A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(50)

Minerva suddenly realized that he’d never unleashed his full seductive potential in Spindle Cove—at least, not with Diana. A strange surge of gratitude took her by surprise.

“If I’m a prince,” he said, smiling in that disarming, bashful way—the way that revealed his single dimple as though it were a secret vulnerability only the love of a good woman could cure—“I of course will do my duty. I will do my best. But sometimes, I think it might be a relief to find it’s all just a grand mistake.”

The coach lurched to a sudden halt.

“Oh,” exclaimed Emmeline, falling forward. “What’s that?”

Minerva looked out the window for the first time in several minutes. This stretch of road passed through a wooded area. Perhaps they’d come to a turnpike, or the road was muddy ahead.

Without warning, the door of the coach opened, just a crack.

In the opening, the barrel of a pistol gleamed.

“Stand and deliver.”

Chapter Fourteen

Colin very nearly laughed. Not out of amusement, but irony. It was really, truly absurd that part of him welcomed this turn of events. That he’d rather face a highwayman at gunpoint than ride one minute longer in this hellish, suffocating coach. Even spinning outlandish claptrap and enjoying the company of three ladies couldn’t distract him from the too-close walls and the too-warm air. When the carriage had lurched to its unexpected stop, Colin had gone a bit wild inside.

He’d wanted out.

At the sight of the pistol, he’d almost begged, Yes, shoot me. End this misery.

Until that pistol turned in Minerva’s direction, and clarity descended. Now Colin wasn’t panicked.

He was pissing angry.

He cleared his throat, drawing the bastard’s attention. “If you must point that thing at someone, point it at me.”

The highwayman obliged him and threw a canvas pouch through the open door. “Pass the sack. Coin, jewels, watches, rings. All of it goes inside.” An ominous click sounded as he cocked the pistol. “And quickly.”

The Misses Gateshead cowered together with their companion.

Colin retrieved the canvas pouch from the floor. As he teased the drawstring open, he spoke to the ladies in his calmest, most reassuring tone. “It’ll have to be done, I’m afraid. We’ll do as he asks, and then we’ll continue on. Everything will be well.”

Damn it all. Colin knew handing over the valuables was the only safe and responsible choice. Except for a knife buried deep in his boot, he was unarmed and at a distinct disadvantage. Presumably, the robber had associates holding the carriage driver and footmen at gunpoint, too. Any heroics Colin might attempt would doubtless end in someone’s injury or death. With four ladies in the carriage, he couldn’t take the risk. Still, he hated giving in. He cursed his own thoughtlessness. Why hadn’t he brought a pistol on this journey?

The answer was simple. Because he hadn’t expected to actually leave on this journey. He’d tried to cancel the whole thing, that first morning by the road.

He should have tried harder.

With shaking fingers, the trio of ladies removed their lockets, bracelets, rings, and hair combs. He shook the few coins he carried from his own pocket.

“What about her?” The robber thrust his pistol in Minerva’s direction.

“She’s not wearing jewels,” Colin said, angling himself between the pistol and her body.

“What about that reticule?”

Colin held out the canvas bag. “The reticule, Min.”

“But . . .” Her dark eyes were wild with apprehension. “But it has all my—”

All her money. All their money. Yes, Colin knew. And from the look in her eyes, he knew she would likely do something very stupid to save it, if he didn’t take command of this scene.

“Give it here,” he said firmly. “Now.”

Her face blanched to the color of parchment as she unlooped the reticule from her wrist and dropped it in the canvas bag.

“There.” Colin pushed the heavy bag at the highwayman. “Take it and begone. Before I change my mind and crush your miserable, reeking face with my boot.”

“Not so fast.” The robber flashed his pistol in the direction of Colin’s signet ring. “Your ring.”

“Won’t come off.” Colin demonstrated, tugging at the gold band. “If you want it, you’ll have to take the finger.”

The ladies gasped at this suggestion, drawing the highwayman’s notice. From beneath his wide-brimmed hat, sharp eyes scanned the compartment.

His pistol pointed in Francine’s direction. “What’s in the trunk?”

“Nothing,” Minerva jumped to answer. “Nothing at all.”

Bollocks. Wrong answer, pet. That trunk’s contents were of no value to anyone, save Minerva herself. And a few dusty scientists, perhaps. But with her hasty denial, she’d just given the impression that the trunk was filled with gold doubloons. Now the robber would not rest without taking it, and Minerva would not surrender.

He leaned toward her. “Min, it’s not worth your life.”

“It is my life. Without it, I’ve done this all for nothing.”

“Give me that,” the highwayman ordered, holding the pistol steady with one hand and reaching for the trunk’s handle with the other.