A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(34)

Perhaps that would help him. To know he wasn’t alone.

“Colin?”

He drew a harsh, rattling breath. His muscles were coiled as tightly as springs.

One of her arms lay trapped at her side, pinned by the weight of his body. But she had the use of her other hand. She raised trembling fingers and laid a cautious touch to his forearm. With the fire banked, the room had long gone cold. But his skin was damp with sweat.

“Colin.” She traced her fingers up and down his forearm in long, calming strokes. She wished she could caress other parts of him—his scalp, his back, his face. But unless he loosened his tight hold on her body, this was as much of him as she could reach.

Her attentions didn’t seem to be helping. He shook violently now, and his breathing was erratic. His heartbeat hammered against her shoulder.

This was so much worse than in the cave. There, he’d been mildly agitated. Now he seemed to be struggling for his very life.

A sound rasped from his throat. A raw, anguished, almost inhuman moan.

“No,” he muttered. Then more forcefully, “No. Won’t let you. Get back. Get back, you bloody bitch.”

She winced. She’d never heard him speak in such a savage tone.

Oh God. Oh, Colin. What are you facing in there?

Desperate to do something—anything—to pull him out of that dark, terror-stricken place, she resorted to a trick he’d taught her on the dance floor. She slid her fingers to the vulnerable underside of his arm and pinched him, hard.

He jerked and startled, sucking in a deep, gasping breath. Like a drowning man who’d just surfaced.

“Colin, it’s me. It’s Minerva. I’m here.” She twisted in his slackened embrace and rolled to face him. She stroked calming touches over his brow. “You’re not alone. It’s all right. Just take deep breaths. I’m here.”

He didn’t open his eyes, but the tension in his body ebbed. His breathing slowed to a normal rate. Her overtaxed pulse gratefully took the excuse to slow, too.

“I’m here,” she repeated. “You’re not alone.”

“Min.” His voice was like a rasp rolled in cotton-wool. Rough and soft all at once. His fingers caught a lock of her hair, and he twisted it between his fingertips. “Did I frighten you?’

“A little.”

He muttered a curse and rolled her close to his chest. “Sorry, pet. All’s well now.” His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “All’s well.”

Remarkable. After that episode he’d just experienced, he was the one soothing her. And doing a very good job of it, too. His fingers grazed her temple in deft, calming strokes. The relief of knowing the crisis had passed . . . it left her sapped and boneless. Weak.

“Do you need anything?” she mumbled, pressing her brow to his chest. “Brandy, tea? Would it . . . would it help to talk?”

He didn’t answer, and she worried she’d offended his pride.

He pressed a kiss to her crown. “Just sleep.”

So she did as he told her. She curled into his strength and let his slow, steady heartbeat lull her back to sleep.

When Minerva woke next, it was daylight.

And she was alone.

She sat bolt upright in bed. Weak sunlight filtered in through the room’s single, grimy window. In the daylight, the room looked even shabbier than it had the night before.

After donning her spectacles, Minerva looked around. All of her things were still there. But she saw no sign of Colin. Not his boots, not his coat, not his gloves, not his cravat hanging over the chair back.

Her stomach lurched.

He couldn’t have gone.

She scampered from bed and began searching the table, the chest of drawers. Surely, he would have left a note, at least. When she found none, she hurried to wash and dress as quickly as possible. Rationally, she knew he was probably just downstairs, but she’d feel much better when she laid eyes on the man himself.

Fortunately, the moment Minerva descended to the breakfast room, Colin rose from his chair to welcome her. “Ah. There you are.”

He’d bathed and shaved. She could see that his hair was still damp behind the ears. The worst of yesterday’s travel dust had been brushed from his coat, and it made a respectable dark-blue contrast with the snowy white of his fresh shirt and cravat. Someone had blacked and polished his boots to a healthy shine.

He looked well. Truly well. Not just handsome, but vigorous and strong. After feeling him groan and tremble beside her last night, this came as profound relief. She’d been so worried for him.

“Colin, I . . .” Strangely overwhelmed, she put a hand to his lapel.

“I do hope you slept well. We’ve been waiting on you.”

Her head jerked in surprise. “We?”

“Yes, dear sister,” he said loudly, taking her hand in his. “Allow me to introduce the Fontleys.”

Dear sister? She gawped at him.

“This is Mr. Fontley and Mrs. Fontley.”

He turned her, with all the finesse of a clockwork gear turning a porcelain dancer in a music box. Minerva found herself curtseying to a kindly-looking couple. Silver frosted the gentleman’s thinning hair, and his wife smiled from beneath a tidy lace cap.

“The Fontleys have offered you space in their carriage. They’re traveling north as well.”