Journey?
The word made something inside her freeze. Somehow, she had imagined they would be remaining within London.
But the prospect of a journey… Dear God, it filled her with dread. Where could he be taking her? And for what purpose?
“Surely you do not believe you will get away with a third murder, my lord?” she asked boldly.
“Oh, I have no intention of killing you, Lady Calliope,” he said, bending down to retrieve his discarded blade from the floor.
His tone was calm. As if he had not just taken her hostage, threatened her with a knife, and bound her wrists.
He truly was a madman, just as she had feared.
“What are you intending to do with me, then?” she prodded him through lips that had gone suddenly dry.
He cocked his head, raking her with that fathomless, dark gaze as he ran his bloodied thumb back over the gleaming blade. “I am going to marry you.”
Chapter Two
You ought to have seen the look upon her face, dear reader, as I closed my hands around her elegant, treacherous throat. When she begged me for mercy, perhaps I ought to have listened. But for her, I had no pity. She had betrayed me. She was a candle that was mine to extinguish. My fingers tightened. I cannot deny I enjoyed the sound of her struggling for breath, the power I had over her…
~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl
One of the excellent things about abducting Lady Calliope Manning and bringing her to Helston Hall was that it had long since been closed up, with no curious or well-intentioned servants about to question him. Or to stop him.
But also, there were no servants.
Which meant he would have to play footman, cook, lady’s maid, etcetera, to the woman who was currently glaring at him with murderous intent. That fact rather hit him now, with nothing but an old oil lamp to light the way, and no one but the two of them, since his man was tending to the horses and carriage and would bed down for the night in the stables. To be bitterly honest, the stables were probably more rain-tight than the main house. The previous Earl of Sinclair had been deuced fond of horseflesh and gaming, in exactly that order.
“Wumf fifflemal wamam,” Lady Calliope spat at Sin around the gag he had been forced to put in place halfway through their journey when she refused to shut up.
The hour was late, and the cold, stone great hall of Helston Hall suffered a leaky roof. When he had stopped to gather provisions in the village, it had begun to rain, and the deluge had not stopped. Which meant all about them, the echoing of rain pattering to the stone floor echoed, mingling with his prisoner’s muffled threats.
“Welcome to one of my ancestral hovels,” he announced grimly, offering her a mocking bow. “Forgive the lack of servants and proper roof. Familiar coffers are depleted at the moment, as I am sure you are already more than aware.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Gah er el.”
He was reasonably certain the troublesome baggage had just told him to go to hell. She need not fear. He was already there. And it was time for her to join him, since she had delivered the final deathblow to his reputation.
Just to further irk her, he feigned confusion. “I cannot understand you, I am afraid.”
Her hands were still bound. Her hat was gone, her gown was rumpled, and she was furious. Somehow, in her imperfection, with her Gallic beauty and flashing eyes, she was more beautiful than when she’d had not a hair out of place earlier in the day.
His cock stirred.
Bloody hell.
“Ayeisoff,” Lady Calliope said, lifting her bound hands and attempting to tug at the cloth he had tied in place during one of her stinging diatribes.
She had been ranting about how he was fit for the lunatic asylum and he had murdered her brother and his own wife both. And Sin had finally had enough of that. The remainder of their travel had been so much more pleasant after she had ceased squawking.
Marriage to this woman was going to be wretched. But Sin had already suffered one hellacious marriage, and that one had not even come with enough coin to settle his inherited debts. Fortunately, Lady Calliope Manning hailed from a family of obscene wealth. And he intended to obtain enough of it to rescue himself from ruin. All at her expense.
He would not feel a modicum of guilt about that. Because she had brought this on herself with her vicious lies. The she-devil owed him.
“Come,” he told her, taking her elbow and guiding her to the rickety stairs. “You must be tired after our travels. I will take you to our chamber and you can tend to yourself as you must before dinner.”
Her eyes went wide and she yanked her elbow from his grasp, making a strangled noise.
Blast. He supposed he would have to untie the gag if he was to communicate with her. Unfortunately.
He extracted his blade and used it to slice through the silk handkerchief he had used as his makeshift gag. “There you are, my lady. What was it you wanted to say to me?”
“Our chamber?” she demanded. “You truly are a madman if you believe I will lower myself to share a chamber with you.”
“You think you are in a position to make demands of me?” He laughed. The sound held no levity. His laughter never did these days. Had not in years, perhaps.
Her lips thinned into a harsh line. “I am a lady. You are a lord. Surely that ought to account for something? Have you forgotten who we are in your merciless plans?”
“Amusing of you to remind me. Had you not thought of something similar before penning your spurious accounts of my supposed memoirs, all so you could ruin me?” he countered. “Tell me, Lady Calliope, where did you come upon some of the information included in those memoirs? The orgies, in particular. Could it be you have experienced them yourself? How shocking for a young, innocent, unwed lady to write such filth. It you were to be revealed as the author to all London, I cannot help but to imagine the scandal.”
Indeed, such a revelation would prove her ruination. The doors of polite society would be forever closed to her, regardless of her brother the duke’s immense wealth. They could overlook her eccentricities, but a fallen woman, and a fallen woman who was hell-bent upon ruining an earl with false memoirs…
She paled. “I told you, I did not write those memoirs.”
“And I told you, I saw them on your writing desk at Westmorland House after I paid a visit to your brother. For a man who led the Special League, he is quite inept at making certain his visitors leave when they say they do.” He caught her elbow again, not above forcing her to the chamber. “And before that, I managed to get the truth out of the younger White. You made it far too easy to find you, Lady Calliope. But I am glad for that, because you are precisely what I need.”
“I will not marry you,” she insisted.
Carrying the lamp, he led her up the steps, taking care to avoid the loose board on the fifth stair. He had made a trip here as part of his plans, just to make certain Helston Hall was yet livable. The answer had been yes.
Barely.
“Your argument is pointless,” he told her. “The dye has been cast. Do watch that step. It is rather rotten, I fancy. Tread with care.”
“Where the devil have you brought me?” she demanded. “This leaking monstrosity is more fit to be a ruins than a home.”
“Not for long,” he said calmly, hauling her to the top of the stairs. “With the proper coin, it can be repaired and restored to its former glory.”
“Is that what this is about?” She yanked at her elbow again, making herself a dead weight as he attempted to pull her down the hall toward the state apartments. “You have abducted me so you can convince my brother to pay you ransom and settle your debts? Are you truly that desperate?”
“Yes, I am that desperate,” he snapped, pulling her with all his might. “But I am not that stupid. “I do not want a ransom. I want a lifetime of reassurance. Only marriage will buy me that.”
“I repeat, I will not marry you.” She attempted to wrest herself from his grasp once more, but it wa
s futile.
He was far stronger than she was, and he simply dragged her into the chamber. “Yes, you will.”
Unfortunately for his captive, this chamber was the sole habitable one of the lot. Which meant they would be sharing both the room and the bed.
“I do not know what you are about, Lord Sinclair,” she huffed with more of that signature bravado of hers, “but abduction is against Her Majesty’s law. Nor can you force me to marry you.”
“Who said anything about force, princess?” He lit another lamp, all while keeping a firm hold on his wife-to-be, lest she attempt to clobber him with a random household object.
The chamber smelled of must, but evidence of its former glory abounded in the plasterwork on the ceiling and its sheer size. A shame, truly. This ramshackle old beast was once a prized jewel in the Sinclair earldom’s coronet.
She laughed, the sound shrill. “If you think I shall willingly marry you, my lord, you are even madder than I thought.”
Oh, he was definitely madder than she thought.
“If you wish to use the chamber pot, you will find it behind the screen just over there,” he told her coolly, gesturing to the shadowed corner of the room. “I will await you, and then we will dine before retiring for the evening. The journey has left me tired.”
Her gaze narrowed on him. “And where will you be awaiting me, Lord Sinclair? Surely not within this chamber.”
“Wrong again, princess.” He flashed her a grin. “I will be right here. Naturally, I do not trust you not to get yourself into trouble, should I offer you even a moment alone. Therefore, I shall wait.”
Callie gaped at the Earl of Sinclair, trying to control the fear threatening to clog her throat. She was terrified of him, it was true. How strange it was to at last be face-to-face with the man she had turned into a veritable devil in her mind. Before her brother, Alfred’s, death, she had scarcely ever crossed paths with the earl, her social circle being quite a bit removed from Sinclair’s dubious connections. In the wake of Alfred’s death, she had fled to Paris and her aunt Fanchette, and the man responsible for Alfred’s sudden demise had been a world away.
She had forgotten how handsome he was. She wished he was a great, ugly gargoyle of a man. That she could take one look at him and see the evil somehow reflected upon his visage, burning from his eyes.
Instead, he was not hideous. Nor had he been particularly violent or vicious thus far. But he was certainly a lunatic. He watched her now with an implacable calm, as if he had not just ordered her to use a chamber pot within his hearing. And as if he had not suggested she would willingly become his bride.
“I require privacy,” she told him, pleased that her voice did not betray even a tremble.
In the battle she waged with this despicable foe, she knew she would need to maintain as much ground as she possibly could.
“And you shall have it,” he agreed. “Behind the screen.”
She was in desperate need of relief. They had traveled hours from London—she knew not how long. But he had not stopped for her comfort, and as a result, she was about to burst. Still, she had her pride.
Callie shook her head. “I cannot possibly do it.”
“You will have to accustom yourself to all manner of intimacies with me after we are wed, princess.” He quirked a brow at her, unrelenting. “This will be the least of them.”
His words chilled her to her core. “Considering you murdered your former countess and my brother both, I will never marry you, my lord. Nor will I use the chamber pot within your earshot. Get out.”
He chuckled, and even that sound was sinister. “You seem to be confused about which one of us holds all the power. Allow me to educate you: your hands are bound. You are at my mercy. You have no choice.”
The insistent pain in her bladder reminded her he was close to being right. But she was not going to give in just yet. Her mind spun.
“I cannot use the chamber pot with my hands bound,” she tried next.
If he forced her to humiliate herself, at the very least, she could perhaps have her hands free so she could attempt to escape him. Her eyes went around the chamber in search of something with which she could bludgeon him and settled upon a strangely shaped figurine on a nearby table.
“Of course you can,” he countered, frowning.
“I cannot.” She held up her bound hands and made a show of attempting to grasp her voluminous skirts. “Unless you wish to aid me, I must have my hands freed. You may continue to preside over me as my gaoler as you wish. But at least grant me the decency of tending to myself.”
His wide jaw tensed beneath the shadow of dark whiskers covering it. “Only until you have finished, and then your wrists will be bound again. And if you attempt anything foolish, it will not go well for you, princess. I have no qualms about hurting you. Do you understand me?”
Her heart pounded. “Perfectly.” She held out her bound wrists to him.
He pulled that same, wicked-looking blade from within his jacket and sawed through the bindings with ease. “Nothing foolish, Lady Calliope.”
Blood rushed back to her fingers as he freed her, making Callie cry out as tingling pain seared through her. She had not realized how tight her bindings had been until their removal. She rubbed her wrists and flexed her fingers, wincing.
His hands were on hers then, and an unwanted heat skipped up past her elbows at the touch. He rubbed her fingers in his, cursing bitterly. “Was it too tight?”
“Why would you care?” she asked, jerking herself from his grasp.
What a strange man he was, acting as if he were concerned. She did not trust him. If he was concerned, it was for his own plans and not for her wellbeing. That much, she knew without doubt.
She turned away from him and went behind the screen, where more shadows and a chamber pot awaited her. Grimacing, she made the necessary motions to relieve herself, terribly conscious of Sinclair’s presence on the other side of the screen. Also terribly aware that she would somehow have to get her hands on the figurine and deliver a blow to the earl’s head with it.
Though she hesitated to harm anyone, her ability to escape him grew fainter by the moment. He had taken her somewhere well beyond the boundaries of London, and she had no hope finding her way back unless she did something drastic.
She took her time, rising and settling her undergarments and gown back into place.
“Are you finished?” came his voice, low and impatient.
“Almost,” she hedged, swiftly crafting her plan.
If she hesitated, lingering behind the screen, it was entirely likely he would come for her, and then she could distract him by throwing the screen onto him, giving her enough time to get her hands on that figurine.
“What is taking you so bloody long?” he demanded, his booted footfalls striding nearer.
Nearer.
She held her breath. At the last moment, she shoved the screen, upending it onto him. His muffled curses were not far behind her as she raced for the figurine. Her fingers closed upon it, and she turned, raising it high, striking him over the head with it.
The figurine smashed into hundreds of ceramic shards, raining all over the floor.
He growled.
But he did not topple over. Nor did he pass out. Instead, he lunged for her.
And that was when she knew she was in desperate trouble.
Chapter Three
After they were both dead, dear reader, I wish I could tell you I experienced a measure of guilt. However, I knew not even a modicum. I gloried in my crime. The Duke of W. and the Countess of Sin deserved their fates.
~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl
The witch had broken a porcelain figure over his head. Sin supposed he ought not to be surprised. Leave it to Lady Calliope Manning to find one of the few pieces remaining within Helston Hall which had yet to be sold off or bartered because it was too bloody ugly, and to clobber him with it.
But she would pay for her folly.
&n
bsp; He was not in the mood to find amusement in her attempts to beat in his brains, as it happened. His reaction, he had to admit, was rather something of an overreaction. There was no need to tackle her and pin her to the threadbare carpet beneath him. No reason save his own fury.
And the desire to have her beneath him.
He would not lie about that. As much as he loathed her, Lady Calliope was a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty with a feminine form to tempt a saint. The need to overpower her, to show her just how helpless she was, had become a physical ache that swelled beyond the mere tides of lust.
Sin caught her hands, pinning them over her head. His thighs bracketed hers, and he leaned down, so their noses nearly touched. She was breathing heavily, thrusting her full bosom into his chest.
“That was a mistake,” he told her as he allowed his gaze to flit over her face.
Her eyes were wide, luminous pools of darkness. Her lips parted. “Let me go, you brute.”
Why the hell was she so damned beautiful? So alluring? So traitorous?
He ground his jaw, forcing back a wave of desire that crashed over him when she writhed beneath him. He was not supposed to want her, damn it. “I am the brute? Need I remind you which one of us has just attacked the other?”
“You abducted me!” she shouted, struggling to free herself. “You killed my brother!”
She was panting beneath him, fighting him with all her might. He had to admit, she possessed surprising strength for such an elegant duke’s daughter. He also had to admit, he liked the way she fought him. His cock was hard.
What the hell was wrong with him? She had ruined him and had just accused him of murdering her brother, a crime which he had most certainly not committed. How could he be randy at a time like this?
“I abducted you,” he snapped at her. “I will own that. But I can assure you, I did not kill your brother. The sainted Duke of Westmorland achieved his demise all on his own.”
Lady Ruthless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 1) Page 2