Once Upon a Winter's Eve (Spindle Cove #1.5)(30)

He blinked the pain away, whispering, “Corentin Morvan eo ma anv.” My name is Corentin Morvan.

“Louder.” Her fist drove into his gut. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

“Me a zo un tamm peizant.” He groaned the words. I am a humble farmhand.

“Liar.” She reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the folding knife. In less than a second, she had the blade snapped open. Its edge gleamed white under the moon.

With one hand, she caught him by the collar. With the other, she held the knife to his throat. Cold steel caught him just below the jaw, threatening the soft, vulnerable place where his pulse raced.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Tell the truth.”

The Breton spouted from his lips. Like blood spurting from some vital wound. “My name is Corentin Morvan. I am a humble farmhand. I sleep in the barn loft. I know nothing. By the Virgin and all her saints, I swear this to be true.”

Pulling at his collar, she lowered the knife to his exposed chest. There, she applied pressure to the blade, scoring his skin. Once, and then again. Two neat, fiery lines of pain etched just beneath his collarbone. His eyes watered as he suppressed the urge to lash out or curse. Wincing, he looked down.

Thin red slashes made the shape of a tiny V.

She’d marked him. The act was shocking. Barbaric. Wildly arousing.

“You are mine.” She tugged his collar and pulled his face down to hers. “You are mine. Do not forget it.”

Her lips claimed his. The ferocity and passion in her kiss set his mind spinning. His body responded with raw, visceral need.

The knife slipped from her grip, clattering to the shingle beach. She slid both hands into his hair, gathering fistfuls of his overgrown locks to pull him closer. Hold him tighter. Kiss him harder. Until she possessed him so completely, he forgot his own name.

He only knew he was hers. She’d marked him and claimed him, and he was hers. Flesh and blood, heart and soul.

“Me da gar,” he murmured, clutching her tight. He dropped his head to brand her throat with hot kisses, then nipped at her bottom lip. “Me da gar, me da gar.”

I love you.

They broke apart just as swiftly as they’d united. Little clouds of breath filled the space between them.

“Go,” she said. “Go now, or I can’t bear it.”

Nodding, he moved in silence to the boat. As he pushed the small craft into the black water, she readied the signal lamp. When the water was knee deep, he steadied the rowboat and entered it with the assistance of a helpful boulder.

“Once I am clear, you must dash back to Summerfield. Remember, you have no idea what became of me. No notion of my identity or origins. And you will never breathe a word of this, to anyone. All must be as you promised.”

“It will be as I promised.” As he gathered the oars, she repeated the instructions. “One long flash for east. Three short flashes mean veer west.”

He nodded his understanding. He braced his feet on the baseboard and gave a full-strength pull on both oars. The boat skimmed through the water in response, doubling the space between them.

As quiet strokes of the oars carried him away, he gazed at her. His fierce angel, guiding his way through the darkness.

You are my life’s bright star.

No matter what occurred, he would make his way back to her. Always.

“I will return to you,” he vowed, pulling on the oars. “I swear it. And when I come for you, Violet…don’t let me find you hiding in the corner.”

Chapter Ten

Violet kept all the promises she made to him that night.

All her promises, that was, except one.

As soon as Christian’s rowboat safely cleared the cove, she stashed the lamp behind a boulder and hastened up the beach path. She took the long way around the village, racing the dawn over pastures and fallow fields. With a pang of regret, she dropped her woolen cloak into a stream. She wouldn’t be able to explain it later.

As she neared the back garden of Summerfield, raised voices reached her ears. No doubt they were turning the manor inside-out, searching for her and the mysterious stranger.

How was she going to slip back inside unnoticed? What possible excuse could she invent?

If she’d had days or weeks or even a few hours, she might have been able to formulate a plan. But she didn’t even have seconds. A rear door swung open with a bone-chilling whoosh.

Two militiamen. Any moment, they would see her.

Violet made her body go limp. She dropped flat to the snow-dusted ground.

And there she remained for an agonizingly cold quarter-hour or more, until the men found her. If only she’d collapsed a little closer to the house!

But find her they did. Eventually. She allowed herself to be carried inside. She looked her best friends right in the eye and merrily dished them up falsehoods for breakfast.

She’d been drugged, she told them. Just like Mr. Fosbury. Only she’d managed to stay conscious long enough to follow the stranger outside. She’d tracked him as far as the back garden, and there she’d collapsed.

No, she hadn’t gained any clues to his identity.

No, she had no idea what he might have wanted or where he might have gone.

Yes, it was a remarkable thing that she wasn’t a human icicle, after lying in the frost all those hours. She might have frozen to death. A Christmas miracle, she supposed.