Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Somewhere in the back of the cave, a drip counted out Minerva’s stunned silence.

One, two, three . . .

. . . ten, eleven, twelve . . .

He needed her? In his bed? It was too much to be believed. She reminded herself it wasn’t her he needed. Apparently, any woman would do.

“So you’re telling me that this accident . . . this tragic night in your youth . . . is the reason for your libertine ways?”

“Yes. This is my curse.” He gave a deep, resonant sigh. A sigh clearly meant to pluck at her heartstrings.

And it worked. It really worked.

“Sweet heaven.” She swallowed back a lump in her throat. “You must do this all the time. Night after night, you tell women your tale of woe . . .”

“Not really. The tale of woe precedes me.”

“ . . . and then they just open their arms and lift their skirts for you. ‘Come, you poor, sweet man, let me hold you’ and so forth. Don’t they?”

He hedged. “Sometimes.”

Minerva knew they did. They must. She felt it happening to her. As he’d related his story, a veritable fount of emotion had welled in her chest. Sadness, sympathy. Her womb somehow became involved, sending nurturing impulses coursing through her veins. Everything feminine in her responded to the call.

Then came the lies. Her heart told her lies. Wicked, insidious falsehoods, resounding with every beat.

He’s a broken man.

He needs you.

You can heal him.

Rationally, she knew better. Untold numbers of women had already tried their hands—among other body parts—at “healing his broken soul,” with no success.

And yet . . . although her mind knew it to be foolishness, her body ached with the desire to hold him. Soothe him.

“I can’t believe this,” she breathed, mostly to herself. “I can’t believe you’re working this spell on me.”

“I’m not working any spell. I’m giving you the facts. Aren’t you fond of those? If you’re harboring any thought of compelling me to make this journey, you should know my conditions. I don’t ride in coaches, which means I’d be on horseback all day. I can’t ride on horseback all day unless I’m sleeping well at night. And I don’t sleep alone. Ergo, you’d have to share my bed. Unless you’d prefer me to search out random serving girls at each coaching inn.”

A wave of nausea rocked her. “Ugh.”

“Honestly, I don’t relish the thought either. Bedding my way along the Great North Road might have sounded like a grand time five years ago. Not so much, anymore.” He cleared his throat. “Nowadays, it’s more the rest I’m after. I don’t even bed half the women I sleep with. If that makes sense.”

“If that makes sense? Nothing about this makes sense.”

“You don’t have to understand it. God knows, I don’t.”

She sat next to him, reclining against the wall. Beneath the blanket, their arms touched. Even through that slight contact, she could sense the restlessness in his body. He was struggling to conceal his unease, but after years of vigilance with an asthmatic sister, Minerva was acutely attuned to small signs of distress. She couldn’t ignore the raspy quality of his breathing, nor the way his muscles hummed with a desperate wish to be quit of the place.

And when presented with a complexity, she wasn’t the sort to give up on understanding it. She was a scientist, after all.

“Is it just the cave?” she asked. “Or is it like this every night?”

He didn’t answer.

“You say it’s persisted since childhood. Is it getting better or worse with time?”

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Oh. All right.”

How sad, that he suffered so. How pathetic, that he turned to an endless chain of women to ameliorate his suffering. The idea made her nauseous. Irrationally envious. And just a little flushed, beneath her bathing costume.

A question burned inside her. She couldn’t help but ask. “Who was she, the other night? It wouldn’t matter, except . . .” Except whoever she was, she has the power to make my life utter misery.

After a moment, he reluctantly answered. “Ginny Watson.”

“Oh.” Minerva knew the cheery young widow. She took in washing from the rooming-house residents. Apparently, she took in washing—and other things—from the castle residents, too. But she didn’t seem the sort to spread tales.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he said.

“But don’t you see? That’s the worst part.” She moved away from the wall and turned to face him. The wet fabric of her bathing costume scraped over the rough stone. “Insomnia isn’t an uncommon condition, you know. Surely there must be some solution. If you can’t sleep at night, why don’t you light some lamps? Read some books. Warm some milk. See a doctor for a sleeping powder.”

“Those aren’t new ideas. I’ve tried them all, and then some.”

“And nothing works?”

Those drips counted the silence again. One, two, three . . .

He trailed a light touch up her arm. Then—slowly—he leaned forward.

And whispered in her ear, “One thing works.”

His lips brushed her cheek.

Minerva stiffened. Her every nerve ending jumped to attention. She didn’t know whether to be appalled or thrilled that he would make her another link in his amatory chain.

Appalled, she told herself. She ought to be appalled.

“You are shameless,” she whispered. “I can’t believe this.”

“It’s rather a shock to me, too.” His lips grazed her jaw. “But you are a most surprising girl.”

“You’re being opportunistic.”

“I won’t deny it. Why don’t you seize the opportunity, as well? I want to kiss you. And you need kissing, desperately.”

She put a hand to his shoulder and pushed him away. The cave filled with her affronted silence. “Why would you suggest such a thing?”

“Because last night you wanted to kiss me back. But you didn’t know how.”

Her heart jumped into her throat. So mortifying. How could he tell?

Wordlessly, he removed the spectacles from her face, folded them, and set them aside.

“I can’t believe this,” she breathed.

“So you keep saying.” He inched closer, eliminating the distance between them. “But you know, Matilda, what you haven’t said?”

“What’s that?”

“You haven’t said no.”

He reached for her in the dark, skimming a touch over her cheek, sliding down to cup her chin. With his hand anchored there, he stroked his thumb in ever-widening circles, until he grazed her bottom lip.

“You have a mouth made for kissing,” he murmured, angling her to face him. “Did you know that?”

She shook her head.

“So soft and generous.” Leaning in, he tipped her chin with the heel of his hand. “Sweet.”

“No man’s ever called me sweet.”

“Has any other man kissed you?”

Again, she gave a little shake of the head.

“Well, then. That’s why.” He brushed his lips over hers, just lightly, sending pure sensation fizzing through her veins. He hummed with satisfaction. “You taste of ripe plums.”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Now that’s just absurd.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s too early in the year for ripe plums.”

His husky chuckle shook them both. “You’re entirely too logical for your own good. A thorough kissing can mend that.”

“I don’t want mending.”

“Perhaps not. But I think you do want kissing.” He nuzzled the curve of her cheek, and his voice dropped to a sensual whisper. “Don’t you?”

She did. Oh, she did.

She couldn’t deny it. Not when he touched her like this. She wanted to be kissed, and to kiss him in return. She wanted to touch him, stroke him, hold him tight. All those tender, nurturing impulses still pulsed within her, despite all her efforts to reason them away. Her heart kept pumping those lies through her body.

He needs you.

You can heal him.

She had feminine warmth in abundance, and he needed comfort right now. In return, she could glimpse what it felt like to be needed. To be kissed. To be called sweet, and compared to a ripened plum.

To be desired by a desirable man.

“Just this once?” she breathed.

“Just this once.”

So long as they both knew it was all mere diversion . . . a harmless way to pass the time . . . It couldn’t hurt to pretend, could it? Not in secret, in the dark.

Here, there was no one to laugh.

Her breath caught as he pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. Then her cheek. Then her jaw.

Then her lips.

He pressed the tip of his tongue to that vulnerable hinge at the corner of her mouth, coaxing her lips to part. She gasped a little, and he took advantage of the moment, sweeping his tongue inside her mouth.

She froze instantly, pressing her hand flush against his chest. Then she pushed him away. “I don’t understand.” She made a fist, clutching his wet shirtfront. “I don’t understand why you do that. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do in return.”

“Shush.” He stroked her hair, dragging his fingers through the heavy, damp strands to untangle them. “Kissing’s like any skill. It takes a bit of practice. Think of it . . . think of it like dancing.” He paused to kiss her neck, her earlobe. “Just surrender to the rhythm of it. Follow my lead.”

They tried again. This time, he sucked her upper lip between his and worried it a little. Then he repeated the attentions with her lower lip.

And then he swept his tongue between the two.

His tongue rubbed over hers. She cautiously stroked back with her own, earning a little growl of approval. A thrill chased over her skin. Heat built between their bodies, melting away some of her anxiety.

He tilted his head, exploring her mouth from a new angle.

She understood now why he’d compared kissing to dancing. He had moves. A great many of them. Not just thrusting his tongue in and out, but swirling and toying and subtle coaxing. And just as she always did on a dance floor, Minerva quickly grew faint, dizzy. She felt overwhelmed and out of her depth. Always a step behind.

Once again, she broke away.

“This won’t work,” she said, wilting inside. “I’m hopeless at dancing. It simply won’t work.”

“No, don’t say that.” His labored breaths raced hers. “It was a bad example on my part. Don’t think of it like dancing. Kissing’s nothing like dancing. Think of it as you would . . .” He flicked a glance to the fossil-studded cave wall. “An excavation.”

“An excavation?”

“Yes. A proper kiss is like an excavation. When you’re digging up your little troglodytes, you don’t just go plunging your shovel into the soil higgledy-piggledy, do you?”

“No.” Her wariness stretched the word.

“Of course not. A proper excavation takes time and care. And very close attention to detail. Slowly sifting through the layers. Unearthing surprises as you go.”

That sounded much more promising. After a long moment’s reflection, she asked, “So who is excavating whom?”

“Ideally, it’s a bit of both. We sort of . . . take turns.”

She was silent for a long moment. Something about the air around them changed. Heated.

She swallowed hard. “May I go first?”

Colin struggled to suppress his triumphant grin. It would have ruined everything. He made his voice solemn. “But of course.”

She rose up to sit on her knees, positioning herself to face him. The dim glow allowed him to see her in silhouette. Just an enticing hourglass of shadow with a halo of curling hair. He wanted to reach for her, pull her close again. Give his pulse some better reason to pound. Ease his soul with the warm, human contact he craved. At times like these, patience came at a premium.

But its reward was great. Her hand reached out to him, swimming through the dark to caress his face.

God, she was such a surprise.

Her curiosity marked her apart from other girls. She didn’t concentrate on the features one would suppose—eyebrows, cheekbones, lips, the line of his nose. All the features that comprised “a face” in a schoolgirl’s sketch. No, her touch was thorough, indiscriminate, searching out every detail. The flat of her palm scraped over his unshaven jaw. She smoothed a narrow furrow between his brows and stroked a light caress under his eyes, where the sleepless nights weighed heavy. He found himself nuzzling into the touch. He exhaled until his lungs were empty.

She brushed the fringe of his eyelashes with one fingertip, and a delicate cascade of pleasure rippled through him. What a revelation that was. He’d have to add eyelash caresses to his own repertoire.

When her fingers pushed into his hair, he moaned. Women always loved his wavy hair, and he always loved the attention they paid it. Pleasant sensations raced over his scalp as she sifted through the wet locks, teasing them back from his forehead. Her fingertip found his scar and traced it—the thin, pale ridge that began at his temple and curved back over his ear. His only physical souvenir of the carriage accident, it was undetectable to the casual observer.

But she found it, easily. Because finding buried things was what she did best, he supposed. A proper excavation left no secret hidden.

He began to wonder about the wisdom of this exercise.

“We’re supposed to be kissing,” he said.

“I’m getting to it.” Her voice betrayed a hint of nerves. She moved closer, drawing her knees between his splayed thighs. Leaning forward, she brushed her lips over his.

The blissful shock of it rattled his very bones. But as she receded, he kept his tone glib. “You can do better.”

She took the challenge and kissed him again, more firmly this time. Her tongue flicked out, nimble and curious. And all too fleeting. “Better?”

“Better.” Almost too good.

“Hmm. You taste of spirits here.” Her tongue traced the edge of his lip. “But here”—she dipped her head to nuzzle the underside of his jaw—“you smell of spice. Cloves.”

Bloody hell. Colin’s eyes went wide in the dark as she sipped at his skin, over and over, tracing the curve of his throat. When she reached the center, she brushed her lips over his Adam’s apple. His breath was a painful rasp in his throat. He couldn’t take much more of this.

“You still haven’t properly kissed me,” he said. “Are you afraid?”

She lifted her head. “No.”

“I think you are.” I think I might be, too, just a little.

And for good reason. Her mouth found his, and her parted lips pressed against his own. And there they stayed. Soft, sweet. Warming in the heat of their mingled breath. All the while, a snarling, feral need clawed him from the inside out, fighting its leash of gentlemanly restraint. He’d lose the battle if she didn’t move soon.

This was more than an excavation. She was turning him inside out. Exposing the base, desperate needs studded in the deepest layer of his being. Until he felt not merely naked before her, but stripped bare. Cold and shivering and defenseless in the dark.

Kiss me, he willed, underscoring the message with a flex of his knee against her thigh. Kiss me now, or suffer the consequences.

At last. Her fingers twisted in his hair, drawing him close. Her teeth skimmed the ridge of his lower lip. And then she slid her tongue into his mouth. Just a shallow, teasing pass the first time. Then a bit deeper, on the second attempt. Then deeper still, again and again, by slow, tantalizing degrees.

She sighed into the kiss, just a little. The faint sound blazed through him, kindling his every nerve ending like a fuse.

Her fingers left his hair, and he worried for a moment that this all might stop.

Don’t stop. God, don’t stop.

But then she braced her hands on the cave wall, bracketing his shoulders, and pressed him against the rocky surface. With her breasts. So soft and round against his chest, tipped with the deliciously hard darts of her chilled nipples. She pinned him to the wall, using the leverage to make the kiss deeper, stroking deep with her tongue.

And just like that, his control was gone.

He reached for her, gripping her by the thighs. Holding her close and tight as she plundered his mouth with bold, innocent abandon. With her kiss, his whole body came alive. Not just his body. Something stirred in the region of his heart, as well.

Jesus. Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene. Delilah, Jezebel, Salome, Judith, Eve. Trouble, every last one. Add Minerva Highwood to the list.

A woman like this could ruin him. If he didn’t ruin her first.

“What do I call you?” Her breath came hot against his ear. “When . . . when we’re doing this, what do I call you?”

He fisted his hands in the fabric at the small of her back. “You must call me by my Christian name. Colin.”

“Colin,” she whispered, tentative at first. Then with feeling, as she pressed an openmouthed kiss to his temple. “Oh, Colin.”

Oh God. He could hear her moan his name a hundred times, and it wouldn’t be enough.

As they kissed, he rubbed his hands up and down her back. Keeping her close. Warming them both. But after several passes traveling the length of her spine, he couldn’t help but venture further. She still owed him his chance to explore.

He had to get to her. He had to get to the soft, secret part of her, the way she was getting to him.

He slid a palm down her hip, cupping her backside and giving it a brief squeeze. Then he brushed the same hand up her side, slowly dragging his touch over the curve of her hip, the indentation of her waist, the endless ridges of her ribs . . . he could have sworn he counted thirty-four or so . . . and then, at last, the soft, round swell of her breast.

“Colin.” Her gasp told him he’d gone too far.

“Min, I . . .” He rested his brow against hers. He didn’t know how to apologize. He wasn’t sorry for any of it. Not in the least.

She pulled away, blinking at him. “Colin. I can see you.”

The way she spoke the words, in such an awestruck tone, made him wonder for a moment if their kiss had actually cured her weak eyes. That would have been quite a miracle, but he’d be inclined to believe it. He felt rather changed by that kiss, himself.

“It’s light in here,” she said. “I can see you now.” She moved away, reaching for her spectacles.

And he instantly understood what she meant. Without her silhouette blocking his view, he too could see that the tide had receded. Enough so the apex of the underwater entrance was revealed. A beam of sunlight shot through, like gold floss threading the eye of a needle—stabbing Colin straight in the eyes.

“Ah.” He lifted his hand, shielding his eyes from the piercing dawn.

Now that he had a proper look at his surroundings, he could judge that the black, “endless” underwater tunnel he’d been so certain he’d die inside was actually . . . no more than three feet long.

Good God. He rolled his eyes at his own ridiculousness. No wonder she’d doubted his mettle.

“We’ll be able to leave soon,” she said, already up and bustling about. She pursed her lips and blew out the candle. “It’s better that we waited, anyhow. Now I don’t have to trust the oilcloth to keep my notes and papers dry.”

As Colin watched her go about her preparations, he reeled with the strangest emotion. Disappointment. A forceful pang of it.

That made no sense. Light had made its way into the cave. The space was no longer dark. He was going to leave this cramped, miserable hole in the earth in a just a few minutes’ time. And he was disappointed. Disappointed that he couldn’t stay here and kiss her a few hours longer.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

“Most likely.” She folded the blanket with efficient snaps. “And I may be joining you, after what we just did.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. We were merely kissing.” Though he knew there was nothing “mere” about it.

“Well, it can’t happen again.”

Colin pressed a hand to his solar plexus. There it went. That sharp pang of disappointment. This cave was just full of surprises.

She stared at the footprint and her notes. Then she looked up at him, deftly winding her hair into a knot.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” she said, speaking around a mouthful of hairpins. “We must, if we’re to have any hope of reaching Edinburgh in time.”

He shook his head. “Pet, I thought I’d made myself understood. I—”

“I agree to your conditions. All of them. You can ride out. We won’t travel at night. And the part about the bed . . . ?” A faint wash of pink touched her cheeks. “That too. But we’ll need to leave tomorrow, if we’re going to make the symposium.”

He swallowed hard. The part about the bed . . . ? He really wished she hadn’t said that.

Colin had rules for himself where women were concerned. So far he’d always followed them, and his remaining self-respect dangled on that slim cord. But this was different. She was different, in ways he couldn’t yet define. He usually didn’t find innocence so alluring, but in her case it was sweetened by bold, unabashed curiosity. Given the opportunity, he wasn’t sure he could resist. And weeks of travel would present many, many opportunities.

Right this moment, he was entertaining a quite vivid fantasy of unwinding that knot in her hair, stripping that drab linen from her body, peeling away any layers of modesty beneath . . . and leaving those spectacles on. So she’d see him. So she’d know just who was making her twist and pant and moan with pleasure. So she’d watch each and every wince of pleasure on his face as he pushed into—

“Don’t come for me at the rooming house,” she said. “Too much chance of being intercepted. I’ll walk out and meet you by the road.”

Colin massaged his jaw, releasing a faint groan. He was a libertine with prodigious experience. She was a naïve bluestocking still tasting her first kiss. This was an exceedingly bad idea. No matter how much he wanted to leave Spindle Cove, no matter how much she claimed to want this journey . . .

It could not happen. Because now he wanted her.

“Colin?”

He shook himself. “Yes?”

She met his gaze. The vulnerability shining in her eyes plucked at his conscience.

“Please,” she said. “You will be there, won’t you? You won’t play me another cruel trick and leave me the laughingstock, standing all by myself while the coach passes by?” She swallowed hard. “Should I be worried about you?”

Yes, pet. That’s just it. You should be worried indeed.