A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(73)

“But Hamlet is a prince. I thought you bestowed your greatest favor on knights.” He pointed. “Perhaps you’d prefer Sir Francis Bacon over there.”

“The filthy one wallowing and grunting in the mud?”

“I understand grunting is a mark of porcine intelligence.”

“Please.” She gave him a look. “Even I have standards.”

“Good to hear.” He added under his breath, “I think.”

They wandered down rows of booths displaying as exotic an array of wares as one could hope to find in the English Midlands—everything from oranges to ormolu clocks, French bonnets to scented bootblack. Colin wished he could buy her one of everything, but settled for spending sixpence on a length of blue ribbon to match her gown.

“In case you’re wanting to tie back your hair,” he said.

“Did you want me to tie back my hair?”

“Not at all. I quite like it down.”

She shook her head. “You’re nonsensical.”

He made a show of bristling in mock offense. “You just don’t know how to take a gift.”

“A gift?” She laughed and nudged his side. “You bought it with my money. But thank you.” She kissed his cheek.

“That’s better.”

For a shilling and scattered pence, Colin purchased their supper—a small pitcher of fresh milk and two meat pies. They found a clear place on the green and sat facing each other on the trunk. Minerva spread out her handkerchief as a makeshift tablecloth.

“I’m so hungry,” she said, staring at the food.

He handed her one of the pies. “Then have at it.”

She bit into the crescent-shaped pastry, slowly sinking her teeth through the layers of flaky crust. Her eyelashes fluttered, and she gave a moan of pleasure.

“Oh, Colin. That’s marvelous.” She swept her tongue over those ripe, sultry, pouting lips.

He stared at her, suddenly helpless to move or speak. Raw, animal lust gripped him, and gripped him hard.

He had to feel those lips on him again. Had. To. This wasn’t a mild expression of preference. This was an imperative. His body was insistent. To continue his existence on this earth, he now needed the following: food, water, shelter, clothing, and Minerva Highwood’s lips.

Sending him a coy glance through her dark eyelashes, she took a sip of milk. Then she licked her lips again.

Correction. He needed food, water, shelter, clothing, Minerva Highwood’s lips, and . . . Minerva Highwood’s tongue.

Memories of the night before flashed through his mind. He didn’t even try to force them back. No, he let them surface, taking time to engrave each carnal, erotic moment on his memory. Each blissful moment must be recorded, so he could mentally relive that scene in months and years to come. Out of not just desire, but need.

Those lips. That tongue.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.

“No. Er . . . yes.” He shook himself. “Eventually.”

Colin bit into his own pie. It was good and savory, still warm from the oven. He enjoyed it. But not nearly as much as he enjoyed viewing her enjoyment.

Remarkable. He’d wooed lovers with jewels and Venetian lace, taken them to view operas from the most lavish box in the theater, fed them oysters and sugared berries from silver trays. But he’d never known the sort of pure, honest pleasure he felt right here, right now. Devouring meat pies with Minerva Highwood in the middle of a country fair.

Licking her thumb clean, she tilted her head to regard the sky. “It’ll be twilight soon. Should we try our luck finding transport?”

“Probably.”

They picked up Francine and carried her between them, ambling toward the carriage mews and stables. As they went, they passed a row of booths and carnival games.

A small girl yanked at Colin’s coat front. She was waifish but bright-eyed, dressed in a patched yellow dress.

“Won’t you and the lady have your fortune told, sir?” The girl indicated a tent a few paces away. “My mum tells fortunes for a sixpence. She can see the future, clear as looking through a glass windowpane. She’ll tell you everything you want to know about your life, love, and children. Even the day of your own death!” She all but chirped this last.

Colin smiled, setting down the trunk. “Well, that’s a tempting offer.”

“Colin, we can’t,” Minerva whispered in his ear. “We’ve only eighteen shillings to our names. We can’t be wasting any of it on fortune-tellers.”

He knew she was right, but something in the girl’s gap-toothed smile tugged at him.

“What’s your name, pet?” he asked the girl.

“Elspeth, sir.”

“Well, Elspeth.” He leaned down close. “I’m afraid we can’t buy a fortune from your mother. I’m a rather fragile soul, you see. I’m not sure I could bear up under the revelation of my future loves and children, much less the date of my own death. So why don’t I tell your fortune instead?”

“My fortune?” She narrowed her eyes with precocious cynicism. With her tongue, she worked a loose front tooth back and forth. “How are you going to tell my fortune?”

“Oh, easy as anything.” Colin drew a penny from his pocket and placed it in the girl’s hand. “I see a sweet in your future.”