Once Upon a Winter's Eve: A Spindle Cove Novella (3 page)

Her husband gave her a dark look.

Susanna threw up her hands. “Far be it from me to ruin your excitement.”

“As I was saying, Finn. You’re to guard the captive and protect Miss Winterbottom.”

“Protect me?” Violet asked. “I’m to stay too?”

Lord Rycliff turned to her. “I must ask it of you. Chances are, he’ll wake. We’ll need someone here who can talk to him. Try to ascertain who he is, where he came from.”

“But how am I to—”

“Be creative.” He cast a glance at the man slumped across her lap. “He likes you. Use that.”

“
Use
that?” she asked. “What can you mean?”

“Surely you’re not suggesting Violet employ some sort of feminine wiles to earn his trust,” Susanna said.

Rycliff shrugged. A clear admission that yes, that was exactly his suggestion.

Everyone in the room turned to Violet. And stared. She could easily imagine the thoughts running through their minds.
Could Violet Winterbottom possibly possess a single feminine wile to employ?

Even if she did possess wiles, she wouldn’t know how to use them. Her best stab at interrogation technique involved earlobe pinching, and look at how that had turned out.

“I’ll sit up with you, Violet,” Susanna said.

“No, you won’t,” Rycliff told his wife. “This day’s been too much exertion already, what with the ball and this excitement. You need to rest.”

“But Bram…”

“But nothing. I’m not risking your health, much less…” The look on his face was stern but loving, and the protective touch he laid to his wife’s belly made his argument perfectly clear. Susanna needed to rest because…

“She’s with child,” Violet whispered to herself.

As the couple shared a tender, knowing look, Violet swelled with happiness for her friend. She felt a touch of envy too. Susanna and Lord Rycliff had, in her observation, the ideal marriage. They understood one another, completely and implicitly. They disagreed and argued openly, demanded a great deal of each other and themselves, and they loved one another through it all. They were partners. Not just in love, but in life.

Violet’s chances of finding that deep affinity looked slimmer than onionskin. There was only one man she’d ever dreamed could know her so well, and respect her as his equal. But she’d been so wrong about him. And ever since The Disappointment, she hadn’t—

The man in her lap stirred, mumbling and latching one arm about her waist.

Violet froze, stunned immobile by the wash of long-forgotten sensations. The sensation of being touched. Of being needed.

Don’t be made a fool again.

“Well, Violet?” Susanna looked at her expectantly.

She shook herself. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Will you feel safe with him?” Susanna indicated the sleeping man in her lap.

Beware,
her heart pounded.
Beware, beware.

She nodded. “I have Finn and Mr. Fosbury to sit up with me. And the whole house of servants, should we need them.”

And that was how Miss Violet Winterbottom, habitual wallflower, found herself in Sir Lewis Finch’s Egyptian-themed library, keeping vigil with a hobbled youth, a tavern keeper, and an unconscious man who just might be a spy.

A pair of footmen entered, bringing fresh blankets and dry garments. While they tended to the unconscious man, Violet busied herself studying the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Sir Lewis Finch was a celebrated inventor of weaponry and a noted collector of antiquities. His library held all sorts of treasures.

In the end, she selected an illustrated compendium,
Birds of England
—for she reasoned that she wouldn’t be able to actually read. If she was to sit beside the mysterious, handsome intruder all night, her concentration was bound to be compromised.

Hopefully, it would be the
only
thing compromised.

By the time the footmen left, the great house had gone quiet. Finn paced back and forth before the window, half-patrolling, half-pouting. Fosbury deposited himself in an armchair near the fire and set about paring his fingernails.

Violet took the chair nearest the sleeping stranger and placed her book on a reading stand. But instead of looking at it, she stared at him. His face had been wiped clean of grime and blood. At last, she could take a good, long look at the man and put her absurd suspicions to rest.

The linen shirt the footmen had given him draped crisply over his shoulders. The collar gaped, revealing his upper chest. She couldn’t help but look. He was tanned and muscled there, as she supposed all farmhands must be. Violet had touched a man’s bare chest, once. But that had been a lean, aristocratic torso—not nearly so rugged and…firm.

Pity about the nose
, Sally had opined earlier.

Pity indeed. The man’s nose had clearly been broken, at least once. It had a rugged line to it, almost like a lightning bolt. A significant portion of his left temple and cheek were abraded and red.

Violet could not say that the scrapes and broken nose made him less handsome—and even if they did make him a fraction less handsome, they made him ten times more virile and attractive. What was it about a visible, flesh-and-bone record of violence that made a man so alluring? She couldn’t explain it, but she felt it.

Oh, she felt it.

She swallowed hard. No man had stirred her interest for quite some time. In fact, there was only one man who’d ever made her feel like this—and that man was half a world away.

Or
was
he?

Violet’s pulse drummed. She dragged her gaze over every strand of his thick, dark hair and every facet of his exquisitely cut cheekbones. She recalled the warm, spice-brown hue of his eyes and the instant affinity she’d felt when they’d locked gazes in the ballroom.

If she looked beyond the injuries and dark scruff of his unshaven jaw, imagined him dressed in finely tailored wool rather than coarse homespun… Dear Lord, the resemblance would be uncanny.

It’s him
, her heart whispered.

But what did her heart know? It was a stupid thing, easily fooled.

Violet shook herself. She was imagining things, that was all. Yes, the two men shared dark hair, brown eyes, and fine cheekbones. But the similarities ended there. The differences were legion. One was Breton; the other, English. One was muscled and built for labor; the other, aristocratic and lean. One was sprawled unconscious on this divan, and the other was gallivanting about the West Indies, sparing nary a thought for her.

This man was not The Disappointment.

He was a mystery. And Violet had one night to solve him.

She cocked her head. Was that a scar, just under his jaw? Blade-thin and straight. As if someone had pressed a knife to his throat.

With a glance toward Finn and Fosbury, she moved her chair closer to the divan. Then she leaned in, angling her head for a better look.

“Where did you come from?” she whispered, mostly to herself. “What are you wanting here?”

One hand shot out, catching her by the hair. Violet gasped at the sharp yank on a thousand nerve endings.

His eyes flew open, clear and intense. She read his answer in them.

You. I’m wanting you.

Chapter Three

They flew at him in moments, the two guards. Shouting, tugging. Almost before
he
understood what was happening.

He was horizontal. He was half-dressed. Her sweet face hovered above him, and he had one hand firmly tangled in the golden silk of her hair. If not for the pair of red-coated dullards raging at him, this could have been just another dream.

Let her go,
they gestured.

Let her go,
he told himself.

And yet, somehow he couldn’t. His fingers wouldn’t obey. They were heeding instinct, not reason. And his body’s every instinct was to hold her fast and tight.

“
Tranquillez-vous
,” she pleaded. “
Calmez-vous
.”

Be still? Be calm? God above, he could not be calm. Not with her voice flowing over him like raw honey, her orange-blossom scent everywhere. His heart raced beneath the borrowed shirt he’d been given. Some few feet lower, his cock stirred under the woolen blanket.

Well. Good to know the thing hadn’t frozen off.

God’s truth, man. You are an undeserving beast.

Let her go.

At last, his fingers went slack in her hair.

In a heartbeat, she’d jumped back. Then the two redcoats jumped on him. They dealt him a few blows—nothing he didn’t deserve. When they wrestled him to the floor, he made only feeble resistance. If he fought them, he would have to leave them dead, and he didn’t want to do that.

The big one held him down, pressing a knee into his kidneys and wrenching his arms behind his back. The young one lashed his wrists together with cord. Then, after a bit of conferring, they picked him up and slammed him into a heavy, straight-backed chair. They wound a rope around his chest four times, binding him to it.

He remained that way for several moments, struggling to master his breathing. Each time he gulped for air, the ropes took a sharper bite of his flesh.

He was aware of conversation on the other side of the room. They were debating what to do with him.

Eventually, his angel returned.

“They’d like to beat you,” she said in French, dropping into a chair some few feet distant. “But I’ve convinced them to let me try conversation first.”

He stared at her, carefully keeping his expression blank. Revealing no hint of comprehension.

“It’s safe,” she continued, anticipating his concerns. “It’s safe to speak this way. You can trust me. I won’t tell a soul. My Breton is poor, but my French is quite good.”

Her French was impeccable. He could have closed his eyes and imagined her to be a native speaker. But damned if he’d close his eyes when she was so near. At last, he could openly gaze upon every feature of her sweet, lovely face. Whimsical rose-petal lips and china-blue eyes, balanced by a sensible nose and intelligent brow.

She slid a glance toward their guards. “They won’t understand us,” she said. “They don’t have any French.”

Still he hesitated. Perhaps the guards didn’t
speak
French, but they might recognize the language when they heard it spoken. And if they knew he spoke French, they would inform Rycliff. He would be subjected to interrogation. He did not fear interrogation itself, but he could not afford further delays.

She met his gaze. “I know you can understand me. I see it in your eyes. I would like to understand you too.”

God. She spoke to the fondest wish of his heart.

“
Et bien
,” he said softly. “We will understand each other.”

She pulled her chair a bit closer, partially blocking the militiamen’s view of their conversation. Nevertheless, the guards remained too near. He would need to play this carefully. So long as they were being watched, he couldn’t say anything—in any language—that might be overheard, remembered and deciphered later.

She asked in French, “Why don’t you tell me who you really are?”

“My name is Corentin Morvan,” he answered. “I am a humble Breton farmhand.”

One eyebrow arched. She didn’t believe him.

“How did you come here?” she asked.

“I walked across the fields.”

“From the cove?”

He nodded.

“And how did you come to be in the cove?”

“By way of a boat.”

Her breath released in a little sigh of frustration. “You are teasing me.”

“I can’t help it. It is a great pleasure to tease a pretty girl.”

A blush warmed her cheeks. The sudden desire to touch her was nigh on unbearable. It made his skin tight and his fingers restless. He chafed against his bindings.

Her voice became stern. “If you don’t answer me honestly, I’ll alert Lord Rycliff to the fact that you speak French. Then he could pummel the answers from you.”

He shook his head. “No amount of pummeling could accomplish that. But for another sip of that wine and your slightest touch,
mon ange
? I fear I would betray my own mother.”

She offered him the cup of wine, raising it to his lips. He curled his neck to drink from it, holding her gaze as he sipped.

As she lowered the cup, the smallest trickle of wine escaped. She reached out instinctively, dabbing the errant droplet with her thumb. Her touch grazed the corner of his mouth.

A cascade of pure bliss shimmered through him. Like stars swirling in the black of night. Windmilling through the dark places of his body, his heart, his soul.

“You are too kind,
mademoiselle
.” He tilted his head and regarded her from a new angle. “It is ‘
mademoiselle
’? Not ‘
madame
’.”

Her lips quirked. “I am not married, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Betrothed?”

Again, she shook her head.

“So you are particular.”

“I am not particular, I am almost a…” She paused. “I don’t know the word in French. I am unmarried because no one has asked.”

“No one has asked?” He made a noise in his throat. “Englishmen are fools.”

“And Breton farmhands,” she said, “are apparently shameless flirts. Don’t think I don’t realize what you’re doing. You’re hoping to distract me, change the subject.”

“Not at all. Your marital status is a subject I greatly wish to discuss.”

She sighed. “Be serious, I beg you. You must tell me the truth. Can’t you see? Lord Rycliff will send for the magistrate in the morning.”

“Magistrates do not frighten me.”

“I am frightened
for
you.”

He looked into her blue eyes, and he could see it was true. She cared. Perhaps she cared no more for him than she would any other lost, benighted soul. But right now, it didn’t matter. She
cared
, and he felt it to his bones.

“Why did you come to Spindle Cove tonight?” she asked.

“I…” He cleared his throat. “I had an appointment.”

“An appointment? With whom?”

He swept her with a warm, caressing gaze. “With an angel, apparently.”