A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(46)

With a growl, he shuddered and jerked in her embrace. Then slumped heavy atop her, panting into the curve of her neck.

Her fingers relaxed their grip on his shoulders. Her hands trembled. She didn’t know how to touch him. A bead of sweat trickled along her collarbone. She wasn’t sure if it was hers or his.

What did this all mean? It wasn’t really copulation, much less lovemaking. But it was real in some way. She didn’t know how to think of him now. Much less how to look at him, speak to him in the morning. How did she think of herself, after she’d moaned and sighed his name? Was she ruined? Was she a wanton?

He rolled to the side, one hand still tangled in her hair. His chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. “Good Lord, woman.”

Woman. She was a woman.

“You are forever catching me by surprise. I begin as your tutor, teaching the lesson. And then somehow . . . minutes later, I’m spilling like a schoolboy.” He gave a husky, intimate chuckle.

And what seemed like seconds after that, he was snoring.

Chapter Thirteen

“Jesus.” Wincing at the too-bright morning, Colin speared a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe this happened. I never do this. Never.”

Minerva rolled over sleepily, rubbing her eyes. “What is it?”

“Get dressed, and quickly. We’ve overslept.”

Thus began a mad, mutual dash to wash and dress and pack up all their things. The haste was convenient, in some ways. It postponed any discussion of last night.

It did not, however, erase his memories. Her every sound, every motion aroused him. The way she tugged her hairbrush through that love-tangled jumble of dark curls. The way her br**sts jounced as she hopped on one foot, struggling to jam the other into her half-boot. When she reached out and clutched his shoulder to balance, Colin thought he might unman himself yet again. He hadn’t been exaggerating last night. She made him randy as a youth, and twice as stupid.

Damn it, man. What were you thinking? You have rules about this.

Yes, he conceded. But he hadn’t broken those rules. He’d merely stretched them.

Stretched them. Stroked them. Humped them. Made them moan and sob.

He shook himself. Bloody hell. And here he had another long, dusty day of riding horseback facing him. Excellent. At least he wouldn’t need to schedule additional time for guilt and regret.

Hopefully the grooms downstairs had already selected a horse and readied it with his tack and saddle. As travel went, renting a posting horse every twenty miles wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t doing his arse any favors, either. But to keep up with a coach’s pace, Colin really had no alternative.

She drew aside the curtains and peeked out the window. “Oh, I see the Fontleys. They’re getting in the carriage already. Surely they wouldn’t leave without us.”

“Surely not.” He joined her at the window. The Fontleys were, indeed, almost ready to depart. “They can’t do that to you. Today’s your birthday.”

“Don’t start.” She cast him a chastening look through askew spectacles. Then self-consciousness flickered across her face, as if she’d felt some echo of the night before. She blushed, swallowed, and looked away.

He had the sudden, inexplicable urge to kiss her. But that would almost certainly be a bad idea, and anyway—there wasn’t time. They hurried down the stairs with a thunder of footfalls, struggling with the trunks as they came.

“Here we are,” Colin called, hurrying ahead of Minerva. “We’re coming! Tallyho!”

One of the Fontleys’ footmen stood perched on the back of the coach. Colin heaved the smallest trunk up to him, for storage. Then the second.

“Don’t forget this one,” Minerva called, dragging the third trunk behind her. The one that held Francine.

As Colin turned to help her with it, he heard the crack of a driver’s whip. Before he even understood what was happening, the coach had rolled into motion.

The Fontleys were driving away. Without them.

“Wait!” Minerva called. “Come back!”

Mrs. Fontley’s head poked out the window. “And subject my children to such reprehensible characters? I will not.” As the coach trundled away at a clip, they heard her shouting, “You are not good people!”

Minerva turned to him, stunned and breathless. “What can she mean? Surely it wasn’t the fact that you punched that man last night.”

“Couldn’t be. I can’t think what we did to change their opinion, unless . . .” His stomach rolled.

“Unless what?”

“Unless they somehow heard us. Last night.”

She paled. “Oh, sweet heaven.” Her lip folded under her teeth. “But how could they have . . . ?”

“They couldn’t have.”

“No, they couldn’t have, unless they were right next door. Unless . . .” Her gaze met his, wide and horrified. “Unless they were the ones we heard.”

Colin blew out a slow breath. He turned his head and stared after the coach. “Well. Good for them. Well done, Mr. Fontley.”

Minerva didn’t share his amusement.

“Oh God.” She sat down on her one remaining trunk and dropped her head in her hands. “They must think us scheming charlatans. They know every word we said was false. Ceylon, the lepers, the stupid beetle bite. They know we’re liars.”