A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)

“Truly?” Lettie asked. “Even as babies?”


Minerva rolled her eyes. How did he have the energy to keep manufacturing this poppycock? She was exhausted. By the time they’d stopped for luncheon and a change of horses, she’d been running down his figurative slope all morning, churning out one vague falsehood after another to satisfy the Fontleys’ boundless curiosity. She’d hoped to find some brief escape by declaring her intent to walk and stretch her legs.

But of course, Colin would decide to accompany her. And Lettie and Gilbert would jump to follow.

“Oh yes,” Colin continued, leading them all on the path. “My sister and I have always had this deep, unspoken connection. We have whole conversations without exchanging a word.”

He looked to her then. She held his gaze.

He was right. They could have a whole conversation without exchanging a word. And the conversation they had right now went like this:

Colin, shut it.

I don’t think I will, M.

Then I’ll make you.

Really? How?

I’m not certain, but it will be slow and painful. And I won’t leave any evidence.

“She saved my life once,” he told the young Fontleys.

“Who?” Lettie asked. “Miss Em?”

“Yes indeed. She delivered me, single-handedly, from death’s clutches. It’s a grand story.”

Striding through the ankle-high grasses, Minerva choked on a laugh. Oh, I’m sure it is.

“Do tell us. I’m certain the tale does Miss Sand great credit.” Gilbert looked to Minerva with admiration in his eyes. And quite possibly a glimmer of infatuation.

Oh dear. Of all the times for a young man to finally take a fancy to her.

“Well, it all started deep in the jungle,” Colin said. “While we were out exploring one day, I was bitten by a rare, highly venomous beetle.”

Lettie’s eyes sparked. “And Miss Em cut open the wound and sucked out the venom!”

“No, no. She couldn’t do that. The poison was too fast acting.”

“So she dragged you back home, to get help?”

“I’m afraid not.” Colin shook his head. “I was too heavy for her.”

“So I left him dying and went home for dinner,” Minerva said cheerfully. “The end.”

Gilbert laughed. “Of course you didn’t. You ran for help, didn’t you?”

“She did,” Colin said.

They’d reached the stream’s edge. Colin propped one foot on a fallen log.

“And I’ll wager,” said Lettie, flouncing down next to his boot, “that she dashed like mad all the way home, and then made it back just in time. Bringing along some native doctor to cure you with his mystic chanting and powders.”

Smiling at the girl’s imagination, Colin shook his head. “No. Actually, by the time she returned with help, it was too late. She couldn’t heal me. I had died.”

Everyone went silent.

“But . . .” Lettie frowned. “But that can’t be. Here you are.”

“What happened?” Gilbert asked.

Yes, what happened? Minerva almost added herself. Even she was breathless to learn what came next, when he’d lay dying in the jungle after a rare Ceylonese beetle bite.

Nothing happened, you ninny. It’s all a lie.

Colin cleared his throat. “Well, I can’t tell you precisely what happened. Because I slumped unconscious on the jungle floor, and I don’t remember anything after that. I’d fallen into a deep coma, it seems. The signs of life were so faint, my own family believed I was dead. They prayed over me, prepared my body and put it in a wooden coffin. And the next thing I knew, I woke up underground. In the dark. Buried alive.”

“Cor,” Lettie cried, clinging to his boot. “Whatever did you do?”

“I cried. I wailed. I clawed at the planks sealing me in until my fingernails were torn to bloody nubs. I despaired and trembled. I screamed until my throat was raw.” His voice had taken on a strange quality. He looked up, searching Minerva’s gaze. “And somehow, she heard me. Didn’t you, M? You heard me, calling through the darkness. I was alone and frightened. But in the dark of night, you heard the anguished cries of my heart.”

Minerva swallowed back the lump rising in her throat. She didn’t like this story anymore. She wasn’t sure what Colin was playing at. Obviously this description of his boyhood self, trapped and screaming in the dark, was meant for her. It would seem he hadn’t forgotten last night’s episode. He remembered it. All of it. And now he wished to . . . what, precisely? Thank her for her help? Mock her for her concern?

He asked, “Do you want to tell the next bit, M?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t.”

He turned to the children. “She came running out to the burial site, began digging through the dirt with her bare hands. When I heard those noises . . . well, I thought at first I’d truly died, and the hounds of hell were scratching at my coffin.”

Lettie squeaked and bit her knuckle.

“To this day, I have no fondness for dogs,” he said.

“Oh, how sad.”