A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(37)

“And I’ll wager,” said Lettie, flouncing down next to his boot, “that she dashed like mad all the way home, and then made it back just in time. Bringing along some native doctor to cure you with his mystic chanting and powders.”

Smiling at the girl’s imagination, Colin shook his head. “No. Actually, by the time she returned with help, it was too late. She couldn’t heal me. I had died.”

Everyone went silent.

“But . . .” Lettie frowned. “But that can’t be. Here you are.”

“What happened?” Gilbert asked.

Yes, what happened? Minerva almost added herself. Even she was breathless to learn what came next, when he’d lay dying in the jungle after a rare Ceylonese beetle bite.

Nothing happened, you ninny. It’s all a lie.

Colin cleared his throat. “Well, I can’t tell you precisely what happened. Because I slumped unconscious on the jungle floor, and I don’t remember anything after that. I’d fallen into a deep coma, it seems. The signs of life were so faint, my own family believed I was dead. They prayed over me, prepared my body and put it in a wooden coffin. And the next thing I knew, I woke up underground. In the dark. Buried alive.”

“Cor,” Lettie cried, clinging to his boot. “Whatever did you do?”

“I cried. I wailed. I clawed at the planks sealing me in until my fingernails were torn to bloody nubs. I despaired and trembled. I screamed until my throat was raw.” His voice had taken on a strange quality. He looked up, searching Minerva’s gaze. “And somehow, she heard me. Didn’t you, M? You heard me, calling through the darkness. I was alone and frightened. But in the dark of night, you heard the anguished cries of my heart.”

Minerva swallowed back the lump rising in her throat. She didn’t like this story anymore. She wasn’t sure what Colin was playing at. Obviously this description of his boyhood self, trapped and screaming in the dark, was meant for her. It would seem he hadn’t forgotten last night’s episode. He remembered it. All of it. And now he wished to . . . what, precisely? Thank her for her help? Mock her for her concern?

He asked, “Do you want to tell the next bit, M?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t.”

He turned to the children. “She came running out to the burial site, began digging through the dirt with her bare hands. When I heard those noises . . . well, I thought at first I’d truly died, and the hounds of hell were scratching at my coffin.”

Lettie squeaked and bit her knuckle.

“To this day, I have no fondness for dogs,” he said.

“Oh, how sad.”

In her memory, Minerva heard the echo of his savage cries. Get back, you bloody bitch.

“I tried to call out, but couldn’t. The air was growing more and more close, and I could scarcely take a breath. As the sounds drew nearer, I managed to suck just a gasp of air into my lungs. Enough to call out one word.” He paused dramatically, then whispered, “Tallyho?”

The children held their breath.

“And you can guess what sweet magic I heard in return.”

“You’re cracked,” they replied in hushed unison.

“Exactly,” Colin said. “She’d saved me from the very clutches of death. My dear, daring sister.”

Their eyes met, and Minerva had to look away. She didn’t know what to feel, but she felt . . . something. And she felt it deeply.

Gilbert turned to her. “How brave you were, Miss Sand.”

She fluttered a hand. “Not really.”

“She’s too modest. Always was.” Rising from the fallen log, Colin playfully chucked her under the chin before leading the way back to the road. “Just wait until you hear about M and the cobra.”

Chapter Ten

“And that”—Colin tapped his fork against his now-empty dinner plate—”is the story of the cobra.” He sat back in his chair, feeling satisfied.

All the Fontleys turned their gaze from him and looked to Minerva, awed.

Minerva glared at him. “I am not a snake charmer.”

“Of course not. Snake charmers need a flute.” He turned to the Fontleys. “I tell you, she had the creature entranced with her sweet voice alone. It wouldn’t leave her side after that day. The scaly thing slithered in her footsteps, all over Ceylon. We made a pet of it. Named it Sir Alisdair.”

Under the table, something sharp jabbed him in the thigh. He covered his yelp of pain with a cough.

Colin knew he’d pay for this later. But he couldn’t resist provoking her. Never had been able to resist it, ever since they’d first met. Today, of all days, he wanted to draw her out, push her beyond those boundaries she’d erected.

He wanted to be surprised.

And more than that—he wanted to keep the attention on her. Because if he gave her the chance to direct conversation, he knew she’d steer it in an unpleasant direction. One that involved last night. He didn’t want to discuss last night. In his own, circumspect way, he’d told her all she needed to know. As much as he’d ever told anyone.

“Miss Sand,” Gilbert Fontley said, “how can we convince you to sing?”

Shock flared in her eyes. “You can’t.”

“Mr. Fontley is quite the lover of music,” their mother said, patting her husband’s arm. “As am I. Miss Sand, we would be so pleased to hear you. Do oblige us, dear. There’s a pianoforte, just there.”