A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)

She lifted the sherry glass in front of her, drained it in a single swallow, and set it down with a decisive clink. Then she flattened both hands on the tabletop and pushed to her feet.

In slow, determined strides, she walked to the pianoforte. She removed her spectacles and held them folded in her hand. She pressed her finger down on a single piano key and, closing her eyes, hummed the pitch.

And then she opened her mouth and sang.

Well. She sang very, very well.

Surprise.

The crowded room went so quiet, so quickly, Colin could practically hear the jaws dropping. The song she’d chosen was an old, familiar ballad. No fancy scales or operatic trills. Just a simple, straightforward melody that suited her clear, lyrical voice. It wasn’t a song fit for a musicale, or even one of the Spindle Cove ladies’ salons. But it was perfect for a small country inn. The sort of tune that didn’t gavotte, didn’t mince around. That didn’t bother dazzling the ear or engaging the mind, but went straight for the guts.

And the heart.

Good Lord. It was a bloody fool thing to think—let alone say—but her song arrowed straight for his heart.

No way around it. Colin was charmed. As charmed as a Ceylonese cobra.

More than that, he was proud.

When the ballad’s lovers met their inevitably tragic end, and the crowd broke into enthusiastic applause, Colin clapped along with the rest. “That’s my girl,” he murmured.

Though she wasn’t, really. He had no right to claim her. To think that all this time—every day that he’d resided in Spindle Cove—this had been inside her. This glorious, soul-stirring song. The courage to unleash it before a crowd of strangers. The sweetness to calm him in the night, when he clawed his way back from hell.

How had he never seen any of this? How had he never known?

The Fontleys—and everyone else—shouted for another song. Minerva shook her head, demurring.

“Just one more,” Colin called to her, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Sing my favorite.”

She gave him a look of strained patience, but she relented.

Another key struck. Another quietly hummed pitch.

Another moment of sheer revelation.

She’d warmed to it now. The singing, the attention. Her voice gained strength and confidence. She sang with her eyes wide open, and she sang directly to him. Well, he’d asked for that, hadn’t he? And it was the best not-an-actual-birthday gift Colin had ever received. Those sultry, ripe lips held him in thrall. Every time she drew a quick breath between phrases, her br**sts fairly jumped for his attention.

If her first song had touched his heart . . . well, this one stroked him a ways lower.

It occurred to Colin that he should probably take pains not to be caught slavering over his own “sister.” But a glance around the place told him he wasn’t the only male in the room so affected.

Gilbert Fontley, in particular, was very bad off.

Without taking his eyes from Minerva, the young man leaned toward Colin. “Mr. Sand, do you think it’s possible to fall in love in the space of a single day?”

He smiled. “I wouldn’t know. I only fall in love at night. Never lasts beyond breakfast, though.”

Gilbert sent him a confused look. “B-but . . . But I thought you—”

“We all have our demons, Gilbert.” He clapped the young man on the shoulder and leaned close. “A word of advice. Cleave to the bosom of the Church.”

Minerva finished her ballad, and this time he could tell no amount of calling or applause would persuade her to sing again. Even as everyone in the room leaped to their feet, shouting encouragement, she replaced her spectacles and began to make her way back to the table.

Colin pushed back his chair, meaning to welcome her back with some words of sincere praise. But as she started across the room, a large, unshaven man holding a tankard lumbered into her path. He engaged her in some sort of conversation. Colin couldn’t make out their words over the din, but he didn’t need words to understand what was happening.

That disgusting lout wanted his girl.

And Minerva wanted nothing to do with the disgusting lout. The brute put a grimy paw on her arm, and she stumbled in her effort to pull away. Her spectacles went just slightly askew. That small detail—that tiny evidence of her disquiet—was enough to make Colin see twenty shades of red.

He punched to his feet, craving blood.

“Sir, unhand me.” Minerva tugged against the revolting brute’s grip. His breath reeked of ale and garlic. His body reeked of . . . other things, better left unnamed.

“Jes’ another song, love.” He held her elbow with one hand and pawed at her waist with the other. “Come sit on my lap, give me a private performance.”

His hand brushed her bottom.

Minerva recoiled. She felt dirty. Other women might know how to deflect this kind of unwanted attention, but she didn’t. This never happened to her.