A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(63)

Minerva Highwood had meant nothing but trouble to him, since the very first.

But by God, he’d returned the favor. As she curled into his chest, she felt so small and fragile against him. In the past four-and-twenty hours, she’d walked untold miles across the English countryside, surrendered all her money at gunpoint, pulled a knife on a highwayman, and entered a house that oozed such Bacchanalian excess as to send a gently-bred virgin screaming. And all this, just one day on the heels of her first proper orgasm.

Never once had she dissolved into helpless tears. Or begged him to just please take her home. Not one woman in a hundred would handle herself so well in similar circumstances.

He made a vow to himself, then and there. If he did nothing else right in his life, he would do this: deliver Minerva Highwood to Edinburgh for her scientific presentation. On time, in one piece. And with her virtue intact.

Some way, somehow, he would make these good intentions come out right.

He gently stroked her hair and back with his left hand as he gathered his cards with the right. “Sleep,” he murmured again.

As she shifted in his lap, her thigh rubbed against him. His body’s reaction was immediate, instinctual. Blood rushed to his groin, hardening his c**k and loosening his tenuous hold on those cherished principles. He wanted her physically, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise.

But he must endeavor to hide this other, more visceral reaction—the overwhelming, tenderness rising in his chest.

The simple, unthinkable fact that he cared.

Chapter Nineteen

Once again, Minerva woke in his arms. She was growing accustomed to waking like this—embraced by his heat, his strength, his clove-spiced scent. She didn’t hurry to rouse herself, but hovered in that half-dream world for just a minute longer. Sighing into his waistcoat and hugging his neck tight.

She trusted this man. He was a known liar and shameless rake, but she trusted him. Enough to fall asleep in his arms amid all this debauchery.

She blinked at the card table, trying to bring the confusion of cards and coins into focus. How much time had passed? It felt very late. Most of the players seemed to have already retired for the night. Only Colin and Halford remained.

She stared hard at the heap of shilling pieces in front of them. Had he increased their funds enough to continue their journey? Those coins had numbered twenty at the outset of the game.

Now she counted . . .

Four.

Her heart stopped. Oh, God. How could he? She’d trusted him, and he was losing everything.

Then she shifted her gaze to the cards in Colin’s hand. What she saw gave her reason to breathe again. His cards looked promising. She couldn’t make them out exactly—not without her spectacles. But she could see they were all red and they were all face cards. Simple logic told her, that had to add up to something good. A pair of knaves, at the least.

She looked to the center of the table, heaped with coins. More than enough money to replace what the highwayman had taken. Perhaps this was all part of Colin’s plan.

“A poxy pair of nines, that’s all.” The duke threw down his cards. “I’m sure you can do better, Payne.”

Yes! He could. She curled her fingers around the edge of his waistcoat pocket, faint with excitement.

Colin held his silence for a time. “Sorry to prove you wrong, Hal,” he said, “but you have me beat.” He laid his cards facedown on the table before him.

With a greedy laugh, the Duke of Halford gathered his winnings.

Minerva’s hand slipped from Colin’s pocket. She was stunned. Aghast. Four shillings. They were down to four shillings now. She had to get him away from this card table before he lost everything they had.

But how? She couldn’t even speak to him, thanks to his wild tales. These people all believed her to be Melissande, a refugee princess from some tiny Alpine principality. Or, alternatively, an assassin who just might garrote them all in their sleep. And in her spare time, Colin’s mistress.

His worldly, sensual mistress.

Minerva bit her lip. Perhaps there was a way to lure him from this betting table without words.

Adjusting her weight in his lap, she stretched up one hand to stroke his hair. The heavy brown locks sifted between her fingers, stroking like feathers over her palm. With her other hand, she teased loose his cravat knot until the entire length of fabric slid from his neck in a slow, sensual glide. She thought she heard him moan, a little.

She nuzzled into his neck. The scent of brandy clung to his skin, dark and intoxicating. Without her spectacles, at this close range, he was little more than an unshaven blur. But he was an achingly handsome blur, nonetheless. Craning her neck, she kissed his cheek.

His breath caught, and she almost lost her nerve to continue. But she’d started this, and now there was no retreating.

Tilting her head, she pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

Across the table, the duke gave a dry laugh.

Minerva’s heart stalled. She froze, lips pressed to Colin’s unshaven throat. What had she been thinking? A brazen seductress? Her? Of course Halford wouldn’t believe it. No one in his right mind would believe it.

“Payne,” the duke said, “perhaps you’d care to sit out this round? It would seem the fetching Melissande needs putting to bed.”

Colin’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “She can wait.”

“Perhaps,” the duke replied, with a knowing chuckle. “But can you? I’ve never seen a man’s knuckles quite that shade of pale.”