Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

“And that”—Colin tapped his fork against his now-empty dinner plate—”is the story of the cobra.” He sat back in his chair, feeling satisfied.

All the Fontleys turned their gaze from him and looked to Minerva, awed.

Minerva glared at him. “I am not a snake charmer.”

“Of course not. Snake charmers need a flute.” He turned to the Fontleys. “I tell you, she had the creature entranced with her sweet voice alone. It wouldn’t leave her side after that day. The scaly thing slithered in her footsteps, all over Ceylon. We made a pet of it. Named it Sir Alisdair.”

Under the table, something sharp jabbed him in the thigh. He covered his yelp of pain with a cough.

Colin knew he’d pay for this later. But he couldn’t resist provoking her. Never had been able to resist it, ever since they’d first met. Today, of all days, he wanted to draw her out, push her beyond those boundaries she’d erected.

He wanted to be surprised.

And more than that—he wanted to keep the attention on her. Because if he gave her the chance to direct conversation, he knew she’d steer it in an unpleasant direction. One that involved last night. He didn’t want to discuss last night. In his own, circumspect way, he’d told her all she needed to know. As much as he’d ever told anyone.

“Miss Sand,” Gilbert Fontley said, “how can we convince you to sing?”

Shock flared in her eyes. “You can’t.”

“Mr. Fontley is quite the lover of music,” their mother said, patting her husband’s arm. “As am I. Miss Sand, we would be so pleased to hear you. Do oblige us, dear. There’s a pianoforte, just there.”

“But . . .” She swallowed hard and said weakly, “I couldn’t possibly.”

Colin watched her as she surveyed the inn’s crowded dining room. In a village as small as this one, the inn’s dining room also served as the village public house. There were probably above thirty souls in the room, equally divided between travelers passing the night and local men enjoying a pint with the fellows. A good crowd.

Young Miss Lettie joined the campaign. “Oh please, Miss Em. Do sing for us.”

“Come on, M,” Colin said jovially. “Just one or two songs.”

Minerva’s jaw tightened. “But brother, you know I gave up singing. After that horrific incident with the . . . millipede and the coconut and the . . . the stolen rubies.” Before he could press for details, she jumped to add, “Which we have sworn a pact on our parents’ graves to never, ever discuss.”

He smiled. Now she was catching the spirit. “That’s true. But it’s my birthday. And you always make an exception on my birthday.”

“You know very well it’s not—”

“It’s your birthday, Sand?” Mr. Fontley exclaimed over her. “Well, why didn’t you say so? We should drink to your health.” The older gentleman called the serving girl and ordered sherry for the table.

As glasses were passed around, Minerva said pointedly, “But brother, you never drink spirits.”

“I do on my birthday.” He raised the glass in salute, then drank.

He heard her growl.

“Won’t you sing, Miss Em?” Lettie pleaded again. “I so long for a bit of music. And it is Mr. Sand’s birthday.”

Soon all the Fontleys joined in the encouragement.

She turned to him and said simply, “Colin.” Her wide, dark eyes held a frantic plea for reprieve. Don’t make me do this.

He felt a twinge of conscience, but he wouldn’t intervene. He’d come to recognize that look in her eyes. Her eyes always caught that wild, desperate spark just before she did something extraordinary.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll sing.”

She lifted the sherry glass in front of her, drained it in a single swallow, and set it down with a decisive clink. Then she flattened both hands on the tabletop and pushed to her feet.

In slow, determined strides, she walked to the pianoforte. She removed her spectacles and held them folded in her hand. She pressed her finger down on a single piano key and, closing her eyes, hummed the pitch.

And then she opened her mouth and sang.

Well. She sang very, very well.

Surprise.

The crowded room went so quiet, so quickly, Colin could practically hear the jaws dropping. The song she’d chosen was an old, familiar ballad. No fancy scales or operatic trills. Just a simple, straightforward melody that suited her clear, lyrical voice. It wasn’t a song fit for a musicale, or even one of the Spindle Cove ladies’ salons. But it was perfect for a small country inn. The sort of tune that didn’t gavotte, didn’t mince around. That didn’t bother dazzling the ear or engaging the mind, but went straight for the guts.

And the heart.

Good Lord. It was a bloody fool thing to think—let alone say—but her song arrowed straight for his heart.

No way around it. Colin was charmed. As charmed as a Ceylonese cobra.

More than that, he was proud.

When the ballad’s lovers met their inevitably tragic end, and the crowd broke into enthusiastic applause, Colin clapped along with the rest. “That’s my girl,” he murmured.

Though she wasn’t, really. He had no right to claim her. To think that all this time—every day that he’d resided in Spindle Cove—this had been inside her. This glorious, soul-stirring song. The courage to unleash it before a crowd of strangers. The sweetness to calm him in the night, when he clawed his way back from hell.

How had he never seen any of this? How had he never known?

The Fontleys—and everyone else—shouted for another song. Minerva shook her head, demurring.

“Just one more,” Colin called to her, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Sing my favorite.”

She gave him a look of strained patience, but she relented.

Another key struck. Another quietly hummed pitch.

Another moment of sheer revelation.

She’d warmed to it now. The singing, the attention. Her voice gained strength and confidence. She sang with her eyes wide open, and she sang directly to him. Well, he’d asked for that, hadn’t he? And it was the best not-an-actual-birthday gift Colin had ever received. Those sultry, ripe lips held him in thrall. Every time she drew a quick breath between phrases, her breasts fairly jumped for his attention.

If her first song had touched his heart . . . well, this one stroked him a ways lower.

It occurred to Colin that he should probably take pains not to be caught slavering over his own “sister.” But a glance around the place told him he wasn’t the only male in the room so affected.

Gilbert Fontley, in particular, was very bad off.

Without taking his eyes from Minerva, the young man leaned toward Colin. “Mr. Sand, do you think it’s possible to fall in love in the space of a single day?”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t know. I only fall in love at night. Never lasts beyond breakfast, though.”

Gilbert sent him a confused look. “B-but . . . But I thought you—”

“We all have our demons, Gilbert.” He clapped the young man on the shoulder and leaned close. “A word of advice. Cleave to the bosom of the Church.”

Minerva finished her ballad, and this time he could tell no amount of calling or applause would persuade her to sing again. Even as everyone in the room leaped to their feet, shouting encouragement, she replaced her spectacles and began to make her way back to the table.

Colin pushed back his chair, meaning to welcome her back with some words of sincere praise. But as she started across the room, a large, unshaven man holding a tankard lumbered into her path. He engaged her in some sort of conversation. Colin couldn’t make out their words over the din, but he didn’t need words to understand what was happening.

That disgusting lout wanted his girl.

And Minerva wanted nothing to do with the disgusting lout. The brute put a grimy paw on her arm, and she stumbled in her effort to pull away. Her spectacles went just slightly askew. That small detail—that tiny evidence of her disquiet—was enough to make Colin see twenty shades of red.

He punched to his feet, craving blood.

“Sir, unhand me.” Minerva tugged against the revolting brute’s grip. His breath reeked of ale and garlic. His body reeked of . . . other things, better left unnamed.

“Jes’ another song, love.” He held her elbow with one hand and pawed at her waist with the other. “Come sit on my lap, give me a private performance.”

His hand brushed her bottom.

Minerva recoiled. She felt dirty. Other women might know how to deflect this kind of unwanted attention, but she didn’t. This never happened to her.

Then she caught sight of Colin, cutting a path to her through the crowded room. His stride was almost easy, unconcerned. But as he drew close, she could view the tense set of his jaw and the cold fury in his eyes.

He nudged the drunken lout with his arm. “Excuse me,” he said, “but is that your hand on my sister?”

The burly man straightened and adopted an affected, aristocratic tone. “I rather think it might be, guv.”

“Well, then.” Colin clapped him on the shoulder. “This is my hand on you.”

He drove a full-force punch straight into the lout’s gut. Then followed it with a smashing blow to the face.

Minerva’s hands flew to her own mouth, covering her startled cry.

The man didn’t even reel or blink. He simply went down. Hard. Taking an entire table and the accompanying glassware with him. The sounds of breaking glass and splintering wood crashed through the room, drawing everyone’s attention.

Colin stood over the brute, shaking out his hand and breathing hard. The look on his face was one of barely restrained fury.

“Don’t touch her,” he said, his voice like cold steel. “Ever.”

He put a hand to Minerva’s elbow and, with a nod in the Fontleys’ direction, ushered her from the room. As they left, the dining room erupted into chaos. She flinched at the sounds of chairs scraping across floors, and angry voices lifting.

She distinctly heard Mr. Fontley shout, “How dare you molest that young lady.”

And then Gilbert’s reedy tenor. “You’ll burn in hell for that. She’s a woman of God.”

They both paused on the bottom riser of the stairs. And broke into simultaneous laughter.

“We’d better get upstairs,” she said.

“Are you well?” he asked, stopping her in the upstairs corridor. His gaze scanned her from head to toe. “He didn’t harm you in any way?”

“No. No, thank you.” She swallowed. “And you?”

He unlatched the door. “Best birthday ever.”

They tumbled through the entry of their suite, laughing. As Minerva went to light the lamp, Colin slung his weight into a chair.

“You,” she said, “are unbelievable.”

“Come now.” He grinned up at her. “Admit it. That was fun.”

She felt the corner of her mouth tip, despite her. “I . . . I never do that.”

“You never do what? Sing ballads in a public house? Inspire tavern brawls?”

“Any of it. I never do any of it. I never even do this.” She reached for his hand, turning it over in the light. “Oh, you’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

Perhaps, but Minerva hurried to fetch the washbasin and soap. She needed something to do. Otherwise, this restless, coursing energy she felt would spill out in other ways. Dangerous ways.

Even as she gathered the materials, her hands trembled. The man was a devil. Mayhem personified. She never knew what wild tale he’d spin or what ill-considered action he’d take next. Over the course of their journey, he could put everything at risk—her reputation, her safety, her scientific standing.

Perhaps even her heart.

But she had to admit . . . he did make things fun.

Returning to the table with a clean handkerchief, she examined his wound more closely. He was right, it was just a scratch along his knuckles. But he’d incurred the injury defending her. Minerva wanted to kiss this brave, wounded hand. She settled for dabbing it with a moist cloth.

She touched his signet ring. “I wager that man will be wearing your family crest on his cheek for weeks.”

He laughed a little. “Good. He deserved far worse.”

“I couldn’t believe how easily you laid him flat,” she said. “And he was so big. Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Boxing club.” He stretched his fingers and winced a bit. “All the London bucks are mad for boxing. Gentleman Jackson’s and so forth. The better question is . . .” His voice darkened. “Where did you learn to sing like that?”

“Like what?” She kept her head bowed, examining his wound.

“Like . . . that. I’ve been living in Spindle Cove more than half a year now, and I’ve attended countless numbers of those wretched salons, not to mention all the informal soirees at the rooming house. Church on Sundays. I’ve heard Diana sing many times. I’ve heard Charlotte sing many times. For God’s sake, I’ve even heard your mother sing. But never you.”

She shrugged, tearing off a strip of linen for a bandage. “I’m hardly an accomplished songstress. All I know are the ballads I learned as a girl. Once I grew old enough, I shirked my music lessons whenever possible. I hated the bother of practicing.”

“I won’t believe singing’s a bother to you. And I won’t believe you never practice either, as easily as the words came to you downstairs.”

Minerva felt herself blush. She did practice, when no one was about. Singing to herself when out on her rambles. But since singing to oneself looked about as odd as reading while walking, it wasn’t something she’d admit to him. “I leave the singing to Diana.”

“Ah. You don’t want to outshine her.”

She laughed. “As if I could ever outshine Diana.”

“Diana is rather shiny, I suppose. Golden hair, luminous skin. Sunny disposition. All things radiant. Perhaps you couldn’t outshine her.” He cocked his head and regarded her from a new angle. “But Min? You could outsing her.”

“We’re sisters. Not competitors.”

He made a dismissive noise. “All women are competitors, and sisters most of all. Ladies are perpetually jockeying for position, sizing themselves up against their peers. I can’t tell you how often I’m enjoined to comment on which lady is the prettiest, the wittiest, the most accomplished, the lightest on her feet. And who solicits these opinions? Always women, never men. Men could not care less. About those comparisons, at least.”

She eyed him warily. “What comparisons do men discuss?”

“I’ll answer that some other time. When I’m not bleeding and at a disadvantage.”

Minerva wrapped the bandage tight. “We’re not talking of callow young ladies in society. We’re speaking of Diana. I love my sister.”

“Enough to hide your one talent, just so she won’t suffer by comparison?”

“My one talent?” She cinched the bandage, and he grimaced with pain. “It’s hardly my one talent, or even my best talent.”

“Ah. Now I see how it is.” He nursed his bandaged hand. “You’re every bit as competitive as the rest of them. Only you’re vying for a different title. That of least attractive, least congenial. The least marriageable.”

She blinked at him. He’d doubtless meant the words to tease her, but something in them rang rather true.

“Perhaps I am.” She folded the surplus linen and replaced it in her trunk. “I’m committed to my studies, and I’m not sure I ever want to be married at all. Not to the sort of man my mother would wish, anyhow. So yes, I’ve always been content to let Diana be the prettiest, the most elegant, the kindest. The best singer. She’s welcome to have all the suitors.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Except me.”

“You’re a special case.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You really shouldn’t.”

And he really shouldn’t look at her that way. So intensely. Searchingly.

“Why didn’t you marry long ago?” she blurted out. “If you don’t want to sleep alone, marriage would seem the logical solution. You’d have a wife beside you every night.”

He chuckled. “Do you know how many husbands and wives actually sleep in the same bed after the honeymoon?”

“Some marriages are affectionless arrangements, I’m sure. But more than a few are love matches. I can’t imagine you’d have trouble getting women to fall in love with you.”

“But if I married, I should have to keep a woman in love with me. Not just any woman, but one particular woman. For years. And what’s more, I should have to stay in love with her. If by chance I met the woman I wanted to try this with—and I haven’t yet, after years of sampling widely—how could I ever be certain of achieving that? You’re the scientist. You tell me. How can love be proved?”

Minerva shrugged. “I suppose it must be tested.”

“Well, there you have it. I always fail tests.”

She gave him a pitying look. “Yes, of course. We both know that’s why you never earned high marks in maths. It had nothing to do with a lack of effort. You simply couldn’t pass the tests.”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned back in his chair, propped his hands behind his head, and regarded her with an inscrutable expression. Whether his was a gaze of annoyance, admiration, appreciation, or anger, she could not have guessed.

With a sigh, she rose from the table. “We might as well sleep.”

The suite had two connecting bedchambers–to keep up appearances for the Fontleys. But they both knew they’d only use this one. She crossed the room and began unbuttoning her spencer. She felt his eyes on her as she shook the garment from her shoulders, pulled her arms free, and set it aside. Didn’t he have manners enough to look away? Her body warmed under his appraisal, growing light and hot as a cinder swirling through the smoky air.

She turned away from him and reached to loosen the hooks down the back of her gown.

“Allow me,” he said, suddenly behind her.

She froze for a moment, seized by the instinct to shrug away. But this dress had stubborn fastenings. She would appreciate a little help.

“Just the hooks,” she said.

“Of course.”

Brushing some loose strands of hair aside, he began at the base of her neck. He loosed the hooks slowly, one by one. She crossed her arms over her chest, holding the gown in place as her neckline began to gape.

“How did you know?” His voice was a gentle murmur, sliding over her neck.

“Know what?”

“ ‘Barbara Allen.’ How did you know it’s my favorite ballad?” The husky intimacy in his voice undid her.

“Isn’t it everyone’s favorite?”

His soft laugh in response was warm, authentic. “Did we just find something in common?”

“We have all kinds of things in common,” she said, feeling the familiar stupidity descend. Here it came, the inane babble. “We’re both humans. We both speak English. We both understand what a logarithm is. We both have brown hair, two eyes . . .”

“We both have skin.” His fingertips grazed her exposed shoulder, and sensation rippled down her arm. “We both have hands. And lips.”

Her eyes squeezed shut. She held her breath for a long moment, before realizing she’d braced herself for a kiss that wasn’t coming. She cursed him, cursed herself. She needed to put all thoughts of his kiss out of her mind. It was just—she couldn’t stop picturing the way he’d stared at her while she was singing downstairs. The way he’d moved toward her, scything his way through the crowd.

The way he’d laid that man flat, and bled for her.

She cleared her throat and stepped forward, still facing the wall. “Thank you for your assistance. Will you turn, please?”

“I’ve turned.” The floorboards gave a weary creak of confirmation.

Minerva swiveled her head, stealing a glance in the mirror to make sure. She almost wished she would find him stealing glances at her, too. But evidently he’d seen enough last night. He remained with his back to her as she drew her gown down over her hips and stepped out.

Once she’d stripped down to her shift, she dove under the bed linens and turned her face to the wall. “It’s safe now.”

“Safe.” He made a wry, disbelieving noise. “For whom?”

She tried to feign sleep as he moved about the room, removing his boots, casting watch and cufflinks aside. Stirring the fire. Making all sorts of unapologetic, manly sounds. Men never hesitated to declare their presence. They were permitted to live aloud, in reverberating thuds and clunks, while ladies were always schooled to abide in hushed whispers.

The bed creaked loudly as he dropped his weight next to her. His arm brushed against her back. Just that slight contact set her whole body humming. As he settled into the bed, she was so aware—so clearly, perfectly aware—of every part of him. Every part of her. Everywhere their bodies touched, and everywhere they didn’t.

“Will you be able to sleep?” she asked, after a few minutes.

“Eventually.”

“Did you want to talk?” she asked the wall. She felt like a coward, unable to turn and face him.

“I’d rather listen to you. Why don’t you tell me a bedtime story? One you read as a child.”

“I didn’t read any stories as a child.”

“I don’t believe that. You always have your nose in a book.”

“But it’s true,” she said quietly. “When I was a girl, it took them ages to realize my farsightedness. Everyone thought I was just mischievous at best or dull witted, at worst. My mother chided me for frowning, for daydreaming. Diana would always be reading tales from her storybooks, but no matter how she tried to teach me, I couldn’t make sense of the letters. We had a nursemaid who sang ballads as she went about her work. I used to follow her everywhere and listen, memorizing as many as I could. They were my stories.” She closed her eyes. “Eventually, a governess realized I needed spectacles. When I first put them on my face, I can’t even tell you . . . it was like a miracle.”

“Finally seeing properly?”

“Knowing I wasn’t hopeless.” A knot formed in her throat. “I’d believed there was something incurably wrong with me, you see. But suddenly, I could see the world clear. And not only the parts in the distance, but the bits within my own reach. I could focus on a page. I could explore the things around me, discover whole worlds beneath my fingertips. I could be good at something, for once.”

She didn’t know if he could understand, but this was why the symposium was so important to her. Why Francine meant everything. This was why, a few mornings ago, she’d opened up the trunk that held her trousseau and swapped out those bridal fantasies for new, scientific goals. Minerva had never been the daughter her mother would have wished. She was different from her sisters, and she was reconciled to the fact. She could live with being a hopeless excuse for a fashionable, elegant lady . . . so long as someone, somewhere, respected and admired her just for being her. Minerva Highwood, geologist and bookworm and . . . and after tonight, sometime troubadour.

“Once I learned to read,” she said, “they couldn’t tear me away from books—still can’t. But I’d already outgrown the fairy tales.”

“Well,” he said, sounding drowsy. “That was a fine bedtime story. Downtrodden girl. Kindly nursemaid. Happy ending. The fairy tales are pretty much all like that.”

“Really? I was under the impression most of them feature a handsome, charming prince.”

The silence was prolonged. And miserable.

“Well, yours does have a knight,” he finally said. “Sir Alisdair the Colleague.”

“I suppose.” Hoping her voice didn’t betray any disappointment, she curled her fingers in the bed linens, drawing them close.

His weight shifted beside her. “You know, I’ve been wondering something. If that diary that so rhapsodically extolled my charms was the false one . . . what on earth did the real one say?”