A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(48)

“No, I threw those in the bargain for free. You’re welcome.” The infuriating man walked in a slow circle, swinging his arms. “We’ll rest a few minutes. And then we’ll continue walking. The next village can’t be far now.”

“I will not be moved from this spot.”

He came to a halt behind her. His hands gripped her shoulders. “You will be,” he muttered, “even if I have to forcibly move you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, yes I would.” His hands massaged her neck and shoulders muscles—not tenderly, but in the way a manager might loosen a boxer for a fight. It felt maddeningly wonderful.

Crouching, he swiveled her so that she faced the road ahead. “Yes,” he whispered in her ear. “I will push you, pull you, rattle you as I see fit. Because you’ve a sparkling wit lurking beneath that dull exterior. Because you can sing, but you don’t. Because you’ve a fiery passion inside you, and it needs release. Because you can keep walking. You just need someone to push you over that next horizon.”

Surely it was the effect of hunger and fatigue, not his rough, intimate voice. But she trembled, just a little.

“Those are rather ironic words,” she said, turning her head to face him. “From a man who won’t even ride in a coach.”

His hands tensed.

“Ho, there!”

On the road beside them, a carriage rolled to a halt. A young woman with a gaily beribboned bonnet called to them from inside.

“My goodness, what misfortune has befallen you? Do you need assistance? Can we offer you some help?” She opened the door. “It’s just my sister and our companion with me, you see. Plenty of space.”

Minerva rose from her trunk and looked to Colin. “Well? Must I push you?”

“No,” he said grimly. “I’ll ride. Just until the next town.”

Minerva assessed the young woman in the carriage. She looked about the same age as Diana, and her bonnet and carriage marked her as a lady of some wealth. Judging by the fact that she was stopping to offer rides to strangers, she must be either exceptionally kind or rather stupid.

More likely, she was simply the sort of privileged, high-spirited girl who couldn’t imagine anything bad happening to her—because nothing truly bad ever had.

“You’re so kind to stop for us,” Minerva said, dropping a curtsy. “I’m Miss Sand, and this is . . . my brother. We’ve had quite the misadventure this morning, I’m afraid. If you could only take us to the next town, we’d be so grateful.”

“So we’re still brother and sister?” he murmured, lifting her trunk.

“Yes,” she whispered back. “But keep it simple. No more missionaries. Or cobras. And most importantly, no more . . . you know.”

His eyes were hard as he looked her up and down. “Believe me. You needn’t worry on that score.”

Minerva absorbed the swift, ruthless stab to her pride.

“Just slide your trunk here, in the compartment,” the young lady directed. “There’s no more room up top, I’m afraid. Cordelia will bring a half dozen hatboxes on every journey.”

After Minerva climbed into the carriage and took a place on the rear-facing seat, Colin lifted the trunk inside and slid it back as far as possible. Finally, taking one last deep breath as though he were preparing to submerge himself in the sea, he entered and settled his significant bulk beside her. His legs were nearly folded double.

“Carry on, John Coachman!” the young lady called.

As the carriage jolted into motion, Minerva felt Colin’s muscles go rigid as iron. She knew that familiar pang of sympathy for him—but truly, he had no one to blame for this situation but himself. And it would only be a short ride.

He’d survive.

“I’m Miss Emmeline Gateshead.” The beribboned young woman stuck out her hand, and Minerva shook it. “This is my sister, Miss Cordelia Gateshead, and our companion, Mrs. Pickerill.”

Minerva made her polite greetings to all three. She might as well have saved her breath. All three young women were instantly riveted to Colin. No surprise. The man drew female attention like a sponge draws water.

“And what takes the two of you north?” Miss Gateshead asked. “I didn’t quite catch your names.”

“Oh.” Minerva was suddenly panicked. “Well. We . . .”

“Don’t tell us! We’ll guess,” Cordelia said, smiling. “It will help to pass the time.” She tipped her smile in Colin’s direction. “Are you an officer, back from the war?”

“No, miss. I’m no hero.”

Minerva would have said the same, a few minutes ago. But now she wasn’t so sure. From the moment they’d entered the coach, she’d been aware of the tension in Colin’s body. Now, her spectacles had begun to fog over from his shallow breaths. But no one else in the carriage suspected his struggles. He was enduring the torture quietly, manfully.

Perhaps even heroically.

“Pity, for you’d look so fine in uniform.” Emmeline’s remark prompted a chastening harrumph from her companion. “Did you come from Town?”

“We came through it,” Minerva answered. “But home is rather further south. On the coast.”

Cordelia gasped. “I know. He’s a pirate!” The younger lady collapsed into giggles.