Once Upon a Winter's Eve (Spindle Cove #1.5)(8)

She asked in French, “Why don’t you tell me who you really are?”

“My name is Corentin Morvan,” he answered. “I am a humble Breton farmhand.”

One eyebrow arched. She didn’t believe him.

“How did you come here?” she asked.

“I walked across the fields.”

“From the cove?”

He nodded.

“And how did you come to be in the cove?”

“By way of a boat.”

Her breath released in a little sigh of frustration. “You are teasing me.”

“I can’t help it. It is a great pleasure to tease a pretty girl.”

A blush warmed her cheeks. The sudden desire to touch her was nigh on unbearable. It made his skin tight and his fingers restless. He chafed against his bindings.

Her voice became stern. “If you don’t answer me honestly, I’ll alert Lord Rycliff to the fact that you speak French. Then he could pummel the answers from you.”

He shook his head. “No amount of pummeling could accomplish that. But for another sip of that wine and your slightest touch, mon ange? I fear I would betray my own mother.”

She offered him the cup of wine, raising it to his lips. He curled his neck to drink from it, holding her gaze as he sipped.

As she lowered the cup, the smallest trickle of wine escaped. She reached out instinctively, dabbing the errant droplet with her thumb. Her touch grazed the corner of his mouth.

A cascade of pure bliss shimmered through him. Like stars swirling in the black of night. Windmilling through the dark places of his body, his heart, his soul.

“You are too kind, mademoiselle.” He tilted his head and regarded her from a new angle. “It is ‘mademoiselle’? Not ‘madame’.”

Her lips quirked. “I am not married, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Betrothed?”

Again, she shook her head.

“So you are particular.”

“I am not particular, I am almost a…” She paused. “I don’t know the word in French. I am unmarried because no one has asked.”

“No one has asked?” He made a noise in his throat. “Englishmen are fools.”

“And Breton farmhands,” she said, “are apparently shameless flirts. Don’t think I don’t realize what you’re doing. You’re hoping to distract me, change the subject.”

“Not at all. Your marital status is a subject I greatly wish to discuss.”

She sighed. “Be serious, I beg you. You must tell me the truth. Can’t you see? Lord Rycliff will send for the magistrate in the morning.”

“Magistrates do not frighten me.”

“I am frightened for you.”

He looked into her blue eyes, and he could see it was true. She cared. Perhaps she cared no more for him than she would any other lost, benighted soul. But right now, it didn’t matter. She cared, and he felt it to his bones.

“Why did you come to Spindle Cove tonight?” she asked.

“I…” He cleared his throat. “I had an appointment.”

“An appointment? With whom?”

He swept her with a warm, caressing gaze. “With an angel, apparently.”

She clucked her tongue. “More teasing.”

“No teasing. I am here for you.”

“If that’s not teasing, it’s a flat-out lie.”

He inched the chair forward, desperate to close the distance between them. He spoke to her quietly, honestly. From the depths of his cold, longsuffering heart.

“I’m here for you, mon ange. Violet. I would cross a world for you.”

Violet went perfectly still.

When she could manage it, she whispered four words. In English. “You know my name.”

His expression betrayed no understanding. He sat back in his chair and blinked.

She tried again. “You know me.”

No response.

In her lap, Violet’s hands balled into fists. She didn’t understand. If he knew her and needed her help, why didn’t he just say so? But if he were truly a stranger, how had he learned her name?

Across the room, Mr. Fosbury looked up. “Any progress, Miss Winterbottom?”

Well. There was one question answered. Hadn’t her friends been calling her by name all evening? Beginning with Kate and Susanna in the ballroom, and ending with Mr. Fosbury right now. The name Violet Winterbottom was hardly a secret.

Violet rose from her chair. “I’m having difficulty making him out,” she told the tavern-keeper, giving him a self-conscious smile. “Perhaps some tea will help me concentrate.”

She rose and went to a table where the maids had laid out tea service. As she poured a fragrant, steaming cupful, her mind churned.

It was easy enough to explain how he’d learned her name. But that didn’t explain the intensity in his eyes. It didn’t explain the way he affected her, deep inside.

It didn’t explain the eerily familiar freckle beneath his left ear.

Violet. I would cross a world for you.

The memory sent a frisson chasing over her skin.

It was impossible, unthinkable. But the more she observed and spoke with the man, the more she felt certain he was The Disappointment.

She closed her eyes. Time to stop hiding from that name.