Colin pushed back his chair, meaning to welcome her back with some words of sincere praise. But as she started across the room, a large, unshaven man holding a tankard lumbered into her path. He engaged her in some sort of conversation. Colin couldn’t make out their words over the din, but he didn’t need words to understand what was happening.
That disgusting lout wanted his girl.
And Minerva wanted nothing to do with the disgusting lout. The brute put a grimy paw on her arm, and she stumbled in her effort to pull away. Her spectacles went just slightly askew. That small detail—that tiny evidence of her disquiet—was enough to make Colin see twenty shades of red.
He punched to his feet, craving blood.
“Sir, unhand me.” Minerva tugged against the revolting brute’s grip. His breath reeked of ale and garlic. His body reeked of . . . other things, better left unnamed.
“Jes’ another song, love.” He held her elbow with one hand and pawed at her waist with the other. “Come sit on my lap, give me a private performance.”
His hand brushed her bottom.
Minerva recoiled. She felt dirty. Other women might know how to deflect this kind of unwanted attention, but she didn’t. This never happened to her.
Then she caught sight of Colin, cutting a path to her through the crowded room. His stride was almost easy, unconcerned. But as he drew close, she could view the tense set of his jaw and the cold fury in his eyes.
He nudged the drunken lout with his arm. “Excuse me,” he said, “but is that your hand on my sister?”
The burly man straightened and adopted an affected, aristocratic tone. “I rather think it might be, guv.”
“Well, then.” Colin clapped him on the shoulder. “This is my hand on you.”
He drove a full-force punch straight into the lout’s gut. Then followed it with a smashing blow to the face.
Minerva’s hands flew to her own mouth, covering her startled cry.
The man didn’t even reel or blink. He simply went down. Hard. Taking an entire table and the accompanying glassware with him. The sounds of breaking glass and splintering wood crashed through the room, drawing everyone’s attention.
Colin stood over the brute, shaking out his hand and breathing hard. The look on his face was one of barely restrained fury.
“Don’t touch her,” he said, his voice like cold steel. “Ever.”
He put a hand to Minerva’s elbow and, with a nod in the Fontleys’ direction, ushered her from the room. As they left, the dining room erupted into chaos. She flinched at the sounds of chairs scraping across floors, and angry voices lifting.
She distinctly heard Mr. Fontley shout, “How dare you molest that young lady.”
And then Gilbert’s reedy tenor. “You’ll burn in hell for that. She’s a woman of God.”
They both paused on the bottom riser of the stairs. And broke into simultaneous laughter.
“We’d better get upstairs,” she said.
“Are you well?” he asked, stopping her in the upstairs corridor. His gaze scanned her from head to toe. “He didn’t harm you in any way?”
“No. No, thank you.” She swallowed. “And you?”
He unlatched the door. “Best birthday ever.”
They tumbled through the entry of their suite, laughing. As Minerva went to light the lamp, Colin slung his weight into a chair.
“You,” she said, “are unbelievable.”
“Come now.” He grinned up at her. “Admit it. That was fun.”
She felt the corner of her mouth tip, despite her. “I . . . I never do that.”
“You never do what? Sing ballads in a public house? Inspire tavern brawls?”
“Any of it. I never do any of it. I never even do this.” She reached for his hand, turning it over in the light. “Oh, you’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”
Perhaps, but Minerva hurried to fetch the washbasin and soap. She needed something to do. Otherwise, this restless, coursing energy she felt would spill out in other ways. Dangerous ways.
Even as she gathered the materials, her hands trembled. The man was a devil. Mayhem personified. She never knew what wild tale he’d spin or what ill-considered action he’d take next. Over the course of their journey, he could put everything at risk—her reputation, her safety, her scientific standing.
Perhaps even her heart.
But she had to admit . . . he did make things fun.
Returning to the table with a clean handkerchief, she examined his wound more closely. He was right, it was just a scratch along his knuckles. But he’d incurred the injury defending her. Minerva wanted to kiss this brave, wounded hand. She settled for dabbing it with a moist cloth.
She touched his signet ring. “I wager that man will be wearing your family crest on his cheek for weeks.”
He laughed a little. “Good. He deserved far worse.”
“I couldn’t believe how easily you laid him flat,” she said. “And he was so big. Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“Boxing club.” He stretched his fingers and winced a bit. “All the London bucks are mad for boxing. Gentleman Jackson’s and so forth. The better question is . . .” His voice darkened. “Where did you learn to sing like that?”
“Like what?” She kept her head bowed, examining his wound.
“Like . . . that. I’ve been living in Spindle Cove more than half a year now, and I’ve attended countless numbers of those wretched salons, not to mention all the informal soirees at the rooming house. Church on Sundays. I’ve heard Diana sing many times. I’ve heard Charlotte sing many times. For God’s sake, I’ve even heard your mother sing. But never you.”
She shrugged, tearing off a strip of linen for a bandage. “I’m hardly an accomplished songstress. All I know are the ballads I learned as a girl. Once I grew old enough, I shirked my music lessons whenever possible. I hated the bother of practicing.”
“I won’t believe singing’s a bother to you. And I won’t believe you never practice either, as easily as the words came to you downstairs.”
Minerva felt herself blush. She did practice, when no one was about. Singing to herself when out on her rambles. But since singing to oneself looked about as odd as reading while walking, it wasn’t something she’d admit to him. “I leave the singing to Diana.”
“Ah. You don’t want to outshine her.”
She laughed. “As if I could ever outshine Diana.”