“Such as what? A magic carpet?”
“Such as a private post-chaise, with hired postilions. You’d ride in, and I’d ride out on horseback.”
“That would cost a fortune.”
He shrugged. “When it comes to travel, I have conditions. I don’t ride in coaches, and I don’t travel by night.”
“No night travel either? But the fastest coaches all travel by night. The journey would take us twice as long.”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re not going, isn’t it?”
She lifted the candle and peered into his face. “You’re just making excuses. You want out of our agreement—”
“What agreement? There was never any agreement.”
“—so you’re plucking these ridiculous ‘conditions’ out of the air.” She ticked items off on one hand. “No closed carriages. No travel by night. What kind of grown man has such rules?”
“One who narrowly survived a carriage accident,” he said testily. “At night. That’s what kind.”
Her face softened. So did her voice. “Oh.”
Colin drummed his fingers on the stone. He’d forgotten that she wouldn’t know this. In London, everyone knew. The story passed around ballrooms and gaming hells every season. Skipped from matron to debutante, gambler to opera singer—always in mournful whispers. Have you heard about poor Lord Payne. . . .
“Was this recent?” she asked.
“No, long ago.”
“What happened?”
Sighing roughly, he rested his head against the uneven, clammy stone. “I was a boy, traveling with my parents. An axle snapped, and the coach overturned. I survived the accident largely unharmed. But my mother and father weren’t so fortunate.”
“They were injured?”
“They died. There, in the carriage, right in front of me. My father went almost instantly. My mother, slowly and in tremendous agony.” He paused. “I couldn’t get out, you see. The way the carriage had landed on its side, the door was barred shut. I couldn’t run for help, couldn’t escape. I lay trapped there, all night long. Alone. A passing farmer found me the next morning.”
There. That would teach her to press him for honesty.
“Oh.” She gripped his arm. “Oh God. I’m so sorry. I can see why you’d be afra— er, why you would dislike dark, enclosed spaces. How dreadful.”
“It was. Exceedingly.” He rubbed his temple. “Suffice it to say, I’ve no desire to relive such a situation. So I have a few simple rules. I don’t travel at night. I don’t ride in enclosed carriages. Oh, and I don’t sleep alone.” A grimace tugged his mouth sideways. “That last is less of a rule and more a statement of fact.”
“How do you mean?”
Colin hesitated briefly. He’d revealed this much. There seemed no point in denying the rest. “I simply don’t sleep alone. If I don’t have a bed companion, I lie awake all night.”
He nudged toward the soft heat of her body and gathered the blanket close around them. “So you may want to rethink your plans, pet. If we did undertake this journey . . . I’d need you in my bed.”
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.