Colin turned his attention to the cards. Minerva turned hers to the food.
She took care of him, in small ways. While he concentrated on the hand he was dealt, she had his glass filled with claret. Now she prepared for him a slice of roast pork, sandwiched between two halves of a buttered roll. In the process, she dabbed a bit of butter on her thumb. She put her thumb to her mouth and sucked it clean. Colin knew she didn’t intend the motion to be coy or provocative. Which made it arousing as hell.
He’d noted this about her, ever since that first night in the turret. There was an earthy, natural sensuality in her, but it only emerged when she felt confident. Or when she’d had a little wine. He wondered what it would take to coax this Minerva out into the world, permanently. She would need a steady supply of assurance, he supposed. Perhaps her participation in the Royal Geological Society could give her that, to some degree. But the right man could do far more. The right man could plant seeds of confidence, deep inside her, and nurture them to healthy, robust vines that reached and stretched, offering sweet, bountiful fruit.
The only fruit she cared for at the moment was the plate of grapes and apricots before them. Filling her famished belly was clearly her primary goal, and she went about it with energy—devouring wedges of cheese and slices of ham. When a passing servant offered her a tray of bite-sized tarts, she abandoned her wineglass with an eager gasp and reached for a tart with either hand.
She popped one in her mouth and offered the other to him.
Rather than take it with his fingers, he grasped her wrist to hold it steady. Then he devoured the morsel of pastry directly from her fingers, letting his tongue swirl over her fingertips. She sighed, and the little sound was more honey-sweet and sinfully delicious than a jam tart could ever hope to be.
Halford cleared his throat. “It’s your bet, Payne.”
Colin shook himself and sent a shilling wobbling toward the center of the table. “Yes, of course.”
He played, they ate. When they’d both consumed their fill, Colin waved for servants to remove the plates and trays.
Minerva made herself comfortable in his lap. Her fingers curled into the fringe of hair at his nape, toying idly. She stroked up and down the tendons of his neck, soothing away the tension coiled there. Little brushes of kindness he didn’t deserve.
He pressed his lips to her ear and whispered, “You do know I’m sorry? For earlier.”
She gave a slight nod.
With a breathy groan, he slid his arm to her waist and gathered her close. She laid her head on his chest.
He kissed her crown. “Sleep, if you wish.”
She released a full-body sigh and melted in his embrace. This easy intimacy between them . . . it made sense, he supposed, given their adventures over the past few days and nights. But still, it came as a surprise.
He’d been physically intimate with many women, and he’d felt emotionally close to others. But thus far, he’d assiduously worked to keep the two social spheres separate. There were women Colin counted as friends, and then there were women he bedded. Anytime he’d allowed the two groups to overlap, it meant trouble.
Minerva Highwood had meant nothing but trouble to him, since the very first.
But by God, he’d returned the favor. As she curled into his chest, she felt so small and fragile against him. In the past four-and-twenty hours, she’d walked untold miles across the English countryside, surrendered all her money at gunpoint, pulled a knife on a highwayman, and entered a house that oozed such Bacchanalian excess as to send a gently-bred virgin screaming. And all this, just one day on the heels of her first proper orgasm.
Never once had she dissolved into helpless tears. Or begged him to just please take her home. Not one woman in a hundred would handle herself so well in similar circumstances.
He made a vow to himself, then and there. If he did nothing else right in his life, he would do this: deliver Minerva Highwood to Edinburgh for her scientific presentation. On time, in one piece. And with her virtue intact.
Some way, somehow, he would make these good intentions come out right.
He gently stroked her hair and back with his left hand as he gathered his cards with the right. “Sleep,” he murmured again.
As she shifted in his lap, her thigh rubbed against him. His body’s reaction was immediate, instinctual. Blood rushed to his groin, hardening his c**k and loosening his tenuous hold on those cherished principles. He wanted her physically, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise.
But he must endeavor to hide this other, more visceral reaction—the overwhelming, tenderness rising in his chest.
The simple, unthinkable fact that he cared.
Chapter Nineteen