A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)

In her memory, Minerva heard the echo of his savage cries. Get back, you bloody bitch.

“I tried to call out, but couldn’t. The air was growing more and more close, and I could scarcely take a breath. As the sounds drew nearer, I managed to suck just a gasp of air into my lungs. Enough to call out one word.” He paused dramatically, then whispered, “Tallyho?”

The children held their breath.

“And you can guess what sweet magic I heard in return.”

“You’re cracked,” they replied in hushed unison.

“Exactly,” Colin said. “She’d saved me from the very clutches of death. My dear, daring sister.”

Their eyes met, and Minerva had to look away. She didn’t know what to feel, but she felt . . . something. And she felt it deeply.

Gilbert turned to her. “How brave you were, Miss Sand.”

She fluttered a hand. “Not really.”

“She’s too modest. Always was.” Rising from the fallen log, Colin playfully chucked her under the chin before leading the way back to the road. “Just wait until you hear about M and the cobra.”

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.”