A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(25)

“Just skip to the end.” She jabbed a finger at the last paragraph. “Here.”

“ ‘These findings of yours are exciting indeed,’ ” Colin read. “ ‘I wish you would reconsider your plans and make the journey to Edinburgh for the symposium. Surely the prize would be yours, without contest. And though it be paltry inducement compared to a purse of five hundred guineas, I would add that I’m most eager to further our acquaintance. I find myself growing most impatient to meet, face-to-face, the colleague whose scholarship I have long admired and whose friendship I have . . .” His voiced trailed off. He cleared his throat and resumed reading. “ ‘Whose friendship I have come to hold so very dear. Please . . .’ ”

Colin paused. So very dear? In correspondence between a gentleman and an unattached young lady, that was practically a declaration of love.

“ ‘Please make the journey. Yours in admiration, Sir Alisdair Kent,’” he finished.

He’d be damned. The awkward bluestocking had an admirer. Perhaps even a sweetheart. How quaint. How precious. How unspeakably irritating.

“There,” she said. “I’m certain to win the prize. Do you see?”

“Oh, I see. I see your little plan now.” He took a few aimless paces, chuckling to himself. “I can’t believe this. I’m being used.”

“Used? What can you mean? That’s absurd.”

He made a dismissive noise. “Please. Here I was so concerned that if I consented to this trip, I’d be using you ill.” He held up the letter. “But this is all about Sir Alisdair Kent. You were going to pretend to elope with me, on the hopes of seeing him. You’re the one using me.”

She snatched the letter from his grip. “I’m not using you. You would come out richer for this, while I would be utterly ruined. I’m offering you the entire prize. Five hundred guineas.”

“A fine price for my tender heart.” He pressed a hand over the offended organ. “You meant to ruthlessly toy with my affections. Suggesting we travel together for weeks. An unmarried man and an unmarried woman, trapped in close quarters for all those days.” He cocked an eyebrow. “All those nights. You’ll be casting glances at me over those coy little spectacles, driving me wild with all your polysyllabic words. Sharing my bed. Kissing me like a brazen temptress.”

Her lashes worked furiously as she refolded her precious letter. “That’s quite enough.”

No, it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. Colin knew she didn’t respect him. But now that he was seized with lust for her, she ought to at least reciprocate with a grudging-yet-helpless infatuation. So much would only be polite. But no, she’d been pining all along for another man. When they’d kissed, had she been practicing for this geologist toad?

She said, “There’s no need to mock me. There’s no call to be cruel. Sir Alisdair Kent is a colleague, nothing more.”

“He holds you dear, that letter says. Not just dear. ‘So very dear.’ ”

“He doesn’t even—” She made a fist and drew a slow breath. When she spoke again, she’d tempered her voice. “He is a brilliant geologist. And any admiration he feels for me is strictly based on my work. He believes the creature that left this footprint will be recorded as a new species. I’ll even get to name it.”

“Name it?” Colin eyed the plaster cast. “Why go to Scotland for that? We can name it right here. I suggest ‘Frank.’ ”

“Not name it that way. I’ll be the one to give the species a scientific name. Besides, this lizard was female.”

He cocked his head and stared at the print. “It’s a footprint. How on earth do you know?”

“I just know. I feel it.” With her fingertips, she reverently traced the three-toed shape. “The creature who left this mark—she was definitely not a ‘Frank.’ ”

“Francine, then.”

She exhaled forcefully. “I know this is all a joke to you. But it won’t be to my colleagues.” She replaced the rolls of fabric around the plaster, packing it tight. “Whatever this creature was, she was real. She lived and breathed, and she left this mark. And now, untold eons later . . . she just might change the way we understand the world.”

She shut and locked the trunk, propping one foot atop the baggage to tighten the leather straps. Her trim, stockinged ankle was revealed to his view. So pale and sweetly curved. He didn’t know which he found more appealing—the erotic glimpse of her ankle, or the determined set of her brow.

“Come. Give it here.” Colin reached to help with the buckles.

At his urging, she ceased wrestling with the straps and surrendered the task to him. In the transfer, the back of his hand brushed her calf. A jolt of desire rocked him in his boots. Lord. This was precisely why he couldn’t agree to this wild scheme.

He finished fastening the buckles and stood tall, clapping dust from his gloved hands. “He’s probably ancient, you know. Or warty.”

“Who?”

“This Sir Alisdair fellow.”

Her cheeks blushed crimson.

“I’m just saying, he’s likely older than Francine. And less attractive.”

“I don’t care! I don’t care if he’s ancient and warty and leprous and hunchbacked. He would still be learned, intelligent. Respected and respectful. He would still be a better man than you. You know it, and you’re envious. You’re being cruel to me to soothe your pride.” She looked him up and down with a contemptuous glare. “And you’re going to catch flies in your mouth, if you don’t shut it.”