There was no leaving Grantham tonight. Not for love, money, giant lizards, or whatever fool motive was now driving Colin on this quest.
Every wagon, coach, and pony cart in the county must have been rolling into town for the fair. None of them were leaving.
He fought his way through the jostling throng of horses and carts, back to where he’d left Minerva. As a cartload of crated chickens rolled out of his way, he caught sight of her through the flurry of white feathers.
He stopped dead in his tracks, transfixed. Admiring.
She sat atop her precious trunk of course, chin propped in her hand. She’d allowed her spectacles to slide down toward the tip of her nose, so she could peer over them—as she always did when regarding something more than a dozen paces distant. Her long dark hair tumbled about her shoulders in fetching waves, and the late afternoon sun gave it warm, reddish highlights. With her teeth, she worried that plump, sweet bottom lip, and her toes tapped in time to some distant music.
She was lovely. Just the picture of a wide-eyed country lass, taking in the fair.
“Nothing,” he said, approaching her. “Perhaps we’d have better luck later this evening.” He cast a look over his shoulder, toward the bustling green. “For the meantime, we might as well see the fair.”
“But we haven’t any money.” She pushed her spectacles back up on her nose and held up a thin gold coin between her fingertips. “This one sovereign must stretch all the way to Edinburgh.”
He took it from her and slipped it in his breast pocket. “It costs nothing to look. And we’ll need to eat something, sometime. But we’ll be frugal.”
“A frugal brother and sister?” she asked, peering up at him. “A frugal gentleman and his mistress? Or frugal circus folk?”
“Frugal sweethearts.” He extended a hand to her. “Just for today. All right?”
“All right.” Smiling, she put her hand in his, and he pulled her to her feet.
Ah, the sweet, unveiled affection in her eyes . . . it warmed his heart, and then wrung it fierce. A better man wouldn’t play this ‘sweethearts’ game with her when he knew very well it couldn’t lead to more.
But he wasn’t a better man. He was Colin Sandhurst, reckless, incorrigible rogue—and damn it, he couldn’t resist. He wanted to amuse her, spoil her, feed her sweets and delicacies. Steal a kiss or two, when she wasn’t expecting it. He wanted to be a besotted young buck squiring his girl around the fair.
In other words, he wanted to live honestly. Just for the day.
He hefted Francine’s trunk and balanced it on his right shoulder, offering Minerva his left arm. Together they moved through the crowds and past the church. They walked down the rows of prize livestock brought for show, giving the pigs and stoats ridiculous names, then debating which deserved the ribbon and why.
“Hamlet must get the ribbon,” Minerva argued. “His eyes are the brightest, and his haunches the most fat. He also keeps himself quite clean for a pig.”
“But Hamlet is a prince. I thought you bestowed your greatest favor on knights.” He pointed. “Perhaps you’d prefer Sir Francis Bacon over there.”
“The filthy one wallowing and grunting in the mud?”
“I understand grunting is a mark of porcine intelligence.”
“Please.” She gave him a look. “Even I have standards.”
“Good to hear.” He added under his breath, “I think.”
They wandered down rows of booths displaying as exotic an array of wares as one could hope to find in the English Midlands—everything from oranges to ormolu clocks, French bonnets to scented bootblack. Colin wished he could buy her one of everything, but settled for spending sixpence on a length of blue ribbon to match her gown.
“In case you’re wanting to tie back your hair,” he said.
“Did you want me to tie back my hair?”
“Not at all. I quite like it down.”
She shook her head. “You’re nonsensical.”
He made a show of bristling in mock offense. “You just don’t know how to take a gift.”
“A gift?” She laughed and nudged his side. “You bought it with my money. But thank you.” She kissed his cheek.
“That’s better.”
For a shilling and scattered pence, Colin purchased their supper—a small pitcher of fresh milk and two meat pies. They found a clear place on the green and sat facing each other on the trunk. Minerva spread out her handkerchief as a makeshift tablecloth.
“I’m so hungry,” she said, staring at the food.
He handed her one of the pies. “Then have at it.”
She bit into the crescent-shaped pastry, slowly sinking her teeth through the layers of flaky crust. Her eyelashes fluttered, and she gave a moan of pleasure.
“Oh, Colin. That’s marvelous.” She swept her tongue over those ripe, sultry, pouting lips.