A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(70)

“We can do this, Colin. We can reach Edinburgh in time. And I can keep you in your place, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll go back to being shrewish and unattractive. I—I’ll stash a cudgel under my pillow.”

He laughed.

“Anyway, I’m satisfied now. You know, in terms of my curiosity. After last night, I’m sure I’ve seen all there is to see.”

His voice darkened in a thrilling way. “Believe me. You haven’t seen a fraction of what I could show you.”

Oh, don’t. Don’t tell me that.

“Colin, please.” She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. “Think of the money. Think of the five hundred guineas.”

He shook his head. “It’s not the money, pet.”

“Then think of Francine.”

“Francine?”

“Think of what she represents. What if long ago, before the first man ever drew breath, there were creatures like her everywhere? Giant lizards, roaming the earth. Even flying through the air.”

“Er . . .” She could tell he was struggling not to laugh.

“I know you find it amusing, but I’m being serious. Discoveries like her footprint, they’re changing history—or at least, our understanding of it. And there are a good many people who don’t like that. Geologists might seem boring, but we’re really renegades.” She smiled. “I know you’ve been with a great many women, but Francine just might be the most scandalous, heretical female to ever share your bedchamber.”

He did laugh then, good-naturedly.

Impulsively, she grabbed his hand. “Colin, please don’t take this from me. This is my dream, and I’ve already risked so much. I’d rather fail than forfeit.”

He drew a deep breath.

She held hers.

“Halford never rises before noon,” he said. “We should slip out as soon as possible, to avoid questions.”

The relief seeped through her, warm and sweet.

“Oh, thank you.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “But we have so little money. Where will we go?”

He bit into his toast and chewed. With a shrug, he eventually answered, “North.”

It was truly amazing, she thought, how far a man could travel on charm alone. By midmorning, Colin had wheedled them a chain of rides with tradesmen and farmers, working them toward a place where they could rejoin the Great North Road.

After pausing to chat with a local gentleman farmer, he strode back to Minerva where she waited by a rail fence.

He squinted at her through the bright morning sunlight. “He says he can offer us a ride to Grantham this afternoon, in exchange for a few hours’ work this morning. He has his farmhands thatching a cottage roof. If we help, we can have space in his wagon afterwards.”

“A ride all the way to Grantham? That would be wonderful. But . . .”

“But what?”

She tilted her head. “I take it he doesn’t realize you’re a viscount.”

“A viscount? Wearing this?” Smiling, he indicated his dusty, bedraggled topcoat. The fabric retained just a memory of its original deep blue. His boots hadn’t been blacked in days. “Not a chance. He assumes us to be common travelers, of course.”

“But . . .” How to put this in a way that wouldn’t offend his pride? “Colin, have you ever thatched a roof before?”

“Of course not,” he said gamely, helping her lift Francine’s trunk over the stile. “This is my grand opportunity.”

She took a deep breath. “If you say so.”

They crossed a hopfield, lined with neat rows of poles and ambitious green tendrils just starting to climb them. Minerva could see the cottage in the distance. Several men were scaling ladders and carting up bundles of fresh, golden longstraw to layer on the roof. They looked like ants swarming over a dish heaped with yellow custard.

“Here.” Colin removed his cravat and wound it around the pistol before shoving both into his coat pocket. Then he removed the coat altogether and handed it to her. “Look after this.”

With that, he joined the men at their labor. Minerva found herself quickly drafted into the women’s portion, sorting and bundling the straw as it was forked from the wagon. She supposed if she could be a convincing missionary or assassin, she ought to be able to do this. After all, she was used to working long hours with her rock hammer.

An hour later, her back was aching and her exposed forearms had acquired a thousand tiny abrasions. Her head felt swollen with the thick, sweet scent of the straw. She wasn’t particularly good at the work, and she could sense that she was coasting by on the other women’s forbearance. But she wouldn’t give up.

She stood tall for a minute to stretch her back. Shading her eyes with one hand, she scanned for Colin among the men. There he was, near the top of the roof, fearlessly straddling two rafters. Without a moment’s hesitation or a hint of imbalance, he walked across ten feet of narrow, sloping beam to accept a fresh bundle of straw. Of course, he’d taken to this easily—the same way he took to everything.

She watched him for a few minutes. Placing the straw in a thick layer, then pinning it down with twists of split hazel. He lifted a flat-head tool that looked something between a currycomb and a mallet. With swift, strong arcs of his arm, he pounded the thatch into place. He paused to wipe his brow and toss a comment to his fellow laborers. From the way they all laughed, she supposed it must have been a good joke.