WHEN COLIN came in whistling, Amy was jarred out of Clélie’s adventures.
She’d never heard him whistle before. Although he did it quite well, he sounded a bit too cheerful, even for a fellow who’d just won a chess match.
“What might you be so happy about?”
“Oh, nothing.” Still whistling, he moved the chess set off the table and laid out their light supper. “Sorry, but I’ve no bread,” he said, apologizing for the unusual offering. Wine, oranges, smoked salmon, small dried biscuits, and another jar of those disgusting pickled snails.
Amy frowned at the stupid brown things. “Haven’t you had enough of those?”
“Never,” he said, and went back to whistling.
Amy’s book lay open and ignored as he poured wine into two goblets. He was happy about something, she thought—probably that he’d finally be able to get rid of her tomorrow. The snow had stopped a couple of hours earlier.
Handing her a goblet, he leaned down to kiss the top of her head. She sipped, watching him through her eyelashes. He was hardly acting like someone who couldn’t stand her presence—it was confusing, to say the least.
“Like it?” he asked.
“It’s nice.” Accepting a biscuit layered with fish, she popped it into her mouth, closed her book and set it on the table.
“It’s Madeira.” He took a swallow of his own wine, then raised the goblet in salute. “King Charles’s favorite.”
Chewing slowly, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Underneath his light, meaningless conversation, she sensed a glee he could scarcely contain.
Something was up.
On the other hand, she reminded herself, she didn’t know him very well.
Since he’d come charging into the bedroom half-naked last night, she knew him better than she had before, though, she thought, feeling her cheeks heat. Her gaze traveled his snug breeches and white shirt, which was loosely laced, revealing his tanned throat. And beneath that shirt, she remembered…
“Where did you get the scar?” she asked suddenly.
“The scar?”
“On your arm. The long, white—”
“Oh. That scar.” He sat beside her and placed more salmon on a biscuit. “I seldom notice it anymore.” As though the injury were of no consequence, he waved the hand with the biscuit airily. “It’s an old fencing practice wound—I was fourteen or so.”
“Didn’t it hurt?”
“Oh, yes.” He bit off half the biscuit and washed it down with a gulp of wine. “Someone poured brandy on it—that was the worst part—and then even more brandy down my throat. Then they stitched it up with a needle and thread.”
“Marry come up! I cannot even imagine.” Amy took a deliberate sip of her own wine, to fortify herself or wash away the image—she wasn’t sure which. “And it was only a practice…didn’t that make you angry?”
Colin stuck the rest of the biscuit in his mouth and chewed it slowly, considering. “No,” he said finally, “it made me one of the best swordsmen in all of Europe. I made sure it would never happen again,” he added with a grin.
Amy thought about that: How Colin seemed determined to turn every disadvantage life dealt him into a benefit. He’d done it with his disappointing childhood, resolving to do much better with his own family. He’d done it with his dilapidated estate, laboring tirelessly to turn it into something of value. He seemed to believe hard work and dedication—whether countless hours of swordplay or working the land with his own hands—were the best means to a happy ending. And he didn’t expect the good things in life to be handed to him on a silver platter.
There was much to admire in such an attitude, she thought.
Colin, on the other hand, had ceased thinking about it at all. The jar of snails on the table had reclaimed one hundred percent of his attention. Those snails beckoned, practically begging to be opened and play their part in this evening’s performance.
He considered himself a veritable model of patience as he waited until he’d polished off his fifth biscuit before reaching for the jar and removing the lid.
“Ready for one of these?” he asked innocently.
She held up a half-eaten biscuit. “Not yet,” she said through a mouthful of fish.
With a shrug, Colin nonchalantly dipped his spoon into the jar, scooped a snail, and placed it in his mouth. Now came the difficult part.
Even the foreknowledge left him vastly unprepared for the taste of his concoction. Struggling to keep his face straight, he washed down the snail with a large gulp of wine as quickly as he could. If Amy succeeded in pretending she liked these snails, she’d be the best actress he’d ever seen.
She finished her biscuit and put together another, and then another. At last, when he doubted she could cram in another bite, she announced, “I’m ready.”
“For what?” He fixed her with a puzzled, innocent look.
“For a snail, of course,” she snapped.
“Oh, you want one?” Quelling a smile, he spooned out a snail and watched the liquid dribble back into the jar, his tinkering undetectable. He licked his lips.
“Here,” he offered, moving his spoon toward her mouth with the mock generosity of a man reluctant to part with his favorite morsel of food.
When she opened her mouth, he delicately placed the snail inside. Though her face scrunched up in a look of dismay, she managed to swallow it. Then rushed to wash it down, draining her goblet of wine in the process.
Refilling the goblet with pretended indifference, Colin struggled to contain his mirth. “Is something wrong?” he asked, knitting his brows in feigned concern.
“It—it tasted a bit different. Do you suppose it might be a bad jar?”
Colin was enjoying himself immensely. “No, they all came from the same batch. Perhaps you simply don’t care for pickled snails.”
“No, no, I like them,” Amy insisted. “But this one tasted different. Try one, you’ll see.”
“I already had one,” he reminded her. “It was fine. Try another.”
She put a hand on her stomach. “Please, I’d feel better if you have another one first.”
There was nothing for it. He had to eat another snail or give up the game—and he was having too much fun to admit his trickery just yet.
He took a deep breath before popping one in his mouth, then swallowed it without chewing.
“It’s fine,” he declared. “Delicious, in fact. Perhaps there was one bad snail in the batch.” He fished out a snail and handed Amy the spoon. “Here, try another.”
While Amy moved at the speed of a snail herself, inching the spoon toward her lips, he took a long sip of wine and swished it around his mouth to remove the foul taste.
Relieved, he turned to her expectantly.
Her face was slowly turning red. When she gagged, he burst out laughing.