A Woman Made For Sin

by Michele Sinclair

  A WOMAN MADE FOR SIN

  Reece said nothing. He only folded his arms and glared at Aimee.

  Aimee glared back. “I am tired of letting you dictate the terms of our relationship, Reece Hamilton.”

  Reece could listen to no more. “We don’t have a relationship, damn it! I am simply a childhood fantasy of yours! It’s time you got over me, grew up, and sought a man who wants you in return.”

  “You were a childhood fantasy; and last Christmas, I did grow up. I was no longer dreaming of love—I was in love with you, and after the kiss we just shared, don’t bother denying that you love me. I won’t believe you . . .”

  Books by Michele Sinclair

  THE HIGHLANDER’S BRIDE

  TO WED A HIGHLANDER

  DESIRING THE HIGHLANDER

  THE CHRISTMAS KNIGHT

  TEMPTING THE HIGHLANDER

  A WOMAN MADE FOR PLEASURE

  SEDUCING THE HIGHLANDER

  A WOMAN MADE FOR SIN

  HIGHLAND HUNGER (with Hannah Howell and Jackie Ivie)

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  A. WOMAN MADE FOR SIN

  MICHELE SINCLAIR

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  A WOMAN MADE FOR SIN

  Books by Michele Sinclair

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Buckfast Abbey, Summer, 1816

  He had tasted death. Rolled it around on his tongue and licked its dry, cracked lips. He had drunk from death’s dark soul and then done the impossible. He had survived.

  Fate’s plans for him had not included an untimely and disgraceful demise, but something profoundly more meaningful. Revenge. Its sweet flavor would mix with death’s, and he would know satisfaction at last.

  He turned the final corner down the dank stairwell and entered the oval space filled with the scent of old vellum. Only this room prevented the long days from becoming a living nightmare of pain and torture. In this small area lived the past. Written on countless aged scrolls were the lives of once-powerful leaders, who, like he, had seen their lofty attempts at fulfilling fate’s decree hampered by lesser men. But death had determined those men unworthy to walk these lands of promised power. They were the ones who deserved his sentence of physical damnation, not he.

  Time, the monks said. Time to heal his wounds. Time to reflect on past indiscretions and do penance. He, of course, complied and joined their devotions. And his reward was this room of solace, quiet, and promise. Fate had drawn him here. The answer to his future lay somewhere in these cool stone walls along with a promise that not all was lost. That all he aspired to be and have was still within his grasp.

  He moved over to remove a small marker in one of the numerous carved openings used for storage. Placing it on the small wooden desk, he turned, pulled out the next scroll, and uncurled the sheet of vellum. Carefully, he secured the ends with heavy rocks. He sat down slowly to avoid any more pain than necessary, and began to read aloud.

  “I, your servant, am unable to show you, noble lady, anything worthy in my deeds, and I do not know how I can be acceptable to you . . ”.

  The words of the manuscript filled him, flowing over him like a balm on his raw wounds. He had been wrong. It was not a king’s secrets he was searching for, but a queen’s. He continued on.

  Hours passed, and though no natural light could shine into the small enclave, he knew it was dark outside. The single candle that had been lighting the room was nearly gone. The monks would be searching for him, telling him it was time for another devotion, solemn ceremony, or some mysterious rite in dedication to God.

  A debate began to play out in his head as he continued to read. He knew he should return. Tomorrow would come and the scrolls would still be here. But fate was with him tonight. If he chose to leave, it would surely forsake him, leaving him scarred, ruined, and powerless for his remaining days. Here beneath his fingertips was the answer for which he had been searching. He could not abandon fate’s gift. It might not come again.

  He flipped to the final page and read the end.

  Nothing was revealed. No secrets. No messages. And yet he knew his destiny was intertwined with this woman’s story.

  How this ancient manuscript had made its way into the abbey’s dark walls was a mystery. He could spend years trying to find out whose hands had held this scroll, only to discover the hard-gained knowledge was meaningless. So why had fate placed such words in his grasp? Why was his soul so affected by this woman’s inexplicable victory?

  He knew if he did not find the answer, he would be forsaken once again. Fate had little time for fools. It certainly did not deliver enemies and resurrect kingdoms to unworthy men.

  “Hallo?” called a voice whose accent spoke of a life lived in a variety of places. “Son? Are you down there? You have missed the divine reading, and supper is nearly finished. Are you well?”

  He sighed deeply and returned, “Yes, Father, I am coming. I am afraid in my studies I lost track of time.”

  Crunching footsteps echoed against the walls. An old man dressed in black robes appeared. “What is it that had your attention for so long today? What did the Lord bring to you?”

  He stifled another sigh and brought his hood farther up to shade the majority of his face, though he knew the old monk had seen the monstrosity that lay underneath the brown folds. The man had found him washed up from the sea and had brought him to the abbey to tend his wounds.

  He should have died. And though the monk might believe it was his God that had revived his nearly dead carcass, he knew better. Something the old man would never understand.

  A withered hand poked out from the arm of the black cape and glided down the vellum outstretched on the table. “You are reading the Encomium Emmae Reginae. It is very old, written many years ago by a monk of St. Omer in praise of his Queen Emma. Few take interest in that which occurred so far in the past. So little history was captured then. It is difficult to tell the truth from fiction.” The aged monk paused to cough violently into his hand. His remaining days were few. Consumption was taking him, slowly and painfully.

  “My apologies, Father. The staleness of the room makes it hard to breathe,” he said, and then waited patiently for the monk to continue, for the man was one of the few in the abbey who had studied any writings that were not directly related to scripture.

  “This accounting, while biased, is believed to be true, unlike others.”

  His heart momentarily stopped. “Are there other stories of the queen? I mean here, at the abbey?” he asked the old monk, hoping his tone reflecte
d his eagerness rather than the apprehension he felt. For he was close. He knew he was.

  The monk rolled his eyes upward and began to nod his head. “There is indeed more text written about the queen. But such legends are too elaborate to be believed. We had another visitor to the abbey who was also much interested in the monarch. I will tell you what I told them: The accounting is highly questionable and cannot be considered reliable. Its value is in understanding how stories were embellished back then . . .”

  The old monk stretched his head back and surveyed the dusty scrolls stacked in various-sized cubicles within the walls. After a minute, he stretched out his arm until the tips of his gnarled fingers touched a single scroll nestled in a group.

  As he watched the monk slip the document out of its resting place, he realized it would have taken many more months at his present pace before he had read the item. The monk gave it to him and he laid it out, anchoring the corners. His heart began pounding with renewed hope. He heard the old man’s opinion of the story, that it was an allegory and not one of truth.

  But he knew differently.

  Fate had not deserted him.

  Fate had been with him all along, as it was with all great men.

  Bending over, he read the simple legend. Unlike the other manuscripts, the handwriting was jagged and the scattered drops of ink indicated it had been quickly scribed. He gnashed his teeth and calmed his suddenly tumultuous emotions. Any doubt of the importance of today’s find completely and resolutely vanished.

  “You said only one other had studied these, Father. Please, tell me. Just who was that person?”

  Chapter 1

  London, October 6, 1816

  “Millie, do not shake your head at me! I absolutely insist that you come! Of the three of us, you know the area the best. And, Jennelle, do not think because you are sitting behind me I am unaware that you are at this very moment rolling your eyes and signaling Millie to refuse,” Aimee added as she glanced back, affirming her guess. “Millie fled through those alleys just a few months ago.”

  Millie felt her jaw tense and tried again to make her best friend see reason. “It was at night and you must remember, Charles was with me, Aimee. It was your brother who knew where to go, not me, when he managed to save me from—”

  “And since then you have gone with him a dozen times or more when he has needed to visit one of his ships,” Aimee interrupted. She knelt down and clutched her oldest friend’s fingers in her own. “This is my one opportunity, Millie. Charles will be busy with his dinner meeting, which he made clear that none of us were invited to, and—”

  “And we have already accepted the invitation to Lady Shackleton’s card party,” Jennelle chimed in.

  Aimee continued to clutch Millie’s hand but faced Jennelle, giving her an angry stare that she hoped would singe her friend’s red hair. “I can recall numerous occasions where you demonstrated just how easily we can and will send our regrets.” Standing back up, she said more forcefully, “I not only want but need your help, but know that if you both refuse, it will not sway me from going. Tonight is my last chance, and I am going. Even if I have to go by myself.”

  Aimee’s voice was soft but emphatic. It was completely out of character for the tall, willowy blonde, who was typically very sweet and gentle. But today, her bright green eyes snapped with a compelling urgency that conveyed her threat was not an empty one.

  Jennelle was about to offer a word of caution when Aimee cut her off. “It is a brilliant plan. Millie, tell her,” Aimee said to the most adventurous of their group.

  Nicknamed the Daring Three when they were just children, the three girls were best friends and nearly inseparable. Even Millie’s recent marriage to Aimee’s elder brother had not separated them. Aimee was positive that if she could just get Millie to agree with her plan, the ever-so-logical Jennelle would follow. She would be compelled to, from sheer friendship.

  Millie, now sorry that she ever mentioned her husband’s mysterious thief, laid a hand on her agitated friend’s arm. “It is a bold plan, Aimee, but I am unsure why you would want to get involved. I think Chase has his own ideas about routing out the thief. Should we not just wait . . . ?”

  “My brother may be your husband, Millie. And you may find him intriguing and his tediousness an adventure, but since you became Lady Chaselton . . . well, I must finally tell you the truth. You have turned into quite a bore!” Aimee huffed and began pacing. “Four months ago, it would have been you planning this night raid, and it would have been Jennelle and I holding you back.”

  Millie opened and closed her mouth, unable to deny her friend’s accusation. “I expect you are correct, Aimee. I have tempered my inclinations a bit, but you must understand that as the Marchioness of Chaselton, I cannot continue to act as I once did,” Millie declared, adding underneath her breath, “Not to mention, Charlie would kill me if he found out.” Then realizing Aimee had heard her, she looked down, tucking an escaped dark lock of consistently errant, thick, wavy hair behind her ear.

  Her husband was called Charles by his sister, his mother, and Jennelle, but never by her. She normally referred to him as Chase, like most did. Only when he was particularly aggravating did she call him Charlie, a pet name she had given him when they were younger, knowing how much he detested it. But since they had married, Millie used the term more and more often in her private thoughts. It was her name for him. Hers alone.

  “You are shamming it, Mildred,” Aimee stated unequivocally, “and you know it. Charles would be upset, but he has caught you in many a more provocative situation, and he still fell in love with you despite your ways. I am asking you for one small favor, one small adventure, and suddenly you turn prim and proper. It is unfair, I tell you! After all the crazy exploits Jennelle and I have joined you on.”

  Jennelle’s dark red eyebrows popped up at the mention of her name. “It is not a small favor, Aimee. Dressing up like men and leaving in the middle of the night in an attempt to stow aboard Charles’s ship to catch a thief, is not a small favor.” Despite her red hair and flashing blue eyes that hinted of her Irish ancestry, of the three of them, Jennelle was the one who was most able to remain calm and cool in even the direst of situations. As the years came and went, Millie and Aimee wondered what, if anything, could break that cool composure, and secretly hoped to be around if it ever did.

  Aimee walked over and sat across from her two friends, deciding honesty was the only way she would get them to understand and agree. “Please, please do this. Reece has been in town for nearly a month and has refused to see me. No matter what I do, he avoids my company. Can you imagine, Millie, what it would be like if Charles suddenly no longer wanted to see you or speak to you?”

  Millie bit her bottom lip. She could not imagine the pain Aimee just described, but the mere thought of not being able to talk with Chase, even when they disagreed, was horrifying. Aimee had been in love with Reece Hamilton, Charles’s best friend, since she first saw him when she was six years old. Almost nine years Aimee’s senior, Reece had been amused by her infatuation, but it was not until last Christmas that their relationship changed—significantly.

  During the war, Reece’s and Charles’s visits home were infrequent. Consequently, it was customary for Reece to pay Lady Chaselton and her daughter a visit whenever he returned. He would relay any news of the war and the well-being of her son, just as it was expected that Charles would visit Reece’s family. Last December, it had been three years since Reece had seen Aimee. It must have made a difference, because this time he kissed her. And according to Aimee, the kiss had been no ordinary one. She was now certain Reece was the only man for her and that her destiny was tied to his.

  Millie sighed. “Tell me your plan one more time. All of it, from the beginning. And, Jennelle, pay attention for probable difficulties, for I believe we are going on an adventure tonight.”

  Jennelle rolled her eyes but knew all was lost. Millie had acquiesced. But what had she expected? For marriage t
o change her petite, excitement-seeking friend into a paragon of the gentle sex? For Aimee to suddenly stop seizing every opportunity to convince the one man she had ever pined for to love her? Jennelle held her breath and then exhaled long and soft, realizing she was the only sane one of the bunch. And a sane person really should be accompanying her two friends during this crazy escapade.

  “I’m unsure as to the intelligence of this idea, Aimee, but tell it to us once again.”

  Aimee felt alive and excited all over. The rented hack hit a large cobblestone and her fingers fluttered to Millie’s for support. “I cannot believe I am finally going to see him again, Millie. It has been so long. If I have to endure another Season of pretentious old men or even worse, loquacious, overly eager young men and their tittering marriage-focused mothers, I really shall perish. You have no idea how fortunate you are, Jennelle, that your father is not compelled to see you advantageously married. And, Millie, you are the luckiest of us all to have convinced Charles he was in love with you and to ask for your hand. If only Reece would do the same.”

  Millie took a deep breath and blew a wayward strand of her dark hair away from her eye. If they were caught, it was highly doubtful she would be able to convince her husband of anything again. She glanced out the window. They were just about to cross into Shadwell at Thames, the main entrance to the London Docks. “I want your promise, Aimee, that if we stumble across the thief, you will not make a single move until all three of us are sure that he is indeed Reece. Chase is still not positive this latest event is a simple prank.”

  “But you said the thief was only taking some papers that were of little value and of interest only to Reece and Charles. Besides we three and Mother, who else would know what Reece and my brother really value?”