “Who was she, the other night? It wouldn’t matter, except . . .” Except whoever she was, she has the power to make my life utter misery.

After a moment, he reluctantly answered. “Ginny Watson.”

“Oh.” Minerva knew the cheery young widow. She took in washing from the rooming-house residents. Apparently, she took in washing—and other things—from the castle residents, too. But she didn’t seem the sort to spread tales.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he said.

“But don’t you see? That’s the worst part.” She moved away from the wall and turned to face him. The wet fabric of her bathing costume scraped over the rough stone. “Insomnia isn’t an uncommon condition, you know. Surely there must be some solution. If you can’t sleep at night, why don’t you light some lamps? Read some books. Warm some milk. See a doctor for a sleeping powder.”

“Those aren’t new ideas. I’ve tried them all, and then some.”

“And nothing works?”

Those drips counted the silence again. One, two, three . . .

He trailed a light touch up her arm. Then—slowly—he leaned forward.

And whispered in her ear, “One thing works.”

His lips brushed her cheek.

Minerva stiffened. Her every nerve ending jumped to attention. She didn’t know whether to be appalled or thrilled that he would make her another link in his amatory chain.

Appalled, she told herself. She ought to be appalled.

“You are shameless,” she whispered. “I can’t believe this.”

“It’s rather a shock to me, too.” His lips grazed her jaw. “But you are a most surprising girl.”

“You’re being opportunistic.”

“I won’t deny it. Why don’t you seize the opportunity, as well? I want to kiss you. And you need kissing, desperately.”

She put a hand to his shoulder and pushed him away. The cave filled with her affronted silence. “Why would you suggest such a thing?”

“Because last night you wanted to kiss me back. But you didn’t know how.”

Her heart jumped into her throat. So mortifying. How could he tell?

Wordlessly, he removed the spectacles from her face, folded them, and set them aside.

“I can’t believe this,” she breathed.

“So you keep saying.” He inched closer, eliminating the distance between them. “But you know, Matilda, what you haven’t said?”

“What’s that?”

“You haven’t said no.”

He reached for her in the dark, skimming a touch over her cheek, sliding down to cup her chin. With his hand anchored there, he stroked his thumb in ever-widening circles, until he grazed her bottom lip.

“You have a mouth made for kissing,” he murmured, angling her to face him. “Did you know that?”

She shook her head.

“So soft and generous.” Leaning in, he tipped her chin with the heel of his hand. “Sweet.”

“No man’s ever called me sweet.”

“Has any other man kissed you?”

Again, she gave a little shake of the head.

“Well, then. That’s why.” He brushed his lips over hers, just lightly, sending pure sensation fizzing through her veins. He hummed with satisfaction. “You taste of ripe plums.”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Now that’s just absurd.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s too early in the year for ripe plums.”

His husky chuckle shook them both. “You’re entirely too logical for your own good. A thorough kissing can mend that.”

“I don’t want mending.”

“Perhaps not. But I think you do want kissing.” He nuzzled the curve of her cheek, and his voice dropped to a sensual whisper. “Don’t you?”

She did. Oh, she did.

She couldn’t deny it. Not when he touched her like this. She wanted to be kissed, and to kiss him in return. She wanted to touch him, stroke him, hold him tight. All those tender, nurturing impulses still pulsed within her, despite all her efforts to reason them away. Her heart kept pumping those lies through her body.

He needs you.

You can heal him.

She had feminine warmth in abundance, and he needed comfort right now. In return, she could glimpse what it felt like to be needed. To be kissed. To be called sweet, and compared to a ripened plum.

To be desired by a desirable man.

“Just this once?” she breathed.

“Just this once.”

So long as they both knew it was all mere diversion . . . a harmless way to pass the time . . . It couldn’t hurt to pretend, could it? Not in secret, in the dark.

Here, there was no one to laugh.