A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(94)

“Come out of there, Colin.”

She spoke with cool, unruffled calm, shielding the gun from the rain with her body. Minerva didn’t mean to really threaten his life. She just hoped to shock him out of his stubborn, foolish wish to stay inside that coffin.

Well, he certainly looked surprised.

His incredulous gaze flicked from her face to the pistol in her hand. “Min, have you gone mad?”

“I might ask you the same! It’s over, Colin.” Her voice broke. “It’s over. We’re not going to reach Edinburgh, and this isn’t worth another moment of your distress.”

“To hell with my ‘distress.’ This is your life’s work in this trunk. I’m not leaving it. And we can still make the symposium, Min. As soon as the postilion returns . . .”

Minerva looked up and around. No sign of the postilion or horses anywhere. Muddy runnels swelled in the road, carrying a tide of leaves and sticks coursing past. And the rain only pounded harder, pinging and thundering against the shell of the coach.

She had to raise her voice to call over the din. “The water’s rising, and night is falling. The post-chaise is damaged. Even if the horses arrive, the road will be impassable. It’s over.”

“Blast it, Min. Don’t you give up on this. Don’t you give up on me. I made a promise to you, and I will damn well keep it. I will find a way.”

“You can’t—”

A startled cry stole the rest of her argument. The overturned coach lurched a half foot sideways. The rising rainwater had buoyed the hollow, overturned post-chaise, allowing it to slip over the mud.

Minerva’s gut clenched. She had to get him out. His stubborn insistence on remaining in the carriage was now not only foolhardy, but dangerous. If the water kept rising, they could slip right off the road.

She thrust the pistol forward. “Colin, drop the trunk. We both need to leave this coach. No more arguments.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I won’t do it, Min.”

“Then you leave me no choice.”

She steadied the pistol, cocked the hammer, aimed—

And fired.

“Holy—”

Bang.

When the pistol went off, Colin’s first thought was: My God. She did it. She actually shot me.

His second thought was: When the hell were my blood and guts replaced with gritty white powder?

As the dust settled, Colin slowly realized that she had not shot him. She’d sent a bullet whizzing straight through her trunk. And the plume of white powder that exploded through the dim interior was not the remnants of his calcified heart.

It was Francine.

Oh God.

God damn it. He wished Minerva had shot him in the guts instead. It would have hurt less. And at least his guts might have a chance of mending. Francine, on the other hand . . .

Francine was gone.

“Wh—?” He choked on the plaster dust. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you left me no choice,” she cried, flinging the pistol away. “Now come out of there. It’s over.”

It’s over.

Yes, it was over. All of it, over. She’d just shot a bullet through all her hopes and dreams. It didn’t matter if the postilion arrived with four fresh horses. It didn’t matter if the clouds suddenly parted and a hot-air balloon descended to whisk them to Scotland. Without Francine, it was over.

He swallowed back the bitter lump in his throat. There was nothing left to do but admit defeat.

He’d failed her. He’d managed to fail her, despite all his best efforts. His good intentions landed like mortar shells, and this time Francine had taken the hit.

He hoisted himself out through the broken window. He jumped from the post-chaise first, landing in calf-deep water. “Jump into my arms,” he directed.

Minerva obeyed. She clung to his neck, just as though he were the hero in her fairy tale and not the villain ruining everything. “Where will we go?”

Colin stared down the road, peering through the tapering rainfall. Could those shadows be . . . ?

Horses. Yes, they were. A fine team of four from his own stables. At last, here came the postilion—accompanied by two of Colin’s own grooms from Riverchase.

He released his breath and told her, “Home. We go home.”

The distance to Riverchase was only a few miles, but the road conditions forced him to take those miles at a painfully slow walk. He held Minerva in front of him on his horse, trying his best to shield her from the cold and wet.

For a while, he thought she’d fallen asleep.

Until she mumbled, “Colin? What is that vast, impressive-looking place in the distance?”

“That’s Riverchase. My estate.”

“I thought it might be. It’s lovely. All that g-granite.”

He laughed inwardly. She would notice that first. “It’s local stone.”

“I’d bet it sparkles in broad daylight.”

“It’s luminous.”

He tightened his arm about her, drawing her close. For the first time, he noticed how violently she shivered against his chest.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“Just cold. So c-cold.”

Swearing under his breath, Colin nudged the horse into a trot. The rain was dwindling to a mere trickle, but she’d already been soaked through. He had to get her before a fire, and quickly.