Once Upon a Winter's Eve (Spindle Cove #1.5)(21)

Somewhere an owl called, “Who?” and Christian echoed the sentiment.

Who? Who was this fearless, pistol-wielding woman, and what had she done with sweet, quiet, next-door Violet?

She’d changed, she said. Of course she had. Hadn’t he been altered in the past year? It had been stupid of him to dream otherwise. He’d stuck a pin in her memory, put it under glass to treasure and admire it, as though she were some desiccated specimen. But Violet was a live creature. Changing, growing, adapting. And beautiful in motion, with that emerald silk flowing in the night.

Christian had to face facts. He didn’t want Violet the same way he once had.

He wanted her more. Much, much more.

When they reached the village, they slowed down. They kept their steps quiet as they moved from shadow to shadow.

“Lord Rycliff sent Rufus and Dawes to guard the rooming house,” she whispered. “We’ll have to watch out for them.”

She directed him to slink around a corner near the village square, and together they huddled in the doorway of a shop. Brights’ All Things, the lettering on the door read.

Christian hoped the promised “All Things” included small boats.

Violet tried the door latch. Locked, of course. Wordlessly, she pulled a hairpin from her wind-mussed chignon and handed it to him.

He stared at it. “What makes you think I know how to pick locks?” he whispered. “Just because I’m a spy?”

“No. Because you were forever stealing pocket money from your father’s top desk drawer.”

Bloody hell. She truly had been paying attention.

“I haven’t done that in a decade.” Nevertheless, he took the hairpin. After a few minutes’ gentle exploration and some overt persuasion, the lock responded. “That’s a good girl,” he murmured, turning the door latch and swinging the door open on its thankfully well-oiled hinges.

They entered the shop. Moonlight washed the room with a milky glow. Peering at the shelves, Christian spied bolts of fabric piled ceiling high. Ink bottles lined neatly as soldiers. Rows up on rows of ribbon spools.

No boat.

“What is it we’re here to get?”

“A lamp,” she said, setting the pistol aside. “Of sorts. Sally Bright showed it to me one afternoon. Said it once belonged to her ne’er-do-well father.”

Hiking her skirts to her knees, Violet scrambled up a small ladder and reached for an object on the top shelf.

“Almost have it…” she muttered. Then she announced triumphantly, “There.”

She climbed down and laid the lamp on the counter between them. Christian recognized it at once. It was a small cylinder fashioned from hammered tin, tightly capped by a pleated metal disc and fitted with a long, tapered spout that stuck straight out. It looked like a rather like the head of a mismatched snowman. Smallish face, round hat, enormous carrot nose.

“A smuggler’s lantern,” he said.

She nodded. “I’m going to use it to guide you out of the cove. We’ll work out a system of signals. Otherwise, you’ll only wreck and founder again.”

Christian considered. That cove had more boulders than a shark had teeth. He had to acknowledge the cleverness of Violet’s idea, but… “I can’t let you take that risk. If we’re seen from the castle, the men might shoot.”

“The light won’t be seen from the castle bluffs. That’s the entire point of a smuggler’s lantern.”

“I know.” He picked the thing up and turned it round in his hands. The device was designed to throw a narrow, pinpoint beam of light out to sea. A signal someone on a passing ship might view, if he were looking for it—but one that couldn’t be seen by others on the shore. “Still, I don’t like the idea of you—”

“Christian, if I’m helping you escape, I’m going to truly help you. Not just bid you farewell and send you to your watery doom.”

“Thank you.” He put his hand over hers. “For not wishing me a watery doom. That alone is more than I deserve.”

In a brisk motion, she pulled her hand away. “I haven’t made up my mind on the rest of it yet.”

In the stillness, he gave voice to his worst fears. “You can’t forgive me. You won’t have me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She didn’t refute it, either. She simply went about filling the lantern’s small reservoir with fuel and preparing a wick.

In his chest, desperation tangled with despair.

“Damn it.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “Why on earth would you have me? Just look at tonight. Once again, you’re risking your health and reputation for me, when I should be the one championing you. Fighting a duel to preserve your honor. Pulling you from a burning house. Rescuing your kitten. Something, anything, to prove myself. Instead, I’ve given you nothing but pain.”

She paused. “Well. You did save me from a fire once.”

He frowned. “I did? When was this?”

“I was eight. That would have made you…fourteen? It was an autumn night near All Hallows, and we girls tromped up to the garret with the idea to play fortuneteller. Surely you recall it?”

He did recall it, now that she painted the picture. The game had been the girls’ idea. His sister Annabel had always been close with Poppy Winterbottom, and the two of them let Violet join sometimes. Christian, as always, had been glad for the chance to make mischief. He and Frederick hid in the dormer window, laughing into their sleeves while the girls solemnly lit tapers and invoked the spirits of the beyond.