“A few in Scotland, too. You forget, I was raised very near the border.”
He made the comment lightly, but its import sent a shiver of excitement through his bones.
Scotland.
The change in Colin was immediate. Minerva watched the expression on his face shift from warm affection to cold determination, in an instant.
She dragged a coy, sensual touch down his chest, hoping to change it back.
It didn’t work.
He pushed to his feet, offering her a hand. “Come, now. Quickly.”
“What? Why?”
“I’ll explain on the way upstairs. We’ve no time to lose.”
Bewildered, she accepted his hand. He helped her up, then gathered all their discarded clothes. “By now your rooms will be prepared. They’ll have fetched your trunks from the road. I’ll see you to your suite, then send a maid to help you bathe and dress.”
“In the middle of the night?”
He glanced out the open window. “Dawn will be coming on soon.”
He put a hand to the small of her back and gathered her close, leading her out of the room and to a grand, sweeping staircase. As they rushed up the steps, Minerva tried not to think too hard about the fact that she was tiptoeing barefoot through one of England’s grandest, most historic estates in nothing but Colin’s lawn shirt. Scandal personified.
But then . . . someday she would be this house’s mistress. Perhaps. Assuming the courtship went smoothly.
Lord, she was so confused.
“And while I’m bathing and dressing, where will you be?”
“I’ll be doing likewise,” he said. “Bathing, dressing. And then seeing to the horses.”
“Horses?”
“Yes. We’ll need to leave as soon as possible.” He stopped. “Which door was it . . . ? Aha. Here’s your suite.”
He led her into an exquisite sitting room decorated in ivory and sage green. Minerva could barely spare a glance to admire the carved moldings, or to emit a sigh of pleasure, as her travel-weary toes sank into the plush carpet pile.
“Colin, we just arrived here. We’ve barely slept in days. Can’t we at least rest before we go dashing off again? This is the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.”
“You look beautiful in it.” Leaving her standing in the center of the carpet, he made a circle of the room. First, he pulled back the drapes. A silver glimmer of dawn filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Your dressing room’s here,” he said, indicating an open door. “And the bedchamber’s through that. I hope you’ll have more time to explore it the next time we come through.” He passed closed doors, pointing. “Bath. Closet.”
She closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Colin. Where on earth do you mean to take me?”
“To Scotland. To the symposium.”
“But . . . it’s too late. The symposium is today.”
“I know. That’s why we must hurry. We’ll arrive late. It can’t be helped.”
“How would we even arrive at all? No more coaches, Colin. We can’t.” She knew how miserable he’d been in the post-chaise last night. She wouldn’t put him through that again, ever.
“I have a plan,” he said. “You’ll see.”
“But Francine—”
“Still exists. Plaster cast or no plaster cast. Her footprint exists. She left her mark on the world.” He approached and took her hands in his. “And so will you, Min. Perhaps you won’t be assured the prize without the evidence in hand. But you’ll be there, and you’ll make your impression.”
She didn’t know what to say.
A maid appeared in the bathing-room doorway. She cleared her throat and bobbed in a curtsy. “My lady, your bath is prepared.”
Colin dismissed the servant with a nod.
He squeezed Minerva’s hands. “We’ve come this far. We’re not giving up now. This is the story of our future—the one we’re going to tell our friends and dinner guests and children and grandchildren—and the story doesn’t end with defeat. It ends in triumph. Your triumph.”
He lifted her hands to his lips. Kissed one, then the other.
She melted inside.
“Just trust me to get you there,” he said. “And then make me proud.”
“This?” An hour later, Minerva stood on the Riverchase front steps, dressed in her best remaining traveling habit, made of a dark green twill. She hoped she looked optimistic, if she didn’t quite feel it. “We’re journeying to Edinburgh in this?”
She peered into the misty dawn. In the drive sat the highest-sprung, most richly upholstered and gaily-painted phaeton she’d ever seen in her life. The narrow seat, built to accommodate only two persons—one driver, one passenger—must have hovered at least six feet from the ground. The little sporting carriage was hitched to two of the finest, most perfectly matched black warmbloods Minerva could imagine. They looked more like racing stock than coaching beasts.
“That can’t be safe,” she said.
“It isn’t exactly the family model.”