He nodded.
She offered her cheek to him, leaning in to accept the tender, courtly gesture. But at the last moment, he turned her face to his and kissed her on the lips instead. Oh, he was ever the scoundrel, and she was glad of it. Their kiss was brief, but warm and sweet as the afternoon sun.
After a moment, he straightened. His gaze wandered her form. “You look . . .” He shook his head, smiling a little. “Cataclysmic with beauty today.”
She swallowed, taking a moment to recover from his masculine splendor. “You rather devastate me, too.”
“I’d like to think my kiss can take all the credit for that lovely blush, but I doubt it’s the truth. What has you so self-satisfied?”
“The kiss has a great deal to do with it. But the post came through this morning.” She fished a pair of envelopes from her pocket. “I had two rather interesting letters. The first is from my mother. She extends her felicitations on our marriage.”
She handed him the letter from Spindle Cove. He unfolded the page and scanned its contents. As he read, the corner of his mouth curled in amusement.
“I’m sorry,” Minerva said. “I know she’s dreadful.”
“She’s not. She’s a mother who wants the best for her daughters.”
“She’s mistaken, is what she is. I didn’t tell her we’d married. I only said we’d stopped at your estate, and she shouldn’t expect me back for a month or more. But she’s obviously assumed.”
“They’ve all assumed. I had a letter from Bram just the other day. He wanted to know why I hadn’t sent the solicitors written proof of our marriage yet. ‘Don’t I want my money?’ he asked.”
Together, they turned to walk toward Riverchase.
“They’ll learn the truth eventually,” she mused.
“Yes, they will. You said you had two interesting letters. Who sent the other?”
“Sir Alisdair Kent.”
She noted a slight hitch in his step. The subtle hint of jealousy thrilled her more than it ought.
“Oh, truly?” he said, in a purposely offhand tone. “And what did the good Sir Alisdair have to say?”
“Not much. Only that the Royal Geological Journal has declined to publish my paper about Francine.”
“What?” He stopped dead and turned to her. The affectionate sparkle in his eyes became a flash of something irate, verging on murderous. “Oh, Min. That’s bollocks. They can’t have done that to you.”
She shrugged. “Sir Alisdair said he tried to argue on my behalf, but the other journal editors would not be convinced. My evidence was specious, they said; my conclusions were too great of a reach . . .”
“Codswallop.” His jaw tightened. “Cowardly bastards. They just won’t be outdone by a woman, that’s all.”
“Perhaps.”
He shook his head ruefully. “I’m sorry, Min. We should have gone in to the symposium that day. You could have presented your findings in person. If only they’d all heard you speak, you could have convinced them.”
“No, don’t be sorry.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Don’t ever be sorry, Colin. I never will be.”
They stood there for a long moment, smiling a little and gazing into each other’s eyes. Lately, they could spend hours like this—a palpable happiness and love welling in the space between them.
Minerva couldn’t wait to be his wife. But she would never regret refusing to marry him that day in Edinburgh, at the threshold of the Royal Geological Society.
He’d been through so much just to get her to that doorway. Faced his deepest fears, committed feats of daring. Opened his heart to her, and his home as well. He’d given her courage and strength and hours of laughter. Not to mention passion, and all those fervent words of love. In proposing to her, he’d made the bravest leap of faith she could imagine.
In return, Minerva wanted to give him this much, at least. The proper courtship he’d wanted. A chance for their love to take root and grow. When she recited those wedding vows, she wanted him to know they were vows of freely given, lasting devotion, not a hasty grab at scientific glory.
Colin deserved that much.
They’d turned their backs on Mr. Barrington and the Royal Geological Society that day. But Sir Alisdair Kent had the curiosity to follow. He invited them for a meal at the nearby inn, where they spent several hours engaged in scholarly debate with his friends. Sir Alisdair and company listened, questioned, argued, and generally afforded Minerva the respect due an intellectual peer. Colin saw that the wineglasses never went empty and kept his arm draped casually, possessively, over the back of her chair.
No, it wasn’t a medallion and a prize of five hundred guineas, but it was a symposium of sorts. And it had been well worth the journey.
Afterward, she and Colin had traveled straight back to Northumberland. Colin installed her in a lovely cottage in the village, with his housekeeper Mrs. Hammond as chaperone. And then he’d gone about living up to all his promises of a tender, attentive courtship. He called on her most mornings, and they went for long, rambling walks in the afternoons. He brought her gifts of sweets and lace, and they kept the errand boys dashing back and forth with notes that needed no signatures. Several times a week, she and Mrs. Hammond dined at Riverchase, and he took Sunday dinner at the cottage.
They also spent time apart. She, writing up her Spindle Cove findings and exploring the new craggy landscape. Colin, surveying the estate with his land steward and making assessments and plans for the future.
As for plans for their future . . . Minerva tried to be patient.
If Colin had taken a hurtling leap of faith when he’d proposed, her gesture of faith had been more of a long, slow skate on thin ice. As much as she’d been enjoying their courtship, she tried not to think about the potential for heartbreak. There was always the chance that he might change his mind.
But in the month or so since returning from Edinburgh, they’d survived their first argument—a dispute over, of all things, a missing pair of gloves. They’d also weathered their second clash. It had begun as a tense disagreement over whether Minerva could safely explore the local crags unaccompanied. (Of course she could, was Minerva’s opinion. Colin begged to differ.) The tense disagreement exploded into a grand row that involved loud denouncements of female independence, male arrogance, fur-lined cloaks, rocks of all sorts, and—inexplicably—the color green. But the eventual compromise—a joint excursion to the crags that became a passionate, frantic tryst in the heather—quite took the edge off their anger.