A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(71)

Minerva found herself caught between admiration and envy. She seemed doomed to move through life feeling the perpetual outsider, whereas Colin could fit in anywhere. But for the first time, she saw his charm in a different light. Not as lubricant, of either a social or sexual variety, but simply as an expression of his true self.

He caught sight of her and lifted a hand in greeting. “Tallyho!”

She couldn’t help but smile and shake her head, whispering, “You’re cracked.”

Cracked indeed.

Cracked open, more like. Come out of his shell.

How funny. He was forever chiding Minerva, telling her to emerge from her protective cage. But didn’t everyone have a shell? Hard, external armor protecting the soft, vulnerable creature beneath?

Perhaps, she thought, people were more like ammonites than one would suppose. Perhaps they too built shells on a consistent, unchanging factor—some quality or circumstance established in their youth. Each chamber in the shell just an enlargement of the previous. Growing year after year, until they spiraled around and locked themselves in place.

Colin’s shell had been formed by tragedy. His parents’ death had defined the shape of that first protective chamber. He’d owned it, grown to fill the shape of it, enlarged it with room after mournful, troubled room. But what if the person inside those many hollow, echoing chambers wasn’t a tragedy at all? Just a man who genuinely enjoyed life and loved people, but happened to have two dead parents and a stubborn case of insomnia?

And who was she, beneath all her layers? A bookish, awkward girl who couldn’t be bothered to care for anything but fossils and rocks? Or a bold, adventurous woman who’d risked everything—not on the hopes of achieving professional acclaim, but on the slim chance of love. Of finding that one person who could understand her, appreciate her, and let her understand and appreciate him.

She couldn’t lie. In Spindle Cove, she’d entertained vain fancies that Sir Alisdair Kent might be that man. But now, looking back, she had to own another difficult truth. Whenever she’d imagined herself with Sir Alisdair—gazing deep into eyes that reflected acceptance, desire, affection, and trust—those eyes had looked a great deal like Bristol diamonds. And they were anchored by a strong jaw and single, reluctant dimple.

She was so confused. In the immediate future, she wanted—needed—to share Francine’s footprint with the scientific community. Beyond that, Minerva didn’t know what she wanted anymore. And even if she could discern what future she wanted . . .

How would she bear it if that future didn’t want her?

When the thatching was finished, the laborers gathered at long, planked tables for a simple midday meal. Minerva helped the other women pass baskets of fresh bread, sausages, and hard cheese. Ale flowed freely from a cask.

The general mood turned from one of work to one of anticipation. The men washed and put on their coats, and the girls removed aprons and tied ribbons in each other’s hair. The wagon that had so recently been heaped with straw for thatching was swept and hitched to a strong, sturdy team.

“Our chariot awaits.” Colin extended a hand to Minerva. “After you.”

He helped her into the wagon, and then loaded the trunk. She pushed it to the far end of the wagon bed, and they sat in a row—all three of them. Minerva folded her legs beneath her. Colin stretched his out. Francine kept her foot in the box.

“You don’t mind the wagon?” she asked him.

He shook as head. “Not so long as it’s open.”

All the other farm workers crowded in, and just before the rear gate was latched, a half dozen pink, squirming piglets were added to the mix. One of them found its way to Minerva’s lap, rooting adorably in the white folds of her overskirt, where the keen little creature knew she’d saved some cheese from their luncheon.

“Are we all traveling to Grantham?” Minerva wondered aloud, feeding the piglet a morsel of cheese.

The young woman seated across the wagon stared at her, as though she were a simpleton. “It’s fair day, isn’t it?”

Ah. Fair day. This would explain the air of excitement. And the piglets.

As the wagon started off down the road, the girls in the wagon shifted and coalesced, forming a loose knot. They whispered to each other, shooting furtive glances at Colin and Minerva.

Minerva could tell they were speculating on their relationship. Wondering whether or not this handsome stranger was available. After a bit more whispering and nudging, they seemed to nominate a bold-looking brunette to find out.

“So, Mr. Sand,” she said, smiling. “What takes you and your lady friend to the Grantham fair?”

Minerva held her breath, foolishly hoping to be claimed as something other than his sister. Something more than a mistress.

“Business,” Colin said easily. “We’re circus folk.”

Circus folk?

“Circus folk?” several of the girls echoed.

“Yes, of course.” He lazily riffled a hand through his hair. “I walk the tightrope, and my lady here . . .” He stretched his arm around Minerva, drawing her close. “She’s a first-rate sword swallower.”

Oh my God.

Minerva clapped a hand over her mouth and made helpless snuffling sounds into her palm. “Caught a bit of straw dust,” she explained a few moments later, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes.