A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(38)

“But . . .” She swallowed hard and said weakly, “I couldn’t possibly.”

Colin watched her as she surveyed the inn’s crowded dining room. In a village as small as this one, the inn’s dining room also served as the village public house. There were probably above thirty souls in the room, equally divided between travelers passing the night and local men enjoying a pint with the fellows. A good crowd.

Young Miss Lettie joined the campaign. “Oh please, Miss Em. Do sing for us.”

“Come on, M,” Colin said jovially. “Just one or two songs.”

Minerva’s jaw tightened. “But brother, you know I gave up singing. After that horrific incident with the . . . millipede and the coconut and the . . . the stolen rubies.” Before he could press for details, she jumped to add, “Which we have sworn a pact on our parents’ graves to never, ever discuss.”

He smiled. Now she was catching the spirit. “That’s true. But it’s my birthday. And you always make an exception on my birthday.”

“You know very well it’s not—”

“It’s your birthday, Sand?” Mr. Fontley exclaimed over her. “Well, why didn’t you say so? We should drink to your health.” The older gentleman called the serving girl and ordered sherry for the table.

As glasses were passed around, Minerva said pointedly, “But brother, you never drink spirits.”

“I do on my birthday.” He raised the glass in salute, then drank.

He heard her growl.

“Won’t you sing, Miss Em?” Lettie pleaded again. “I so long for a bit of music. And it is Mr. Sand’s birthday.”

Soon all the Fontleys joined in the encouragement.

She turned to him and said simply, “Colin.” Her wide, dark eyes held a frantic plea for reprieve. Don’t make me do this.

He felt a twinge of conscience, but he wouldn’t intervene. He’d come to recognize that look in her eyes. Her eyes always caught that wild, desperate spark just before she did something extraordinary.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll sing.”

She lifted the sherry glass in front of her, drained it in a single swallow, and set it down with a decisive clink. Then she flattened both hands on the tabletop and pushed to her feet.

In slow, determined strides, she walked to the pianoforte. She removed her spectacles and held them folded in her hand. She pressed her finger down on a single piano key and, closing her eyes, hummed the pitch.

And then she opened her mouth and sang.

Well. She sang very, very well.

Surprise.

The crowded room went so quiet, so quickly, Colin could practically hear the jaws dropping. The song she’d chosen was an old, familiar ballad. No fancy scales or operatic trills. Just a simple, straightforward melody that suited her clear, lyrical voice. It wasn’t a song fit for a musicale, or even one of the Spindle Cove ladies’ salons. But it was perfect for a small country inn. The sort of tune that didn’t gavotte, didn’t mince around. That didn’t bother dazzling the ear or engaging the mind, but went straight for the guts.

And the heart.

Good Lord. It was a bloody fool thing to think—let alone say—but her song arrowed straight for his heart.

No way around it. Colin was charmed. As charmed as a Ceylonese cobra.

More than that, he was proud.

When the ballad’s lovers met their inevitably tragic end, and the crowd broke into enthusiastic applause, Colin clapped along with the rest. “That’s my girl,” he murmured.

Though she wasn’t, really. He had no right to claim her. To think that all this time—every day that he’d resided in Spindle Cove—this had been inside her. This glorious, soul-stirring song. The courage to unleash it before a crowd of strangers. The sweetness to calm him in the night, when he clawed his way back from hell.

How had he never seen any of this? How had he never known?

The Fontleys—and everyone else—shouted for another song. Minerva shook her head, demurring.

“Just one more,” Colin called to her, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Sing my favorite.”

She gave him a look of strained patience, but she relented.

Another key struck. Another quietly hummed pitch.

Another moment of sheer revelation.

She’d warmed to it now. The singing, the attention. Her voice gained strength and confidence. She sang with her eyes wide open, and she sang directly to him. Well, he’d asked for that, hadn’t he? And it was the best not-an-actual-birthday gift Colin had ever received. Those sultry, ripe lips held him in thrall. Every time she drew a quick breath between phrases, her br**sts fairly jumped for his attention.

If her first song had touched his heart . . . well, this one stroked him a ways lower.

It occurred to Colin that he should probably take pains not to be caught slavering over his own “sister.” But a glance around the place told him he wasn’t the only male in the room so affected.

Gilbert Fontley, in particular, was very bad off.

Without taking his eyes from Minerva, the young man leaned toward Colin. “Mr. Sand, do you think it’s possible to fall in love in the space of a single day?”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t know. I only fall in love at night. Never lasts beyond breakfast, though.”

Gilbert sent him a confused look. “B-but . . . But I thought you—”