Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke

by Sharon Page

  “Good enough. I wanted to wait until the storm ended. But that isn’t occurring. Given what’s happened, I think I need to search now.”

  “No,” Portia gasped. He would be putting himself in terrible danger. “No, I won’t allow it.”

  “Angel, you have no choice.”

  * * *

  Dressed in her hooded cloak, which had been left in Sinclair’s bedroom, Portia had also acquired an umbrella from the handsome footman, Reggie. She’d blushed terribly when asking him for one, for she kept picturing him with the widow and Rutledge. Embarrassment had made her forget the word umbrella, so she’d tried to make hand motions, which only made the whole thing worse. Reggie hadn’t been embarrassed at all. He’d winked boldly at her.

  Sinclair had warned her that an umbrella would prove useless. Stubbornly, she’d tried. And of course, the wretched brolly whipped inside out and was ripped out of her hands. It tumbled across the terrace and he ran to catch it.

  But it was destroyed and he let it go.

  “This is madness,” Saxonby stated, as Sinclair came running back. “How can we search the cliffs in weather like this?”

  “What choice do we have? Miss Love’s idea is that there is no Genvere. That he doesn’t exist and our killer is one of the guests or the servants. But if there is a Genvere, he has to be a madman who appears able to get into the house without being seen. We’ve searched the damn house and found no sign of an intruder, or anyone hiding in it. So either he doesn’t exist or he’s hiding somewhere else. I want to eliminate all possibilities. If there’s anywhere on this rock where someone can hide, I suspect it’s a cave.”

  “You looked before and found nothing.”

  “I wasn’t able to search all along the cliffs.”

  “If the cave is so well hidden,” Saxonby said. “I don’t see how the murderer gets out of it, up the cliff, and into the house without being observed.”

  “True. It makes sense that it’s one of the guests, Sax.” He looked to Portia. “As my clever Miss Love has deduced. But which of them could orchestrate three murders and carry them off seamlessly? Murder is a difficult thing to do. Hard to do without leaving a trace. I talked to Humphries after we searched the rooms. He says all other guests were in the drawing room. Sadie was the only guest alone when Crayle was killed.”

  “But Sadie was lying in bed in pain,” Portia protested.

  “What of the servants?” Saxonby asked.

  “Humphries had gone upstairs after telling off the footman for joining . . . uh, in a threesome. The maid, Ellie, was tidying in the dining room. On her own, so she has no alibi. However, she is a slender female who doesn’t look particularly strong.”

  “There is the cook, too,” Portia said suddenly.

  “That rotund, middle-aged woman? Unlikely she could string up the marquis either. Or would want to. If she wanted to kill us, she could poison us.”

  Portia swallowed hard. “Like Sandhurst.”

  “If he was poisoned, the most likely method was to introduce the poison to his drink.”

  “So not the cook. She was downstairs. And not the maid either.”

  Then she thought of what Sinclair had said. Murder is a difficult thing to do. He hadn’t said it with a speculative tone, the way he’d talked about the guests.

  He said it in a matter-of-fact way. As if he knew . . .

  Ten years ago, he’d told her a little about his family. His parents had both died suddenly. It had been unexpected. It had been two weeks later he’d learned he was now the duke.

  Had his parents been murdered?

  Shocked, she looked up at his face. He looked cool, emotionless, determined.

  No, she was letting her mind think of mad things.

  Sinclair clasped her hand as they walked across the grass, which made her heart leap and places tingle. He walked slightly ahead of her, trying to block the wind and rain. The three of them made their way across the island, struggling against the wind.

  “I’ve already searched close to the house,” Sinclair shouted over the wind. “We’ll go out further. There are no buildings on the island other than the house.”

  The surface of the island was not large and mostly it was a stretch of rock and grass. They soon reached the edge of the cliff. Only a few trees grew along the edge, leaning out into space. All Portia could hear was the roar of the wind across the exposed island, the pounding and smashing of the waves on rock.

  If she held one of the trees, she could go close to the edge. And look over.

  A flash of color caught her eye. Something pink on one of the branches, fluttering in the wind. More ribbon?

  Portia took a step toward it and her leg bumped something, startling her and throwing her off balance. She tumbled forward, slipping on the wet grass. Sinclair’s arm shot out and his hand grabbed her wrist to keep her from falling. He was hauling her back toward him as the strangest sound came to her ears—a sharp, mysterious twang.

  “Bloody hell,” he barked.

  She almost flew through the air. Sinclair had jumped to the side, pulling her with him. He landed on the grass with a thud and she fell upon him. Landing hard enough that she lost her breath.

  His hand was on her head and he pulled her down hard, just as a sudden whoosh of wind passed over her head. Wet leaves splashed against her, cold and horrid. Water rained down on her. A tree branch rested over them, along with a dripping length of rope.

  “Heavens, that would have hit me if you hadn’t pulled me away. I would have fallen off the cliff. You saved my life, Sinclair.”

  His hands stroked her back. She was trying for calm, and his touch was so soothing. But also slow, enticing . . . How could she think of that when she could have died?

  “I saw a piece of ribbon,” she said shakily, “and took a step toward it.”

  “It was a trap,” he said huskily. “Rigged to be set off by someone walking there. What you saw was intended to lure you—or one of us out there.”

  His hand cradled her head. His fingers twined in her hair and he drew her into a kiss. Hot, scorching. The rain turned to steam on their lips.

  After danger—in the middle of danger—how could she want to kiss him? But she did, hungrily. She cupped his face, delighting in the scratch of stubble on her palms. He was flat on the ground underneath her. She could have been killed! Yet instead of panicking, she was kissing him like mad. Her lips on his. Their tongues tangling. She wriggled on his strong, hard body. She loved the way her breasts were squashed against him. She wiggled her hips—and discovered he liked this too. She was straddling a very obvious erection—

  “Ahem. I thought you two were dead. I called to you and neither answered. I thought you’d gone over the cliff.”

  The smooth, urbane tones belonged to Saxonby. With a tiny “erk,” Portia tried to scramble off Sinclair. Almost impossible to do with a cloak and wet skirts.

  Sinclair lifted her. She had no idea how, since he was on his back. He moved her over onto her bottom; then he sprang up and clasped her hand, helping her to her feet.

  He had saved her life.

  “I had best get to work,” Sinclair began.

  “You cannot rappel down the edge of the cliff now!” Portia cried.

  “Portia, I must.”

  “No! Not when we know there are traps.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “You will be dangling off a cliff!”

  “With care.”

  “No! You can’t risk your life. And why should you? The victims were selfish men. The marquis was horrible and abusive. Sandhurst was innocent, but he was only interested in his own pleasure. And Willoughby was a horrible man who lured and ravished innocent women. All of those men deserved what happened to them. They had committed sins—”

  “They didn’t deserve death even then, Portia. Who gives this person the right to be self-appointed judge and jury for them? This person is mad. Dangerous. And what of you? Was it allowable for someone to kidnap you, as long a
s he murders men to whom you object?”

  “No . . . of course not. But it might not be the same person.”

  “We have both a kidnapper and a killer on the island? I am not going to stand by, waiting, Portia,” he growled. “You could have been killed today—swept off the cliff by that trap. If I hadn’t realized the branch was pulled back at a strange angle just before you stumbled—”

  “I think we should go up to the house,” Saxonby said, breaking into the argument.

  She saw Sinclair glance, nod, and she knew. “You both are trying to get me out of the way. Then you will return and do something mad and risky. You cannot do this—”

  “To the house,” Sinclair repeated.

  Sinclair’s arm slipped around her waist, surprising her. He tried to draw her to walk with him, but she dug in her heels. He gave her a wry look, then started walking away. “Watch her, Sax.”

  Bother it! She couldn’t just let him go—couldn’t let him walk into danger over her.

  She hurried after him, cloak and skirts swishing around her. She followed him to the terrace, where he turned and lifted her into his arms. He carried her around to the stone wall of the house, where they were sheltered from the wind and rain. Where there was the roof overhanging, keeping them dry. There were no windows. And Saxonby hadn’t followed.

  There were just the two of them.

  Sinclair backed her up against the stone wall. His hands rested against the wall, trapping her. All she could think of was him. Powerful arms that had scooped her from danger. A broad chest to break her fall. His mouth—his beautiful, sensual, oh-so-talented mouth.

  He leaned to her, his face showing pain. “Portia, damn, I let you go once. I can’t face losing you. Not forever. I could survive because I believed you were happy—”

  His words startled her. But she said, “I was quite fine.”

  He growled. A low, dangerous sound. “You were meant to be mine, angel. All mine.”

  Those words—they set her utterly aflame.

  “That’s very lovely, but—”

  Then he had her pressed to the wall. His legs were spread, bracketing hers. His chest pushed against her bosom. His mouth—

  Oh Lord, his mouth was on her neck.

  On sensitive skin that loved the touch of his lips. He skimmed his mouth up to her earlobe and she almost slithered down the wall. Heat trailed and she wanted this, wanted his kisses. His warm breath caressed her ear and she moaned.

  “Do you want this? Do you want me to pleasure you?”

  She was lost. Wanting all the pleasure he’d given her, wanting the searing, fiery, tumultuous explosion of pleasure she’d known on the night they’d gotten engaged.

  Your heart will be broken.

  She didn’t care.

  She nodded, jerkily.

  Sinclair lowered to his knees in front of her. She knew what he would do, and she began to draw up her skirts. Tugged at the fabric hurriedly. Grinning, he helped her pull them up. She gazed down at the dark slashes of his brows, his high cheekbones, full lips, the curl of his long lashes. And then—

  Ooooh.

  Slowly, he teased her with his tongue. She pressed back hard against the wall. Clinging to his shoulders, she closed her eyes. Savored. This—this was delicious. Just slow and tantalizing and perfect. She wanted more and she wanted it just like this.

  She was supposed to be good. A paragon. The only time she’d tumbled was when she’d fallen in love with Sinclair before—and she’d paid the price. For years, she’d told herself that.

  But now, she thought: Why is it so wrong to want pleasure? To be physically loved?

  No one was being hurt. They were surrounded by murder—by true evil.

  This was not wrong.

  She knew it now.

  She threaded her fingers in his silky brown hair, massaging his head through the thick strands. Gently, she stoked him, while she saw fireworks and stars—with her eyes shut.

  Portia felt too shy to look.

  Bother it! Cracking her eyes open, she looked down. Entranced by how his mouth moved over her.

  He drew her away from the wall and she took an unsteady step. With his strong hands, he cupped her bottom and lifted her.

  Oh my heavens, he’d lifted her off her feet. Putting her cunny entirely, heavily, on top of his mouth. He couldn’t breathe, she was sure.

  Then she realized—

  She couldn’t escape.

  Balanced over his mouth, she couldn’t move away. Even though she was on top of him, she was entirely at his command. Her skirts fell down, plopping on his head, spilling down over her bottom and legs. But still his tongue teased her, sawing across her.

  She began to move on him, her hips rocking to drive his mouth harder against her. She must be suffocating him . . . it was terrible of her . . . she couldn’t stop....

  She clutched. Moaned. Had to shut her eyes once more.

  She was coming. Falling.

  He held her and they were both falling backward to the grassy ground. She flopped down, straddling his face. Bracing her arms on the wet grass, she rode out her pleasure on him. Limp, spent, she could barely move, except she knew she must.

  Pulling at her skirts, she lifted off him, so wet she hardly cared that she was curled up on the wet grass. “Goodness, are you all right? I was so scared you couldn’t breathe.”

  He rolled on his side, stained with mud, and he grinned at that. “A small price to pay to hear you come, angel. You make the most erotic sounds.”

  “You must have heard lots of sounds that women make.”

  “True, but many are exaggerated. More performance than genuine. I like yours, because they are real. Honest moans and cries and adorable squeaks.”

  “I squeak?” She had no idea. Then remembered—she did make high-pitched sounds.

  She stroked along his arm, feeling the bulge of muscle. “I realized I could lose you. I could be killed and never know pleasure—”

  But Sinclair got to his feet. “You won’t be killed. I promise you.”

  “But I’d like to pleasure you. I want to—” Could she do it? Without marriage? It would go against everything she believed, everything she advised to young girls. But she had the terrible sense she was running out of time.

  “I think I want to make love.” Then she added, hastily, awkwardly, “With you.”

  “No, Portia, love. We are not going to do that. I won’t ruin you.”

  “You have orgies. How can you be noble?”

  But he lifted her to her feet once more, and she knew, gritting her teeth in frustration, red with embarrassment, that he could be noble.

  To cover up the flaring humiliation, she babbled. “What do you think the pink ribbons mean? I think it must be something to do with a girl. But a young girl—only a very young girl would use such a color. Unless Sadie does, but I’ve never seen her in pink. Do you think—one of the women here could have a child? There is the old madam. And the Incognita. Sadie could be old enough. I don’t think the maid, Ellie, is old enough. Unless the child were very young. And there’s the cook—but cooks are never married. They are called “Mrs.” That’s to accord them respect. But when they work in a house, they aren’t married.”

  Sinclair sighed. “Angel, slow down.”

  They’d reached the terrace doors. “You’re going to rappel down the cliff faces, aren’t you?” she asked. “What about the rain? Won’t you slip?”

  “I’ll tie the rope around my waist and use a couple of lines. Sadie doesn’t know the marquis is dead. I’d like you there when I tell her.”

  “Oh. Of course.” It meant there would be no money for Sadie from the marquis to ease the horror of her injuries. The girl would be angry and upset.

  They passed the drawing room, now empty. Went upstairs. Portia rapped gently on Sadie’s bedroom door, then turned the key in the lock and opened it. “Sadie?”

  No answer. She saw the girl’s form under the sheets. She quietly approached.

&n
bsp; Stopped dead. Her stomach plunged. Sadie lay on her back, the sheets tucked up just beneath her chin. But her eyes were wide open. Large, blue, and staring blankly at the canopy above.

  Portia froze. She had to grab the bed column. Sadie was dead. It couldn’t be—

  Gathering her wits, Portia hurried to the bed. Was Sadie dead because of her wounds? Surely not. Sadie wasn’t that badly wounded.

  Then she saw it.

  The ring of bruises around the young woman’s neck. Marks that looked like fingermarks on her throat.

  Portia stepped back. Something crunched beneath her foot and she jumped. She looked down, afraid to discover what she’d stepped on.

  It was crumbs on the floor. It looked like a biscuit.

  Then, as she looked up again, as Sinclair went to Sadie’s prostrate body, she saw a tiny piece of pink ribbon sticking out from beneath the pillow.

  15

  He expected Portia to be horrified. Frozen with shock and fear. Sin didn’t expect her to cry out, “Crumbs! That’s it! There are two clues, don’t you see?” she went on, breathlessly. The piece of hair ribbon and the crumbs.”

  She pulled out of his arms. Sin wanted to soothe her, but she was gone—and his arms felt empty. Then he spotted the crumbs. A stretch of them strewn over the carpet. Bending down to them, he was about to ask Portia why she believed they were so important, when he heard the click of the door latch.

  She could move like a streak of lightning when she was doing something he intended to expressly forbid. When he reached the corridor, she’d gone. Damn it.

  He caught movement of the baize door at the end of the corridor—the servants’ door.

  If crumbs had set her off like that, and she’d gone to the servants’ stair, she had to be going down to the kitchens.

  He followed. Drawn to her. And not just to protect her.

  He’d had women in every way possible. On top of him, riding him while pinching their own nipples for his delectation or squashing full breasts in his face. Below him, with legs wrapped around his neck so he could pound deep. Two women, three women. One time six women, while he lay on a large bed. One woman riding his prick. One fingering his anus, sliding three fingers inside. One sitting on his face, so he could lick her pussy. Two using his fingers for pleasure, in their cunts and asses, and the last one to slip her hand in between all the bodies to fondle him. He’d even had women strap on false cocks to penetrate him while he made love to another woman.