Once Upon a Winter's Eve (Spindle Cove #1.5)(9)

She felt certain he was Christian. There were differences, yes. But the similarities were so numerous, and her reaction to him so strong, she was starting to believe it must be him.

And yet—if he were Christian, what was he doing here, and not in the West Indies? Why would he bother to row into the cove, trudge across fields, and claim to be a Breton farmhand? He could have simply pulled up in the drive, knocked at the door, and said, “I’m Lord Christian Pierce, third son of the Duke of Winford.” It’s not as though he would have difficulty speaking to Violet, if he wished to. And he hadn’t wished to—not in almost a year.

Christian would not have crossed a world for her. He couldn’t even be bothered to cross the square and bid her a proper farewell.

As she stirred sugar into her tea, she stole another look at the dark, intriguing man lashed to a chair. Perhaps even he didn’t know who he was. Perhaps he was stark raving mad, or suffering from amnesia.

She let the spoon fall to the tray, exasperated with her mind’s wild contortions. “Truly, Violet,” she muttered to herself. “Amnesia?”

She returned to her chair, not knowing what to think, nor even what to hope.

“Will you take tea?” she asked in French.

He made a face. “Wine is more to my taste.”

“Very well.” She offered the wine to him, holding the cup to his lips. He took a languid draught, staring at her all the while. She watched his bared, unshaven throat working as he swallowed. The view felt sensual and intimate.

When she lowered the wine, his heated gaze roamed her body. “I have come to a realization, mon ange. Englishmen are not merely fools. They are perfect idiots.”

A blush burned its way up her chest.

Violet, concentrate.

“We seem to be at an impasse,” she said. “You refuse to divulge your secrets. So I’ve been thinking…perhaps I should first share mine.”

His eyebrow arched. “You? Have secrets?”

“Oh yes.” She looked around them. “This place, Spindle Cove? It’s a holiday locale for young ladies who are ill or awkward. Or unconventional.”

“And which kind of young lady are you?”

“The fourth kind. Scandalous.”

She sipped her tea, stalling. After a year of keeping quiet, was she truly going to tell this story, this way? But she could think of no better way to test him.

“A year ago,” she said, “I surrendered my virtue. Easily. To a man who’d made me no promise—not so much as a hint—of marriage. And when he left me, I fled here. Because I feared I might find myself with child, and I didn’t want anyone to know what I’d done.”

She watched his reaction carefully. But just like with the earlobe pinching, she was unsure what reaction to expect. The set of his jaw conveyed concern. His eyes widened with a hint of surprise.

“You didn’t tell your family?” he asked.

“I never spoke a word of it to anyone. Not until just now.”

And the secret had never grown any easier to carry. Quite the reverse. Every time she’d felt tempted to share the story with someone, it was as though she’d lacquered it over with a new coat of resin. Adding layer after layer, sometimes daily, until the truth was a hard, heavy lump in her chest.

“Your fears of a child…?”

She shook her head. “Came to nothing. But clearly, I’m not such an angel.”

“You”—he leaned forward, such as his bindings allowed—”are an angel still. The one who did this to you? He is a devil.”

“Oh, yes.” She smiled a little. “The devil next door. I’d known him all my life and adored him quietly for most of it. When we were younger, he teased me mercilessly. Then came several years where he was oblivious to my existence. He always seemed so far beyond my reach. But somehow, we became friends. We ran our dogs in the square nearly every day, and while they ran, we talked. He knew how I loved languages, you see. He had a gift for them too. He made a habit of collecting little phrases and testing me with them. ‘Good day’ in Latvian or ‘thank you’ in Javanese.”

I have a new one for you, Violet. So obscure. You’ll never guess this one.

And yet, she always did. Sometimes it took her several days of scouring her library, but she always found the translation.

Her companion snorted. “This? This was enough to make you love him?”

“I thought we’d discovered a common thread.” She shrugged. “Well, and I can’t claim it to be solely intellectual admiration. He was exceedingly handsome.”

“How handsome?”

She smiled a little. “Far more handsome than you, if that’s what you’re asking. His nose was straight. His jaw was always smoothly shaven. Never a hair out of place. Never a care showing on his brow.”

“You make him sound like a peacock.”

“At one time, I suppose he was. But he changed. His brother died in the war, and it affected the whole family. Over just a few months, I watched him go from a carefree young rake, to a man struggling under the burden of great sorrow.” She fought the temptation to look away. “It hurt me to watch him hurting.”

“And so this devil took advantage of your kindness.”

“I…I’m not certain.”