Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-one

There was no leaving Grantham tonight. Not for love, money, giant lizards, or whatever fool motive was now driving Colin on this quest.

Every wagon, coach, and pony cart in the county must have been rolling into town for the fair. None of them were leaving.

He fought his way through the jostling throng of horses and carts, back to where he’d left Minerva. As a cartload of crated chickens rolled out of his way, he caught sight of her through the flurry of white feathers.

He stopped dead in his tracks, transfixed. Admiring.

She sat atop her precious trunk of course, chin propped in her hand. She’d allowed her spectacles to slide down toward the tip of her nose, so she could peer over them—as she always did when regarding something more than a dozen paces distant. Her long dark hair tumbled about her shoulders in fetching waves, and the late afternoon sun gave it warm, reddish highlights. With her teeth, she worried that plump, sweet bottom lip, and her toes tapped in time to some distant music.

She was lovely. Just the picture of a wide-eyed country lass, taking in the fair.

“Nothing,” he said, approaching her. “Perhaps we’d have better luck later this evening.” He cast a look over his shoulder, toward the bustling green. “For the meantime, we might as well see the fair.”

“But we haven’t any money.” She pushed her spectacles back up on her nose and held up a thin gold coin between her fingertips. “This one sovereign must stretch all the way to Edinburgh.”

He took it from her and slipped it in his breast pocket. “It costs nothing to look. And we’ll need to eat something, sometime. But we’ll be frugal.”

“A frugal brother and sister?” she asked, peering up at him. “A frugal gentleman and his mistress? Or frugal circus folk?”

“Frugal sweethearts.” He extended a hand to her. “Just for today. All right?”

“All right.” Smiling, she put her hand in his, and he pulled her to her feet.

Ah, the sweet, unveiled affection in her eyes . . . it warmed his heart, and then wrung it fierce. A better man wouldn’t play this ‘sweethearts’ game with her when he knew very well it couldn’t lead to more.

But he wasn’t a better man. He was Colin Sandhurst, reckless, incorrigible rogue—and damn it, he couldn’t resist. He wanted to amuse her, spoil her, feed her sweets and delicacies. Steal a kiss or two, when she wasn’t expecting it. He wanted to be a besotted young buck squiring his girl around the fair.

In other words, he wanted to live honestly. Just for the day.

He hefted Francine’s trunk and balanced it on his right shoulder, offering Minerva his left arm. Together they moved through the crowds and past the church. They walked down the rows of prize livestock brought for show, giving the pigs and stoats ridiculous names, then debating which deserved the ribbon and why.

“Hamlet must get the ribbon,” Minerva argued. “His eyes are the brightest, and his haunches the most fat. He also keeps himself quite clean for a pig.”

“But Hamlet is a prince. I thought you bestowed your greatest favor on knights.” He pointed. “Perhaps you’d prefer Sir Francis Bacon over there.”

“The filthy one wallowing and grunting in the mud?”

“I understand grunting is a mark of porcine intelligence.”

“Please.” She gave him a look. “Even I have standards.”

“Good to hear.” He added under his breath, “I think.”

They wandered down rows of booths displaying as exotic an array of wares as one could hope to find in the English Midlands—everything from oranges to ormolu clocks, French bonnets to scented bootblack. Colin wished he could buy her one of everything, but settled for spending sixpence on a length of blue ribbon to match her gown.

“In case you’re wanting to tie back your hair,” he said.

“Did you want me to tie back my hair?”

“Not at all. I quite like it down.”

She shook her head. “You’re nonsensical.”

He made a show of bristling in mock offense. “You just don’t know how to take a gift.”

“A gift?” She laughed and nudged his side. “You bought it with my money. But thank you.” She kissed his cheek.

“That’s better.”

For a shilling and scattered pence, Colin purchased their supper—a small pitcher of fresh milk and two meat pies. They found a clear place on the green and sat facing each other on the trunk. Minerva spread out her handkerchief as a makeshift tablecloth.

“I’m so hungry,” she said, staring at the food.

He handed her one of the pies. “Then have at it.”

She bit into the crescent-shaped pastry, slowly sinking her teeth through the layers of flaky crust. Her eyelashes fluttered, and she gave a moan of pleasure.

“Oh, Colin. That’s marvelous.” She swept her tongue over those ripe, sultry, pouting lips.

He stared at her, suddenly helpless to move or speak. Raw, animal lust gripped him, and gripped him hard.

He had to feel those lips on him again. Had. To. This wasn’t a mild expression of preference. This was an imperative. His body was insistent. To continue his existence on this earth, he now needed the following: food, water, shelter, clothing, and Minerva Highwood’s lips.

Sending him a coy glance through her dark eyelashes, she took a sip of milk. Then she licked her lips again.

Correction. He needed food, water, shelter, clothing, Minerva Highwood’s lips, and . . . Minerva Highwood’s tongue.

Memories of the night before flashed through his mind. He didn’t even try to force them back. No, he let them surface, taking time to engrave each carnal, erotic moment on his memory. Each blissful moment must be recorded, so he could mentally relive that scene in months and years to come. Out of not just desire, but need.

Those lips. That tongue.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.

“No. Er . . . yes.” He shook himself. “Eventually.”

Colin bit into his own pie. It was good and savory, still warm from the oven. He enjoyed it. But not nearly as much as he enjoyed viewing her enjoyment.

Remarkable. He’d wooed lovers with jewels and Venetian lace, taken them to view operas from the most lavish box in the theater, fed them oysters and sugared berries from silver trays. But he’d never known the sort of pure, honest pleasure he felt right here, right now. Devouring meat pies with Minerva Highwood in the middle of a country fair.

Licking her thumb clean, she tilted her head to regard the sky. “It’ll be twilight soon. Should we try our luck finding transport?”

“Probably.”

They picked up Francine and carried her between them, ambling toward the carriage mews and stables. As they went, they passed a row of booths and carnival games.

A small girl yanked at Colin’s coat front. She was waifish but bright-eyed, dressed in a patched yellow dress.

“Won’t you and the lady have your fortune told, sir?” The girl indicated a tent a few paces away. “My mum tells fortunes for a sixpence. She can see the future, clear as looking through a glass windowpane. She’ll tell you everything you want to know about your life, love, and children. Even the day of your own death!” She all but chirped this last.

Colin smiled, setting down the trunk. “Well, that’s a tempting offer.”

“Colin, we can’t,” Minerva whispered in his ear. “We’ve only eighteen shillings to our names. We can’t be wasting any of it on fortune-tellers.”

He knew she was right, but something in the girl’s gap-toothed smile tugged at him.

“What’s your name, pet?” he asked the girl.

“Elspeth, sir.”

“Well, Elspeth.” He leaned down close. “I’m afraid we can’t buy a fortune from your mother. I’m a rather fragile soul, you see. I’m not sure I could bear up under the revelation of my future loves and children, much less the date of my own death. So why don’t I tell your fortune instead?”

“My fortune?” She narrowed her eyes with precocious cynicism. With her tongue, she worked a loose front tooth back and forth. “How are you going to tell my fortune?”

“Oh, easy as anything.” Colin drew a penny from his pocket and placed it in the girl’s hand. “I see a sweet in your future.”

Elspeth smiled and closed her hand around the penny. “All right then.”

As she scampered off, he cupped a hand around his mouth and called after her, “A sweet, remember. Don’t go making me a charlatan. Be sure not to spend it on anything else.”

He turned to find Minerva staring up at him.

“It is true,” she asked, “what you told her just now?”

“What did I tell her just now?”

“That you fear the future.”

His chin ducked, as if he were instinctively dodging a blow. His brain rang, as though he’d failed to evade it. “I didn’t say that.”

“You said something quite like it.”

Had he? Perhaps he had.

“It’s not that I fear the future. I just find it’s best not to form expectations. Expectations lead to disappointments. If you expect nothing, you’re always surprised.”

“But you’re never really satisfied. You never experience the joy of working toward a goal and achieving it.”

He sighed heavily. Must she always be so damned perceptive?

Doesn’t it grow tiresome? she’d asked him last night, referring to his live-for-the-day, Devil-may-care, insert-blithe-motto-here lifestyle.

Yes, it did rather grow tiresome. Colin envied men like his cousin, who had their sense of duty and purpose whittled so sharp, it could balance on a rapier’s edge. Men like Bram woke up each morning knowing exactly what they meant to accomplish, and why, and how. Hell, Colin envied the men he’d worked with this morning, thatching a cottage roof.

And he envied Minerva her scholarly dedication and discoveries. More than she could ever suppose.

“If you’re asking me, don’t I want to do something useful with my life . . . ? Of course I do. But I’m a viscount, pet. There’s a responsibility inherent in that. Or there will be, once I finally gain control of my accounts. Mostly, my task is to stay alive and not cock things up. I can’t risk my life purchasing an officer’s commission, or sign on with a pirate crew for larks.”

“Aren’t lords supposed to manage their lands?”

“Who says I don’t?” He threw her a look. “Believe it or not, I go through pots of ink every month, ensuring that my estate is well managed. And I do my part to keep it in excellent condition by staying far away, myself.” He shrugged. “I know some gentlemen develop intellectual interests or political pursuits to occupy their time. But what can I say? I’m not a specialist. I’m passably good at a thousand things, but I don’t particularly excel at any of them.”

“Jack of all trades,” she said thoughtfully.

“Well, something like that. If I could engage in trade, which I can’t.”

They were silent for a few moments.

“You do have talents, Colin.”

He gave her a lascivious wink. “Oh, I know I do.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Let’s see. I’m good at lying, drinking, pleasuring women, and inciting tavern brawls.” Pulling up short, he stopped before a booth with a toss game. “And this. I’m good at things like this.”

He picked up one of the round wooden balls, tossing it into the air and catching it in his hand. Testing its weight as he rolled it from palm to fingertips and back.

“How do I play?” he asked the woman behind the table.

“Three pence for a try, sir. You throw the ball in the baskets.” She waved to a large basket right up front. Behind it, a series of similar baskets were lined up—in gradually diminishing sizes. “A pitch in the first basket earns you an apple. Next basket, an orange. Then peaches, cherries, grapes.” She swept to the end of the row and pointed out a tiny woven basket, probably smaller than the ball itself. “Hit the last, you’ve won yourself a pineapple, direct from the Sandwich Islands.”

Right. Colin smirked. The stumpy, shriveled pineapple on display looked to have come from a fruitier’s glasshouse, via several weeks’ travel around the English countryside.

Easy enough to see how the game worked. In essence, players traded three pence for an apple. If they had a bit of skill, they took away an orange, as well.

Clearly, no one ever won the pineapple.

He laid three pennies on the table. “I’ll have a go.”

The apple came easily, as it was supposed to do. He handed the shiny round fruit to Minerva, who’d taken a seat on the trunk. “Go ahead,” he urged. “Life’s uncertain. Eat it now.”

By the time he’d won her the orange and a trio of fine, ripe peaches, Colin had amassed a small crowd of children. As he sized up his toss for the cherries, he slid a glance to the side and instantly gathered where they’d come from. Little Elspeth had joined Minerva on the trunk. Peach juice dribbled down her chin as she bit into the fruit from one side, carefully avoiding her loose tooth. Apparently, the penny sweet hadn’t been enough for her. She’d come back for more, and she’d brought all her friends.

When he’d tossed and won, Colin passed the net of cherries to Minerva for distribution. “One apiece,” he called to the gathered boys and girls. “No spitting the stones.”

From the cheer that rose up, one would think he’d passed around gold coins.

Minerva was pressed and jostled from all sides, but she flashed him a wide smile as she opened the net. “Don’t you want one?”

He shook his head. Her smile—genuine, adoring—was the best reward he could imagine.

“Grapes next!” called one boy. “Cor, I’ve never even tasted a grape. Not in all my life.”

The stout woman behind the table crossed her arms. “Greedy little beggars. Go on with you. He won’t win the grapes.”

“We’ll see.” Colin rolled the wooden ball in his hand, assessing. The basket he needed to hit was some ten paces back, and approximately the size of a saucer. If he lobbed it too directly, the ball would glance off the basket’s edge. His best shot was a high arc, to send the ball sailing up and then directly down.

He lofted the ball high in the air. The children held their breath.

And a few moments later, Colin was handing round clusters of red grapes. They were seedy and a bit shriveled. Half on their way to becoming raisins, in some cases. But a boy who’d never tasted a grape before wouldn’t know to complain. The children popped them into their mouths and made a contest of outdoing one another’s sounds of delight.

“The pineapple!” they all called next, jumping up and down. “Win us the pineapple!”

Colin’s mouth tugged sideways. The pineapple basket looked about the size of a teacup. He wasn’t sure it was even possible to fit the wooden ball inside it, let alone do so from a distance. “Don’t get your hopes raised, children.”

“Oh, but I’ve dreamed of pineapples.”

“My mum’s a housemaid. She’s tasted ’em. Says they’re like ambrosia.”

“You can do it, sir!” Elspeth cried.

Colin tossed the wooden ball to the plucky girl. “Rub it for luck, pet.”

Smiling, she did so and handed it back.

He gave Minerva a wink and a shrug. “Here goes nothing.”

Then he eyed the basket, sized up his shot . . . and threw the ball.