A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(89)

“You reckless man.” She laid a touch to his cheek. “You really should be more careful with those compliments.”

“So it seems.”

She sighed and straightened his tattered lapels. “I know you have this idea that we’ll marry in Scotland. To satisfy honor, I suppose. While you’ve given me this momentary burst of courage, I’ll tell you this. I will not marry you to satisfy honor.”

“You won’t?”

“No.” Difficult as it was, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “I will only marry you if you love me, and if you can allow me to love you.” A bittersweet smile curved her lips. “That first night in the turret, you gave me a taste of how it would feel to have your love. It was the most thrilling sensation I’ve ever known. For a moment, I felt as though anything—absolutely anything—could be possible. When it turned out to be false . . . it crushed me, Colin. More than I care to admit. I would rather die a spinster—poor, ruined, scorned, and alone—than suffer that heartbreak daily.”

Regret creased his eyes at the corners. “That’s just it, pet. I start with good intentions, but . . . the people around me get hurt.”

So there it was. Her emotion-swelled heart was beating on borrowed time.

Seeking consolation from the man who’d soon break it seemed stupid indeed, but she did so anyway. She let her forehead lean against his shoulder. He put his hands on her arms, rubbing lightly up and down. His chin rested square and heavy on her head.

“I will get you and Francine to Edinburgh in one piece.” He pressed a firm kiss to the top of her head. “If I can promise you nothing else, I promise you that.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

For the love of tits.

Colin considered himself a patriot and a devoted servant of the Crown. But by God, right now he hated England. This damnable country, plagued with endless rain and cursed with muddy, rutted, barely passable roads.

Their first day out from York had gone well. Smooth transitions when they changed horses. He passed a few brief stints inside the coach, but spent most of the journey riding next to the postilion. The roads and weather had stayed fair. His hopes had run high.

Then, today, the rain had started. And it had kept on. And on.

At one coaching stop, they had waited an hour before a fresh team was available. The road conditions were so poor in stretches, their pace slowed to a crawl.

And all along, a clock ticked down inside Colin’s mind. Every hour of slow, inching progress set them further and further behind schedule. The delay was making him wild inside.

He had to get Minerva to her symposium on time. He’d promised. If he couldn’t see this journey through, how could he ask her to trust him with the rest of her life? Good intentions and pretty compliments weren’t enough. He had to prove this to her, and to himself.

All was not lost yet. They still had enough time to reach Edinburgh, but their cushion was dwindling. There was no more room for error. When they’d taken luncheon a few hours ago, Colin had told himself—from here on out, everything needed to go right.

Some fifteen miles after that, they were stuck.

The crisis had started at the last coaching inn. There were no horses to be hired, and—due to the rains and mud—no horses expected to come available. Colin had used all his powers of persuasion and a significant sum of money to convince the postilion to forge ahead with the same team—promising him if he turned onto a side road, Colin knew of a place some miles distant where strong, fresh horses could be had.

And that would have worked brilliantly, if they hadn’t lurched into a rut halfway there, burying two of the wheels spoke-deep in mud.

Colin tried to lighten the weight. It didn’t help.

He went round the back of the coach and pushed with all his might as the postilion whipped the horses. It didn’t help.

Now soaked with rain and covered in mud, he struggled to hold despair at bay. This could be accomplished. It wasn’t too late. They might have been able to pull free with a fresh team, but these poor beasts were simply exhausted. After discussing matters with the postilion, he helped the man unhitch the team and returned to Minerva.

“What’s going on?” she asked, opening the door to speak with him. “Is he walking away with the horses?”

“Yes. They’re too tired to pull out of this mire, so he’s going to switch them for new. I told him of a place nearby. We’ll just wait here until he returns.”

She eyed him closely. “Wait here?”

He nodded.

“In the rain?”

He tilted his face to the sky. “I think it’s clearing a bit.”

“In that case.” She opened the door and stepped out from the post-chaise, immediately sinking ankle-deep in mud. “I’ll wait outside with you.”

“No, no,” he urged. “Get back in the coach. The rain’s not really clearing at all.”

Raindrops dotted her spectacles. “So even that was a lie?”

Bloody hell. “I was trying to sound optimistic.”

“Why bother?” Staring down the road, she shook her head. “Colin, you have to admit it’s—”

“Don’t.” He knew what words were coming, and those words would have destroyed him. “Don’t say it.”

“I’m merely stating facts. Even if the postilion returns, we’ll still be hours behind schedule. And with this rain—”