Tangled in Sin

by Lavinia Kent

  Filling his arms with wood, he strode back to the house, feeling the sweat on his muscles steam and cool. He felt in control and ready to explain, coolly and logically, to her all the reasons that they must marry, to give her no choice in the matter, to make her understand that it was what was best for her. While splitting the logs, he’d reconciled himself further to the coming marriage. He’d always liked her, found her amusing. Surely she could not have changed that much. And she’d always been so easy to be with. It was a quality he’d never appreciated enough, the feeling of simply being comfortable with someone. Plus, she was an attractive woman, more than attractive. Her ass truly was beyond compare. His mind filled with it—and all the things he’d like to do to it. And that wasn’t even thinking about those long muscled legs—he remembered she’d been quite the horsewoman even as a girl—and her more than satisfactory tits. He’d always been a man who preferred quality to quantity. A sensitive nipple was far more important than overwhelming bounty. And if he remembered how she’d rubbed into him, she was more than sensitive. He might very well enjoy torturing her with pleasure.

  His cock grew against his leg.

  Maybe once he’d persuaded her to marriage they could indulge a little. The damage was already done. A little more wouldn’t do any harm—although his thoughts were of far more than a little.

  He knew he’d hurt her with his unknowing carelessness, but he was more than ready to make it up to her. He’d certainly felt her response before that moment—and if she was still sore, there were many other things they could do.

  Did one do such things with a fiancée or a wife? Well, he didn’t see why not. If he was going to be forced to marriage—and he would have been at some point even if not this soon—then he certainly intended to make the best of the situation.

  His mind circled back. She’d always seemed remarkably sensible for a girl. He smiled as more memories came to him: Sin debating points of history—she’d always thought we should just have let the colonies go, hadn’t we paid attention to what happened in France? Sin riding across the fields, jumping the hedges as well as any man twice her age, Sin playing the most delicious pranks, she’d once put salt in his father’s morning chocolate—ah, the expression on the duke’s face, Sin arguing that she should be allowed to take fencing lessons, didn’t a girl need to be able to defend herself? In fact, it was surprising that his men had been able to abduct her. They were probably lucky she hadn’t landed a couple of kicks right between the legs.

  Yes, he had always liked her, although then she’d been a girl and now she was a woman. He could only hope that she’d not become as foolish as most women. Her insistence on not marrying made him worry that she had. It was so like a woman to not understand what must be done and just move on from there. Only a woman would live in such a world of fantasy.

  And not at all the type of fantasies that he liked to indulge in.

  Reaching the door to the cottage, he rapped on it with his elbow, waiting for Sin to come open the door.

  No answer.

  Blast, how like a woman to be stubborn. If he’d had time to cool off, surely she had as well.

  He knocked with his elbow again.

  Still no answer.

  His mellowed fury began to rise anew.

  “Open the door,” he bellowed, juggling the logs.

  Not a sound from within.

  Had she tried to leave on her own? He could only hope not, but slight worry began to gnaw in his belly.

  He turned his head up to the falling rain and swore softly, before lowering the logs to the ground and pushing down the latch to open the door.

  Still no sound. Using a leg to prop open the door, he lifted the logs and stormed into the room, striding to the hearth. He dropped them there loudly and spun, ready to let Sin know just what he thought of her behavior.

  He stopped cold. She sat curled on the barren cot, head bowed over bent knees, absolutely still. He could not see her face and yet he could sense her frozen despair.

  His anger evaporated in an instant. This is not what he had wanted, not what he had imagined.

  “Cynthia. Sin,” he whispered softly, but she gave no indication of having heard him.

  Blast.

  Watching her carefully he went over to the chair and lay down his coat, before sitting to pull off his boots. He debated his shirt and breeches. His clothing was not drenched as it had been last night, but it was distinctly damp. Half-naked or wet? He glanced at Sin. Damp. He did not think it was a good time to confront her with his bare chest and thighs.

  On quiet feet he walked over and sat beside her on the cot.

  Still no indication that she even knew he was there.

  What the hell had happened while he was out? When he’d left she’d been resistant and strong, now she seemed completely defeated.

  He edged closer. Nothing. He moved until his hip touched hers. She shuddered slightly but did not move away. Lifting a gentle hand he stroked her hair once, and then again. He brushed the upper curve of her cheek, visible even with her bent head. Another shudder. He reached out with care and placed an arm about her. God, she was freezing. He was the one who’d been out in the pouring rain, but she felt like she’d been sitting in the midst of a blizzard.

  He stood quickly and went to add more logs to the fire, building it until it blazed. He lifted the twisted blankets from the floor and walked back to her. He stopped again and with some consideration dropped his breeches and pulled off his damp shirt. She needed warmth more than she needed decorum. She’d seen him in his smallclothes already and had not screamed—and this time he would know better than to let his foolish body take the lead, no matter where his thoughts and fantasies might lead him.

  He sat down next to her, placing an arm about her thin shoulders, and wrapped them both in the blanket, tucking it securely about her.

  And then they just sat. The fire lit the room despite the continued gloom outside. His stomach rumbled with hunger. It had been hours and hours since he’d finished the bread. There was more food in the saddlebags he’d carried in, but he did not move to retrieve it. He merely sat and waited…and waited…and waited.

  —

  She wasn’t as cold. It was the first thought that she’d had in—well, she didn’t know for how long, but it had been a long time. Warm. She was getting warm. Toasty. She turned her head slightly and glanced at James from under her lashes. She’d known he was there, of course, but had refused to think about it. It had been all she could do to merely exist.

  But now feeling was seeping into her as well as his warmth.

  His arm was warm about her bare shoulders. She should have put her gown back on earlier, but it had not even occurred to her. All that had mattered was wallowing in her pain.

  Temptation grew in her to press into his side, to feel all that silken warmth against her skin. She resisted, hugging her knees more tightly, not understanding her own feelings. How could she find safety in his touch? Why was she not edging away? She needed to be wary. Trusting James is what had led to her current dilemma.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. His stomach rumbled.

  Was she? She hadn’t thought about it. She supposed she should be. It must be hours since she’d gnawed on the bread and even then she’d only had a couple of bites. “I am not sure.”

  “How can you not be sure if you’re hungry?” He sounded genuinely confused.

  “My stomach does feel empty, but I can’t even imagine eating. And does it matter? We finished the bread this morning and I am sure there’s not enough cheese remaining for the two of us. You go ahead and eat it if you wish.”

  His arm tightened about her shoulders. “I brought more food in my bags. I even brought some of those ginger biscuits that Jasmine used to gobble by the pound. If I remember correctly you shared her fondness for them.”

  Ginger biscuits? How long had it been since she’d had a ginger biscuit? He was right; she had adored them. “The ones your cook used to make?”


  “The very same. And I have more cheese and some sausage and bread, if it isn’t either soggy or dried out.”

  Her lips curled slightly. It did seem likely that it would be one or the other, no matter how opposite they were. “You do make me wonder if I might have an appetite.”

  “I think there’s another bottle of wine as well.”

  “I am not sure that is wise.”

  “Wise or not, it will help you stay warm.”

  That was true. And how much worse could things get? “Why don’t you get your bags and find exactly what is in them?”

  He pulled away and immediately she missed the heat and security of his body. The blanket still retained warmth, but it was not the same as having her own private furnace.

  Her dress hung on a hook across the room. Had James hung it for her? She could not remember doing it herself—although she could not be sure. Should she slip across the room and put it on? Somehow that seemed even more intimate that sitting here wrapped in nothing besides her chemise and the blanket. Had she ever gotten dressed with a man in the room? No. She wasn’t sure that she could even remember putting on a cloak or pelisse with a man there—although she must have. For a moment she let her mind slip back, trying to recall such an occasion. Surely she must have. Why could she not think of a single occasion? A winter ball or a cold autumn day? Her mind refused to find a single time.

  It was a silly thought, but so much easier than focusing on her current situation.

  And then she giggled under her breath. Cooper, her father’s porter, was definitely a man and he’d been present almost every time she put on outerwear. In fact, he most often brought it to her. It felt a slightly shameful thought to admit that she hadn’t really considered him a man. She’d never wanted to be someone who didn’t see the servants and thought they were all interchangeable. That was not how she’d been brought up. Her mother had always been clear that the serving and laboring classes might be separate, but they were no less human.

  And that made her glance at James. The Duke of Scarlett’s household had been quite the opposite. The duke had called all the footmen John and all the grooms Tom. Individuality was not allowed. They were there to serve him and for no other purpose.

  James must have been raised with the same beliefs. It was odd the things one couldn’t be sure of, even with those one had known for years.

  On the other hand, Jasmine had always seemed to know her maids’ Christian names, even if her father insisted on calling them all Mary. And from their few recent conversations it seemed that Jasmine was even looking out for the girls who worked for her, the…the whores. Cynthia wished she could think of a more pleasant name for them, but that part of her brain seemed sealed shut.

  “You have a strange expression on your face,” James said, his footsteps causing her to raise her head and stare at him.

  The light from the fire filled the whole room with a golden glow and sent reddish sparkles through his hair. His mouth quirked as he moved toward her, almost a smile. The man really was beautiful. Beautiful wasn’t normally a masculine word, but James was all man and yet she could think of no other word to describe the perfection of his strong, even features and the muscular symmetry of his body.

  For a second her breath caught, and she held it, waiting for clearness of mind to return.

  Not that anything about this day was clear, not the weather and certainly not her mind.

  He raised a brow, expecting her to say something. “I was thinking about how Jasmine was raised, how strange it must have been growing up in the duke’s household.”

  “I can’t say that I found it strange at all, but then I never knew anything else, and I am the second son. I can’t imagine growing up as Langdon did, having every want met and being told the world belonged to me. I always knew that I was second, the extra.”

  “And that is an odd thought, too, although perhaps it was the same for my younger brother. It is different being a woman.”

  His eyes swept over her and for a moment heat filled them. “It certainly is.”

  And how had they gotten here? Yes, she was trying not to contemplate the whole situation, but if she weren’t careful they’d end up right back where they started. “Did you find any wine?” she asked.

  “Yes, two bottles.” He held them up.

  And didn’t that sound dangerous.

  —

  “I was sorry to hear about your mother. She was always kind to me. I wished to attend her funeral but it was over by the time I’d heard,” James said, letting his head fall back against the rough wood of the wall. It would be much more comfortable to move back to the blankets before the fire, but he hesitated to make any such suggestion.

  “She always did like you,” Sin answered with a catch in her voice. “But then, she liked everyone—even your father. I think she remembered him from before he became duke and never felt the same fear as others. She once told me how lost he’d been when both his father and older brother died within a week of each other. She thought he’d become such a decisive man because it was years before he felt he had the right to make decisions, but that he couldn’t let anyone else know that.”

  Truly? It was hard to imagine his father as being anything other than what he’d always been, all powerful. But then, how would he feel if both Scarlett and Langdon were to suddenly be gone? He’d never really considered becoming duke himself, although he’d always known it was a possibility. “I’ve never heard that; although, of course, I know the basic facts.”

  “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to distress you.” Sin turned her face to him, her eyes glowing almost pure green in the dim light.

  “And I was worried I’d distressed you by mentioning your mother.” He brushed a stray curl from her cheek.

  “No, or at least not really. It does hurt to talk of her, to think of her, but it hurts even more not to. I get so tired of everyone avoiding the subject. It’s been much worse since my father remarried. Gillian is a fine woman, but a trifle nervous. My father does not like my mother’s name to be mentioned in front of her. He believes it distresses her to be reminded of his prior marriage.”

  “And are you not a reminder?”

  Her face paled.

  He should probably not have asked the question, but it had flowed so naturally from the conversation.

  She swallowed and then began to speak. “I suppose I am. It is some of why I do not worry about being missed. Since the marriage my father is often out accompanying Gillian and I do not spend much time with them. If I need a chaperone they often call upon the aunt who accompanied me while my mother was ill. I can sometimes go a week without seeing either my father or Gillian. It may only be the servants who will notice that I am gone.”

  “That does not sound easy.”

  “I do not mind it.”

  Why did he not believe that? “It sounds lonely.”

  “But my father is happier. He was so quiet in the months after my mother’s death. I sometimes worried if he would just fade away.”

  “That doesn’t mean you are not lonely.”

  “Perhaps I am. Perhaps that is why I was so eager to visit Jasmine, even though I knew I should not. I missed her so much—not at first. I think at first I was so caught up in my own grief that I didn’t notice she was gone, but then suddenly I became aware just how great a hole there was in my life.”

  Part of him wanted to bring up marriage again, to press his point. Surely he could make her see that if she would only agree to wed him, she would never be lonely. He would promise her that—and mean it. If she lived with him he would notice if she didn’t come home at night and have a thousand searchers out. She would never live unnoticed.

  But he held his tongue and only reached out to squeeze her hand.

  She squeezed back. “I can’t believe it’s been so long since we were last together. For years you seemed like you were part of my life and then…then I don’t know what, but somehow you slipped away.”

  “I must
admit it was the same with me. Perhaps I put you away with my boyish belongings when I felt ready for more manly adventures.”

  Her lips quirked. “And are you going to tell me of those manly adventures?”

  His skin suddenly felt hot as he realized how much he’d like to show her instead of tell her. “I think perhaps not. I imagine Jasmine has told you enough of my secrets.”

  “I am always happy to hear more.”

  “I am sure you are, but I think perhaps we are better discussing you. Are you sure you went to visit Jasmine because you were lonely and not because you were seeking trouble? If I remember correctly, you were always good at that.”

  She sat up straighter, her breast brushing against him heavily. “I never sought trouble. It just always seemed to find me.”

  “And the fact that you put meat scraps in Langdon’s pockets so that every hound in the house followed him around had nothing to do with it.”

  “He had complained that he didn’t think the dogs liked him. I was only trying to help.”

  “Or the time you slid down the banister and—”

  “It was an awfully nice banister. Irresistible, one might say.”

  “Or the time you tried to see how far you could slide in the great hall and tipped over the bust of Queen Elizabeth.”

  “It was a very ugly bust—and besides, that is unfair. I would never have tried it if you had told me exactly how far you’d managed to slide in only your stockings.”

  “I suppose that is true.”

  They were quiet then for a few moments and he let an arm slip about her pulling her close. “Would you like some more of that wine now?” he asked.

  “I should say no. I am sure I am rambling because of it, but I admit I am not yet ready for sleep.”

  He leaned over and refilled the mug, handing it to her. The wine stained her lips for a moment and it was all he could do not to lean nearer and lick it off. He shifted, his pants suddenly tight. “I like your rambling. I always did. I was never bored when you were about.”