A Week to Be Wicked (8 page)

She brushed the fringe of his eyelashes with one fingertip, and a delicate cascade of pleasure rippled through him. What a revelation that was. He’d have to add eyelash caresses to his own repertoire.

When her fingers pushed into his hair, he moaned. Women always loved his wavy hair, and he always loved the attention they paid it. Pleasant sensations raced over his scalp as she sifted through the wet locks, teasing them back from his forehead. Her fingertip found his scar and traced it—the thin, pale ridge that began at his temple and curved back over his ear. His only physical souvenir of the carriage accident, it was undetectable to the casual observer.

But she found it, easily. Because finding buried things was what she did best, he supposed. A proper excavation left no secret hidden.

He began to wonder about the wisdom of this exercise.

“We’re supposed to be kissing,” he said.

“I’m getting to it.” Her voice betrayed a hint of nerves. She moved closer, drawing her knees between his splayed thighs. Leaning forward, she brushed her lips over his.

The blissful shock of it rattled his very bones. But as she receded, he kept his tone glib. “You can do better.”

She took the challenge and kissed him again, more firmly this time. Her tongue flicked out, nimble and curious. And all too fleeting. “Better?”

“Better.” Almost
too
good.

“Hmm. You taste of spirits here.” Her tongue traced the edge of his lip. “But here”—she dipped her head to nuzzle the underside of his jaw—“you smell of spice. Cloves.”

Bloody hell. Colin’s eyes went wide in the dark as she sipped at his skin, over and over, tracing the curve of his throat. When she reached the center, she brushed her lips over his Adam’s apple. His breath was a painful rasp in his throat. He couldn’t take much more of this.

“You still haven’t properly kissed me,” he said. “Are you afraid?”

She lifted her head. “No.”

“I think you are.”
I think I might be, too, just a little.

And for good reason. Her mouth found his, and her parted lips pressed against his own. And there they stayed. Soft, sweet. Warming in the heat of their mingled breath. All the while, a snarling, feral need clawed him from the inside out, fighting its leash of gentlemanly restraint. He’d lose the battle if she didn’t move soon.

This was more than an excavation. She was turning him inside out. Exposing the base, desperate needs studded in the deepest layer of his being. Until he felt not merely naked before her, but stripped bare. Cold and shivering and defenseless in the dark.

Kiss me
, he willed, underscoring the message with a flex of his knee against her thigh.
Kiss me now, or suffer the consequences.

At last. Her fingers twisted in his hair, drawing him close. Her teeth skimmed the ridge of his lower lip. And then she slid her tongue into his mouth. Just a shallow, teasing pass the first time. Then a bit deeper, on the second attempt. Then deeper still, again and again, by slow, tantalizing degrees.

She sighed into the kiss, just a little. The faint sound blazed through him, kindling his every nerve ending like a fuse.

Her fingers left his hair, and he worried for a moment that this all might stop.

Don’t stop. God, don’t stop.

But then she braced her hands on the cave wall, bracketing his shoulders, and pressed him against the rocky surface. With her
breasts
. So soft and round against his chest, tipped with the deliciously hard darts of her chilled nipples. She pinned him to the wall, using the leverage to make the kiss deeper, stroking deep with her tongue.

And just like that, his control was gone.

He reached for her, gripping her by the thighs. Holding her close and tight as she plundered his mouth with bold, innocent abandon. With her kiss, his whole body came alive. Not just his body. Something stirred in the region of his heart, as well.

Jesus
. Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene. Delilah, Jezebel, Salome, Judith, Eve. Trouble, every last one. Add Minerva Highwood to the list.

A woman like this could ruin him. If he didn’t ruin her first.

“What do I call you?” Her breath came hot against his ear. “When . . . when we’re doing this, what do I call you?”

He fisted his hands in the fabric at the small of her back. “You must call me by my Christian name. Colin.”

“Colin,” she whispered, tentative at first. Then with feeling, as she pressed an openmouthed kiss to his temple. “Oh,
Colin
.”

Oh God.
He could hear her moan his name a hundred times, and it wouldn’t be enough.

As they kissed, he rubbed his hands up and down her back. Keeping her close. Warming them both. But after several passes traveling the length of her spine, he couldn’t help but venture further. She still owed him his chance to explore.

He had to get to her. He had to get to the soft, secret part of her, the way she was getting to him.

He slid a palm down her hip, cupping her backside and giving it a brief squeeze. Then he brushed the same hand up her side, slowly dragging his touch over the curve of her hip, the indentation of her waist, the endless ridges of her ribs . . . he could have sworn he counted thirty-four or so . . . and then, at
last
, the soft, round swell of her breast.

“
Colin.
” Her gasp told him he’d gone too far.

“Min, I . . .” He rested his brow against hers. He didn’t know how to apologize. He wasn’t sorry for any of it. Not in the least.

She pulled away, blinking at him. “Colin. I can
see
you.”

The way she spoke the words, in such an awestruck tone, made him wonder for a moment if their kiss had actually cured her weak eyes. That would have been quite a miracle, but he’d be inclined to believe it. He felt rather changed by that kiss, himself.

“It’s light in here,” she said. “I can see you now.” She moved away, reaching for her spectacles.

And he instantly understood what she meant. Without her silhouette blocking his view, he too could see that the tide had receded. Enough so the apex of the underwater entrance was revealed. A beam of sunlight shot through, like gold floss threading the eye of a needle—stabbing Colin straight in the eyes.

“Ah.” He lifted his hand, shielding his eyes from the piercing dawn.

Now that he had a proper look at his surroundings, he could judge that the black, “endless” underwater tunnel he’d been so certain he’d die inside was actually . . . no more than three feet long.

Good God. He rolled his eyes at his own ridiculousness. No wonder she’d doubted his mettle.

“We’ll be able to leave soon,” she said, already up and bustling about. She pursed her lips and blew out the candle. “It’s better that we waited, anyhow. Now I don’t have to trust the oilcloth to keep my notes and papers dry.”

As Colin watched her go about her preparations, he reeled with the strangest emotion. Disappointment. A forceful pang of it.

That made no sense. Light had made its way into the cave. The space was no longer dark. He was going to leave this cramped, miserable hole in the earth in a just a few minutes’ time. And he was disappointed. Disappointed that he couldn’t stay here and kiss her a few hours longer.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

“Most likely.” She folded the blanket with efficient snaps. “And I may be joining you, after what we just did.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. We were merely kissing.” Though he knew there was nothing “mere” about it.

“Well, it can’t happen again.”

Colin pressed a hand to his solar plexus. There it went. That sharp pang of disappointment. This cave was just full of surprises.

She stared at the footprint and her notes. Then she looked up at him, deftly winding her hair into a knot.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” she said, speaking around a mouthful of hairpins. “We must, if we’re to have any hope of reaching Edinburgh in time.”

He shook his head. “Pet, I thought I’d made myself understood. I—”

“I agree to your conditions. All of them. You can ride out. We won’t travel at night. And the part about the bed . . . ?” A faint wash of pink touched her cheeks. “That too. But we’ll need to leave tomorrow, if we’re going to make the symposium.”

He swallowed hard. The part about the bed . . . ? He really wished she hadn’t said that.

Colin had rules for himself where women were concerned. So far he’d always followed them, and his remaining self-respect dangled on that slim cord. But this was different.
She
was different, in ways he couldn’t yet define. He usually didn’t find innocence so alluring, but in her case it was sweetened by bold, unabashed curiosity. Given the opportunity, he wasn’t sure he could resist. And weeks of travel would present many, many opportunities.

Right this moment, he was entertaining a quite vivid fantasy of unwinding that knot in her hair, stripping that drab linen from her body, peeling away any layers of modesty beneath . . . and leaving those spectacles on. So she’d see him. So she’d know just who was making her twist and pant and moan with pleasure. So she’d watch each and every wince of pleasure on his face as he pushed into—

“Don’t come for me at the rooming house,” she said. “Too much chance of being intercepted. I’ll walk out and meet you by the road.”

Colin massaged his jaw, releasing a faint groan. He was a libertine with prodigious experience. She was a naïve bluestocking still tasting her first kiss. This was an exceedingly bad idea. No matter how much he wanted to leave Spindle Cove, no matter how much she claimed to want this journey . . .

It could not happen. Because now he wanted
her
.

“Colin?”

He shook himself. “Yes?”

She met his gaze. The vulnerability shining in her eyes plucked at his conscience.

“Please,” she said. “You
will
be there, won’t you? You won’t play me another cruel trick and leave me the laughingstock, standing all by myself while the coach passes by?” She swallowed hard. “Should I be worried about you?”

Yes, pet. That’s just it. You should be worried indeed.

Chapter Six

H
e wasn’t coming.

Minerva stared off in the direction of the castle. Then she checked her timepiece for the fourth time in as many seconds. Two . . . no,
three
minutes past six.

He wasn’t coming.

She should never have dreamed otherwise. She ought to have known he’d let her down.

The ground shivered beneath her. A rumble of hoofbeats reached her ears. Here it came, the coach. And it would pass her by. Leave her standing on the side of the road—an awkward fool of a girl, all dressed up with nowhere to go.

Hopeless.

She stared down the road, just waiting for the black shadow of the coach to crest the distant hill. So strange. The hoofbeats grew louder and louder, but no carriage appeared. By this point, she could actually feel the earth’s low rumble in her shinbones. Still no coach. She whirled, feeling confused and frantic.

And there he was. Lord Payne.

Colin.

Charging toward her on horseback, dashing through the early-morning mist. The wind rippling through his wavy hair. The sight was just like something from a fairy tale. Oh, he wasn’t riding a white stallion, but rather a serviceable, sturdy bay gelding. And he was dressed not in shining armor or regal attire, but in a simple, well-tailored blue topcoat and buckskin riding breeches.

No matter. He still took her breath away. As he slid from his horse, he was magnificent. Resplendent. Without a doubt, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

And then he spoke.

“This is a mistake.”

She blinked at him. “A mistake?”

“Yes. I should have said as much yesterday, but better late than never. This journey would be a mistake, of catastrophic proportions. It can’t happen.”

“But . . .” Looking around, she realized he had nothing with him. No valises. No bags of any kind. Her heart sank. “Yesterday, in the cave. Colin, you promised.”

“I said I’d be here at six. I didn’t promise I’d leave with you.”

Minerva reeled in her half boots. Deflated and numb, she dropped to sit on the edge of her largest trunk.

He surveyed her baggage. “Good God. How did you bring three trunks all the way up here by yourself?”

“I made three trips,” she said weakly. Three cold, hard slogs through the mist. For nothing.

“Three trunks,” he repeated. “What could possibly be in them all?”

“Why do you care? You’ve just said you won’t go.”

He crouched in front of her, sinking to her eye level. “Listen, Michaela. This is for your own good. Did anyone notice we’d gone missing yesterday? Did anyone see us kiss the other night?”

She shook her head. “No.”

No one seemed to suspect a thing. Which ought to have made her feel better, but was somehow the most humiliating part yet.

“Then you’re safe, so far. And there’s too much at risk for you in this undertaking. Not just your reputation, but your safety. Your happiness. And it all might come to naught.” He tipped her chin.

She stared into his eyes. They were red-rimmed and weary. Little lines creased the space between his eyebrows. He hadn’t shaved. From a distance, he’d appeared handsome and dashing, but up close . . . “Goodness. You look horrible.”

He rubbed his face. “Yes, well. I had a hard night.”

“No sleep?”

“Actually, I did try to sleep. That’s the problem. I ought to know by now, that never ends well.”

Here it came again, that wave of sympathy rolling through her chest. She wanted to touch his hair, but settled for plucking a little burr from his coat sleeve.

“All the more reason you should want to come with me.” She tried to make it sound like the only obvious and logical solution, though she knew it really wasn’t. “Before the fortnight’s out, you could have enough money to return to London and live as you please.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know how to say this kindly, so I’ll just put it bluntly. Forget about me. Never mind your sister. To the devil with the five hundred guineas. Think of yourself. You’re betting your reputation, your family harmony—your entire future—on a queer-shaped hole in the ground. I’m a gambler, pet. I know a bad wager when I see one.”

“So you don’t believe in me.”

“No, that’s not it. I just don’t believe in dragons.”

“Is that all? You think I’m fanciful?” She stood and began pulling at the fastened straps of her trunk. “This creature was not a dragon. Not a mythical beast of any kind, but a real, living animal. And I’ve based my conclusions on years of scientific study.”

After a few minutes’ fumbling, she finally got the trunk open. “Here,” she said, lifting out stacks of journals and setting them atop the other trunk. “All my personal writings and findings. Months of notes, sketches, measurements.” She held up a thick leather-bound diary. “This entire journal is filled with my comparisons from the available fossil record. Verifying that no similar creature has been recorded to date. And if all that fails to convince them . . .”

She pushed aside a layer of fabric padding. “Here. I’ve brought this.”

C
olin stared at the object in the trunk. “Why, it’s the footprint.”

She nodded. “I made a casting, from plaster of Paris.”

He stared at it some more. In the cave, in the dark, the “print” had looked like a random, three-pronged depression in the ground. The work of time and chance, not some primeval creature.

But now in the sunlight, cast in plaster relief—he could see it clear. The edges were defined and smooth. Just as with a human footprint, the toe prints were individual and separate from the sole. It really looked like a foot. An
enormous
reptilian foot. The print of a creature that could send a man running and screaming for his life.

Colin had to admit, it was rather impressive.

But not nearly as impressive as Minerva herself.

At last, here was a glimmer of that confident, clever woman who’d visited his quarters. The woman he’d been waiting to see again.

The brisk morning air lent her skin a pretty flush, and the misty sunlight revealed it to lovely effect. She’d coiled all that dark, heavy hair and tightly pinned it for the journey—save a few fetching tendrils that spiraled lazily from her temple to her cheek. Doeskin gloves hugged her fingers like a second skin. Her traveling gown was velvet. Exquisitely tailored and dyed in a lush, saturated hue that danced the line between red and violet. Depending on how the sunlight caught the velvet’s thick nap, that gown was either the blaring color of alarm—or the hue of wild, screaming pleasure.

Either way, Colin knew he ought to lower his gaze, back away slowly, and be done with this.

“I will win the prize,” she said. “If you still don’t believe me, I’ll prove it to you.”

“Really, you don’t need to—”

“It’s not only me who believes it. I know you think I’m mad, but he’s not.” She rummaged through the trunk’s interior side pocket and withdrew an envelope. “Here, read it.”

He unfolded the letter, holding it carefully by its edges. The message was penned in a crisp, masculine hand.

“ ‘My dear friend and colleague,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘I have read with great interest your latest reports from Sussex.’ ” He skimmed the letter. “So on and so forth. Something about rocks. More about lizards.”

“Just skip to the end.” She jabbed a finger at the last paragraph. “Here.”

“ ‘These findings of yours are exciting indeed,’ ” Colin read. “ ‘I wish you would reconsider your plans and make the journey to Edinburgh for the symposium. Surely the prize would be yours, without contest. And though it be paltry inducement compared to a purse of five hundred guineas, I would add that I’m most eager to further our acquaintance. I find myself growing most impatient to meet, face-to-face, the colleague whose scholarship I have long admired and whose friendship I have . . .” His voiced trailed off. He cleared his throat and resumed reading. “ ‘Whose friendship I have come to hold so very dear. Please . . .’ ”

Colin paused.
So very dear?
In correspondence between a gentleman and an unattached young lady, that was practically a declaration of love.

“ ‘Please make the journey. Yours in admiration, Sir Alisdair Kent,’” he finished.

He’d be damned. The awkward bluestocking had an admirer. Perhaps even a sweetheart. How quaint. How precious. How unspeakably irritating.

“There,” she said. “I’m certain to win the prize. Do you see?”

“Oh, I see. I see your little plan now.” He took a few aimless paces, chuckling to himself. “I can’t believe this. I’m being used.”

“Used? What can you mean? That’s absurd.”

He made a dismissive noise. “Please. Here I was so concerned that if I consented to this trip, I’d be using you ill.” He held up the letter. “But this is all about Sir Alisdair Kent. You were going to pretend to elope with me, on the hopes of seeing him. You’re the one using
me
.”

She snatched the letter from his grip. “I’m not using you. You would come out richer for this, while I would be utterly ruined. I’m offering you the entire prize. Five hundred guineas.”

“A fine price for my tender heart.” He pressed a hand over the offended organ. “You meant to ruthlessly toy with my affections. Suggesting we travel together for weeks. An unmarried man and an unmarried woman, trapped in close quarters for all those days.” He cocked an eyebrow. “All those
nights
. You’ll be casting glances at me over those coy little spectacles, driving me wild with all your polysyllabic words. Sharing my bed. Kissing me like a brazen temptress.”

Her lashes worked furiously as she refolded her precious letter. “That’s quite enough.”

No, it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. Colin knew she didn’t respect him. But now that he was seized with lust for her, she ought to at least reciprocate with a grudging-yet-helpless infatuation. So much would only be polite. But no, she’d been pining all along for another man. When they’d kissed, had she been practicing for this geologist toad?

She said, “There’s no need to mock me. There’s no call to be cruel. Sir Alisdair Kent is a colleague, nothing more.”

“He holds you dear, that letter says. Not just dear. ‘So
very
dear.’ ”

“He doesn’t even—” She made a fist and drew a slow breath. When she spoke again, she’d tempered her voice. “He is a brilliant geologist. And any admiration he feels for me is strictly based on my work. He believes the creature that left this footprint will be recorded as a new species. I’ll even get to name it.”

“Name it?” Colin eyed the plaster cast. “Why go to Scotland for that? We can name it right here. I suggest ‘Frank.’ ”

“Not name it
that
way. I’ll be the one to give the species a scientific name. Besides, this lizard was female.”

He cocked his head and stared at the print. “It’s a footprint. How on earth do you know?”

“I just know. I feel it.” With her fingertips, she reverently traced the three-toed shape. “The creature who left this mark—she was definitely not a ‘Frank.’ ”

“Francine, then.”

She exhaled forcefully. “I know this is all a joke to you. But it won’t be to my colleagues.” She replaced the rolls of fabric around the plaster, packing it tight. “Whatever this creature was, she was real. She lived and breathed, and she left this mark. And now, untold eons later . . . she just might change the way we understand the world.”

She shut and locked the trunk, propping one foot atop the baggage to tighten the leather straps. Her trim, stockinged ankle was revealed to his view. So pale and sweetly curved. He didn’t know which he found more appealing—the erotic glimpse of her ankle, or the determined set of her brow.

“Come. Give it here.” Colin reached to help with the buckles.

At his urging, she ceased wrestling with the straps and surrendered the task to him. In the transfer, the back of his hand brushed her calf. A jolt of desire rocked him in his boots.
Lord.
This was precisely why he couldn’t agree to this wild scheme.

He finished fastening the buckles and stood tall, clapping dust from his gloved hands. “He’s probably ancient, you know. Or warty.”

“Who?”

“This Sir Alisdair fellow.”

Her cheeks blushed crimson.

“I’m just saying, he’s likely older than Francine. And less attractive.”

“I don’t care! I don’t care if he’s ancient and warty and leprous and hunchbacked. He would still be learned, intelligent. Respected and respectful. He would still be a better man than you. You know it, and you’re envious. You’re being cruel to me to soothe your pride.” She looked him up and down with a contemptuous glare. “And you’re going to catch flies in your mouth, if you don’t shut it.”

For once, Colin found himself without words. The best he could do was take her advice and hoist his dropped jaw.

An air of determination settled on her. The curves of her face became decisive angles. “That’s it. I’m going to Edinburgh, with or without you.”