Chapter 5

I forced my mouth upon hers, dear reader. Her trembling fear did not slow my desire to ravish her. It only made me want her more…

~fromConfessions of a Sinful Earl.

Fucking hell.

Sin could not sleep.

He told himself it was the storm and not the fact that his beautiful captive had chosen to bed down on the rug with nary a pillow or blanket for comfort that kept him up. But he lied to himself.

There was an odd sensation prodding at him, all sharp angles from within: guilt.

Not that he ought to feel even a modicum of it. Lady Calliope had brought this on herself. She had started this war, not him.

The storm was rumbling on now, moving farther away. He was weary to the bone. He ought to be happily slumbering. He turned onto his side, peering into the darkness, in her direction. She was sleeping on the floor. The hard, dusty, cold floor. Though it was nearly summer, nights in Helston Hall were damp and draughty. They had been even before it had fallen into such an appalling state of disrepair.

On a growl, he threw back the bedclothes and rose. He stalked around the bed and found her on the floor, curled in a ball rather reminiscent of a cat. Sin scooped her into his arms with ease.

"What are you doing?" her voice was sleepy, and it lacked the vehemence of her previous protestations.

Had she fallen asleep after all? She was warm and soft in his arms. All woman. Damn, but the lack of her feminine trappings meant his arms were filled with lush, sweet-scented curves. He fought back a swift rush of desire.

"I am seeing you settled for the night," he snapped, irritated with himself for the hoarseness in his voice. "You are too stubborn for your own good."

"Mmm." With a throaty sigh, she nuzzled his throat.

Bloody hell, the woman was definitely half-asleep. And he was half-erect.

He swallowed and lowered her to the bed, settling the bedclothes over her. Cursing himself, he skirted the bed once more. She made a sleepy sound that should not have made his cock twitch.

You hate her, he reminded himself.

She is a deceitful witch.

But as he made his way back to his side of the bed, his inner protestations did not do one whit of good. Gritting his teeth, he slid beneath the bedclothes, attempting to get comfortable. Her even breathing filled the silence of the chamber. She was asleep.

Of course, she was.

How was it that she had been the one to bed down on the unforgiving floor and yet he, in the comfort of the bed, had been unable to find peace? How was it that he was still, even now, being assailed by the twin sensations of guilt and desire?

Perhaps she possessed no conscience.

That would certainly explain it. How else could she write such blatant falsehoods about him?

The air was filled with the soft, faint sounds of Lady Calliope's snores. Good God, could the woman sleep through anything? Her wrist was bound to the headboard. She had been on the floor with no blanket, no pillow. He had lifted her from the floor and settled her on the bed, and still, she had scarcely stirred.

Again, a twinge of guilt returned. He had spirited her away from London and brought her to this dilapidated hovel. She was frightened of him, that much he could plainly discern. And he had every intention of persuading her of the necessity of their marriage, whatever that took. He was not going to allow her to leave until he had secured her agreement.

Still, alone with his thoughts and the distant rumble of thunder, his mind swirled with unwanted questions. What if she believed what she had written? His reputation was black, and he knew it. He was at fault for that. Guilty of most of the sins ascribed to him.

But not the worst.

He had never committed murder. Celeste had died by her own hand. And he could hardly say what had befallen the last Duke of Westmorland. He had heard it was a fall, a broken neck, and Lady Calliope herself had claimed he had fallen down the stairs. Regardless of the means by which Westmorland had met his end, Sin had been nowhere near the man when it had happened.

Instead, he had spent the night in the arms of his former mistress. When he had returned to his own townhome that afternoon, it had been to discover his wife had already taken her life. Admittedly, he had lost control after that. His affaire with Tilly had ended abruptly, and he had been adrift. He supposed he could see how his subsequent flight from London, to the Continent, could have made him appear guilty.

Instead of mourning Celeste, he had celebrated his freedom from her. A fortnight of overindulgence in drink and quim. He had fucked his way through Paris. And then he had fucked his way through Italy, too.

But those memories were hazy. Nothing more than ghosts.

He could prove his innocence to Lady Calliope if he gave a damn.

Which, of course, he did not. Let her think what she wished. Let her believe the worst of him. Let her think him a monster. Some parts of him were monstrous. Most parts, in fact. He had earned his reputation the hard way.

He would not allow his conscience or his attraction to her to get the better of him. His plans would not be compromised. Far too much depended upon his ability to secure her fortune. Thanks to Lady Calliope Manning, she was his last chance to save himself.

Most importantly, she was his last chance to save the only person who mattered to him.

His mother.

On an irritated growl, Sin turned, rolling to his belly. His cock was rigid as stone, burrowing into the mattress. It was going to be one hell of a long night.

Callie woke to a numb hand and a furnace at her back.

A hard, citrus-and-musk scented furnace.

And an arm banded around her waist.

And a mouth upon her bare shoulder, soft, smooth lips kissing her there.

Truly, it would not have been an unfortunate manner in which to wake, except for her hand.

Early morning light streamed into the chamber, brightening all the shadows from the night before, reminding her she was in a strange place. With a strange man. She could not be farther from her cozy bedchamber at Westmorland House, where she kept fresh roses on her writing desk and had chosen every stick of furniture and picture on the wall.

Remembrance hit her.

The Earl of Sinclair had forced his way into her carriage, and he had brought her to some crumbling ancestral ruins hours away from London. He had discovered she was the author of Confessions of a Sinful Earl. Worst of all, he had informed her of his intentions to force her to marry him.

She was tied to the bed.

And she was in the bed.

How was she in the bed? She had fallen asleep on the floor, just to spite her captor. At first, it had been deuced uncomfortable, but then she had been so exhausted by travel and the accompanying fear of being unexpectedly absconded with by her mortal enemy…

It was his arm around her waist. And he was the source of the heat. To say nothing of the delightful masculine scent filling her senses. Or the mouth.

He kissed her skin once again, reminding her she was clad in nothing more than her undergarments. Her chemise had shifted in her sleep, sliding down to bare her shoulder.

"Cherie, vous séduisez," he muttered.

A shiver trilled down her spine, sending an unwanted surge of desire to the apex of her thighs. She pressed her legs together to stay the ache. Forced herself to recall she did not like this man.

In fact, she loathed him.

He was responsible for Alfred's death.

For her numb hand. For her presence in this bed. For so much pain and sorrow.

His hand slid from her waist, gliding over her chemise until he cupped her breast in his palm. Her traitorous nipple stiffened instantly. His thumb traced over the peak, sending a spark of unwanted flame shooting through her. A natural reaction, she reassured herself. It would have happened had any man's hand been upon her.

"Je veux faire l'amour," he whispered, his voice a low rasp.

She was certain he was asleep. Whispering to her in French. More proof of his depravity. He could fall asleep with a woman he professed to loathe and then attempt to seduce her. Good God, he had not bedded her, had he? Surely she would have remembered such a thing.

How had she come to be in this bed?

So many questions, so few answers. Only one man knew, and he was sleeping, holding her tight. He would never be able to anticipate what was coming to him.

Good. It would serve him right, the rotter.

Using her unbound arm, she sent her elbow into his solid midsection with as much force as she could muster. The breath fleeing his lungs was as hot as he was, coasting over her bare skin in a sudden rush.

He coughed into her back, sputtering awake. "What the devil?"

His arm tightened on her waist, dragging her backward, so that she was pressed against his frame. There was an unmistakable ridge prodding her lower back. Even as he cursed her and reacted to her abrupt attempt to sever their connection, he held her closer still.

She was not as innocent as some unwed ladies in her acquaintance were. She knew what portion of his anatomy was so rudely making itself known against her back. And she also knew why.

He desired her. His body was reacting to hers, the same way that hers had been affected by his proximity and warm strength radiating against her back. The same way her nipple had tightened when he had cupped her breast.

Instinct. Nothing more. Had not Aunt Fanchette said all men suffered similar maladies in the morning?

It mattered not. All that did matter was that Callie herself was not attracted to the odious Earl of Sinclair.

"Release me, you scoundrel," she gritted, struggling to free herself of his grasp.

"Sheathe your claws, woman," he ground out. "I told you last night, I have no intention of ravishing you."

"You were kissing my shoulder and being crude in French," she accused, wriggling to free herself.

Unfortunately, the action only served to wedge her backside more firmly against his manhood, which seemed to have grown even larger. Good heavens. Her cheeks went hot, and that alarming sensation between her thighs would not stop blossoming.

"I assure you, I am crude in every language." He laughed then, the oaf, and the sound lacked the bitterness of the night before. "I can hardly be held responsible for imagining myself somewhere far more pleasant in my sleep, with a bedmate of my choosing."

His implication nettled, she had to admit, in spite of herself. But then she remembered the mystery surrounding the manner in which she had wound up in the bed.

"I fell asleep on the floor," she reminded him coolly. "How did I end up here?"

"Perhaps you wanted to be closer to me," he suggested, his tone wry.

He was responsible for her presence in the bed, she was sure. "Never!"

She moved some more, but the devil was still disturbingly near. And firm. So very firm. She attempted to scoot from him, and he groaned.

"Devil take it, woman. Cease moving about."

"Let me go, you vile wretch," she returned, increasing her struggles.

"Stop wriggling," he gritted in her ear. His hand had settled upon her hip. His manhood was still nestled against her bottom, firm and insistent and hot.

So hot.

So wrong.

She stilled, swallowing past a knot in her throat. The knowledge that he was affected by her proximity was unsettling. Displeasing, she told herself. Vexing. Horrifying.

Intriguing.

No!She struck the unwelcome notion from her mind. His desire for her was not what she wanted. He was an evil monster. His protestations of innocence aside, he was most definitely guilty of forcing his way into her carriage and spiriting her away. And he was also guilty of binding her. Of insisting upon a marriage between them…

"Mayhap I should ravish you after all, princess," he suggested, tracing a lazy pattern on her hip.

His lips grazed her flesh as he spoke.

Her heart was pounding fast. With fury, of course. Not with…anything else. She was not attracted to this odious villain. Decidedly not.

"Stop this madness," she ground out, shifting again, to no avail. "I will not marry you, and nor am I attracted to you in the slightest."

"Then I suggest you cease bloody moving, because it is damned difficult for a man to think straight with your bottom rubbing all over his cockstand," he growled.

If her cheeks had been hot before, they were positively scalding now. Dear heavens, had he just said what she thought he had said? The man was an unrepentant rogue. Scandalous and horrible and evil.

"Lord Sinclair," she chastised past her own shock. "How dare you speak to me with such vulgarity?"

"Do you truly fancy me a murderer?" he asked then, taking her by surprise with his query.

She blinked. "Yes."

But within her, deep within her, confusion reigned. She was not entirely certain, now that she had met him at long last. Oh, he was a villain. That much was clear. But her brother, Benny's, words returned to her now, suddenly.

Our brother's death was an accident.

Benny was wrong, because he had been too lost in his work for the Special League to investigate the truth. She could hardly blame him. He was weighed down with so much responsibility—Fenian bombers running rampant all over London, attempting to blow up the London Bridge and the Tower and even Parliament itself.

But after her mind had cleared from the terrible grief infecting her in Paris, she had seen the answer with such shocking clarity, it had stolen her breath. Alfred had been in love with Lady Sinclair. Lord Sinclair was a devious scoundrel. Of the three, only one of them remained. Logic suggested the culpability of one man and one man alone.

Alfred had fallen down the stairs at his home in St. Johns Wood. But only after Lord Sinclair had paid him a call there, argued with him, and threatened him over his illicit relationship with Lady Sinclair. She must not forget that the man holding her captive was the last who had seen her beloved brother alive, aside from the servants. Or that his wife had died that same night. Two problems, gone from the earl's life.

Forever.

"I have never killed anyone or anything," the earl told her solemnly, his lips far too near to her ear. "Not even a damned pheasant. I hate to dispel you of your notions that I am a murderous monster, princess, but I am not."

She thought about the evil-looking blade he kept upon his person. And his abduction of her.

"Do you truly believe I will accept anything you say as truth?" she demanded.

"Suit yourself." He released her at last, rolling away. She tried to ignore the sense of loss, as unwanted as his presence had been. "But I have never harmed another soul. I did not kill my faithless wife. I did not kill your foolish brother."

She turned toward him, stymied by the binding on her left wrist, which held her captive as surely as he did. "My brother was not foolish. He was one of the most intelligent, good-hearted men alive."

Indeed, she had never known anyone better, aside from Benny and Simon.

Her mouth went dry as the Earl of Sinclair slipped from the bedclothes, revealing his bare back to her. He was all muscle and sinew. Broad shoulders, lean waist. And the way his smalls clung to his firm bottom was… Positively sinful. That was what it was. She could not entirely banish the effect he had upon her.

He turned toward her, catching her staring, and raised a brow. "My former wife was a coldhearted shrew who ate good-hearted men for breakfast. I am sure your bloody brother never stood a chance against her."

He spoke with such rancor that it took her aback. "You hated her."

The three simple words hung in the air between them.

His brown gaze was upon her. Searing her. "I loved her once. Stupidly and without reason, other than that she was beautiful and told me everything I wanted to hear. The hatred, however, was earned. She worked hard for that. She deceived me, cuckolded me, and stole from me more times than I can count."

Sinclair's admission shocked her. But then, his earlier words returned to her. My wife was a manipulative whore. For a moment Callie could not think of a single response. Her impression of Lady Sinclair, aside from the recollection of her loveliness, was vastly different. She had been a stunning woman, almost ethereal. The perfect foil to a man of the earl's dark, sullen masculine beauty.

"She was quite gracious when I met her," Callie managed to say.

"I have no doubt she was." His tone, like his expression, was grim. "The heartless bitch would have been better served had she trod the boards as an actress."

"My lord," she gasped, shocked. "It is unwise to speak ill of the dead."

"Or what?" The grin he sent in her direction was cold. "Hmm? They shall haunt us? Too late for that, princess. That woman ruined me a long time ago. There is nothing she can do to me from the grave that holds a candle to what she did to me when she walked this earth."

So much unabated vitriol. And for his own wife.

He retrieved his knife then and stalked toward her side of the bed, still indecent in nothing more than his smalls.

Callie stiffened at his approach but refused to flinch away from him.

"You have nothing to fear from me, Lady Calliope," he told her curtly, taking her wrist and slicing through the cord which had bound her wrist. "I will not hurt you."

"I am to believe the man who has taken me captive?" she bit out, rubbing her newly released wrist.

The freedom felt exhilarating.

He shrugged. "Believe what you like. You already do."

His chest was fascinating. She tried not to look at him, truly she did. But aside from the artwork and sculptures she had seen in Paris, she had never before had such a thorough view of a man's naked torso. The Earl of Sinclair's was splendid. There was no other word for it.

She blinked, forcing her gaze away from those sculpted slabs of muscle. "You were the last person to see Alfred alive, my lord, aside from the servants, who overheard you threatening him. It seems an impossible coincidence for both the wife you loathed and the man she loved to die on the same night, does it not?"

"Not impossible if it happened," he corrected calmly. "I am sorry for the loss of your brother, my lady, but I am not responsible for it."

His sympathy took her by surprise, but she refused to trust him or his words. "Of course you would deny it. I hardly expect you to admit to having committed murder."

"And so you thought to falsify my confession through your vicious little book?" he guessed.

Correctly.

Blast him.

"I was attempting to right a wrong," she defended herself. "If I cannot have justice for Alfred's death, then destroying the remnants of your reputation will have to suffice."

There.Some raw honesty for him.

His countenance was unreadable, but his jaw was rigid. "What a vivid imagination you have for a gently reared lady."

She lifted her chin, eying him with all the defiance teeming inside her. "Pray do not act as if I shocked you. I am certain my work pales in comparison to the sins you have committed."

He gave an indolent shrug, his stare hard upon her. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I am not as evil as you imagine me."

Ha!She most certainly did not believe that. There was a reason he was known as Sin, after all. She was sure the rumors she had heard about him were true. All of them.

"Only an evil scoundrel would abduct an innocent woman from London and take her prisoner," she countered.

"Ah, but I hardly think you are an innocent, Lady Calliope." He stroked his thumb over the sharp edge of his blade as he watched her.

"You will cut yourself again," she warned him before thinking better of the words.

He raised a dark brow. "Concern for me, princess? Take care, or else I shall think you have taken a fancy to me. Then again, I did take note of the manner in which you have been admiring my physique."

Her cheeks went hot anew. Of course he had noticed her silly ogling of him.

"I was not admiring you," she denied crisply. "You repulse me."

His gaze dipped to her mouth. "Your nipple said otherwise earlier, darling."

He had been awake. The utter knave!

Even her ears went hot. "How dare you?"

He had the audacity to flash her an unrepentant grin. "A man may as well grow familiar with the woman who will be his wife. I had to be certain you are not frigid. I will require an heir, after all."

With that, he sauntered back to the other side of the bed, still holding his blade as if he were a common footpad wielding a weapon rather than a peer of the realm. Gritting her teeth, she rose from the bed, clutching the counterpane to her breast for modesty's sake.

"I have already told you, I have no intention of marrying you," she told him. "You cannot force me."

"Force will not be necessary, princess." He was still grinning, the fiend. "Your protestation grows tiresome."

"As does being your prisoner," she returned, her voice sharp.

"Need I remind you that you brought this on yourself?" he inquired mildly as he donned his trousers.

She pinned him with a glare. "I did nothing to deserve being abducted by a depraved villain."

His smile faded. He shrugged on his shirt. "You fired the first volley in this war of ours, my dear. If you had not done your damnedest to make certain you ground my reputation into the mud, I never would have even noticed you. Right now, I would be happily between Miss Mary Vandenberg's thighs."

He was such a boorish devil.

"You are coarse and horrid." And she was burning, her cheeks aflame at his wickedness.

"They call me Sin for a reason, princess." He gave her a grim smile, working on the buttons of his shirt and hiding his chest from her view.

The moment was strangely intimate. Wildly inappropriate. It was, she imagined, what husbands and wives did, rising together, dressing in each other's presences. Only, in her mind, a husband and wife ought to love each other, the way she and Simon had.

She forced herself to look away from the Earl of Sinclair, to search instead for her own garments. And that was when she recalled that her gown had been savaged by his blade.

How could he expect her to go about wearing yesterday's gown, with a sawed-off sleeve?

"Do you need my assistance in helping you to dress?" he queried, disrupting the tense silence that had fallen between them.

His abrupt change of subject took her by surprise, as did his offer. "Of course I do not require your help."

"As you wish." He stalked to the door. "I will wait for you to dress. Do not try anything foolish, princess."

She watched him go, determined to find a means of escape.