He stared at her, suddenly helpless to move or speak. Raw, animal lust gripped him, and gripped him hard.
He had to feel those lips on him again. Had. To. This wasn’t a mild expression of preference. This was an imperative. His body was insistent. To continue his existence on this earth, he now needed the following: food, water, shelter, clothing, and Minerva Highwood’s lips.
Sending him a coy glance through her dark eyelashes, she took a sip of milk. Then she licked her lips again.
Correction. He needed food, water, shelter, clothing, Minerva Highwood’s lips, and . . . Minerva Highwood’s tongue.
Memories of the night before flashed through his mind. He didn’t even try to force them back. No, he let them surface, taking time to engrave each carnal, erotic moment on his memory. Each blissful moment must be recorded, so he could mentally relive that scene in months and years to come. Out of not just desire, but need.
Those lips. That tongue.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.
“No. Er . . . yes.” He shook himself. “Eventually.”
Colin bit into his own pie. It was good and savory, still warm from the oven. He enjoyed it. But not nearly as much as he enjoyed viewing her enjoyment.
Remarkable. He’d wooed lovers with jewels and Venetian lace, taken them to view operas from the most lavish box in the theater, fed them oysters and sugared berries from silver trays. But he’d never known the sort of pure, honest pleasure he felt right here, right now. Devouring meat pies with Minerva Highwood in the middle of a country fair.
Licking her thumb clean, she tilted her head to regard the sky. “It’ll be twilight soon. Should we try our luck finding transport?”
“Probably.”
They picked up Francine and carried her between them, ambling toward the carriage mews and stables. As they went, they passed a row of booths and carnival games.
A small girl yanked at Colin’s coat front. She was waifish but bright-eyed, dressed in a patched yellow dress.
“Won’t you and the lady have your fortune told, sir?” The girl indicated a tent a few paces away. “My mum tells fortunes for a sixpence. She can see the future, clear as looking through a glass windowpane. She’ll tell you everything you want to know about your life, love, and children. Even the day of your own death!” She all but chirped this last.
Colin smiled, setting down the trunk. “Well, that’s a tempting offer.”
“Colin, we can’t,” Minerva whispered in his ear. “We’ve only eighteen shillings to our names. We can’t be wasting any of it on fortune-tellers.”
He knew she was right, but something in the girl’s gap-toothed smile tugged at him.
“What’s your name, pet?” he asked the girl.
“Elspeth, sir.”
“Well, Elspeth.” He leaned down close. “I’m afraid we can’t buy a fortune from your mother. I’m a rather fragile soul, you see. I’m not sure I could bear up under the revelation of my future loves and children, much less the date of my own death. So why don’t I tell your fortune instead?”
“My fortune?” She narrowed her eyes with precocious cynicism. With her tongue, she worked a loose front tooth back and forth. “How are you going to tell my fortune?”
“Oh, easy as anything.” Colin drew a penny from his pocket and placed it in the girl’s hand. “I see a sweet in your future.”
Elspeth smiled and closed her hand around the penny. “All right then.”
As she scampered off, he cupped a hand around his mouth and called after her, “A sweet, remember. Don’t go making me a charlatan. Be sure not to spend it on anything else.”
He turned to find Minerva staring up at him.
“It is true,” she asked, “what you told her just now?”
“What did I tell her just now?”
“That you fear the future.”
His chin ducked, as if he were instinctively dodging a blow. His brain rang, as though he’d failed to evade it. “I didn’t say that.”
“You said something quite like it.”
Had he? Perhaps he had.
“It’s not that I fear the future. I just find it’s best not to form expectations. Expectations lead to disappointments. If you expect nothing, you’re always surprised.”
“But you’re never really satisfied. You never experience the joy of working toward a goal and achieving it.”
He sighed heavily. Must she always be so damned perceptive?
Doesn’t it grow tiresome? she’d asked him last night, referring to his live-for-the-day, Devil-may-care, insert-blithe-motto-here lifestyle.
Yes, it did rather grow tiresome. Colin envied men like his cousin, who had their sense of duty and purpose whittled so sharp, it could balance on a rapier’s edge. Men like Bram woke up each morning knowing exactly what they meant to accomplish, and why, and how. Hell, Colin envied the men he’d worked with this morning, thatching a cottage roof.