Deeper in Sin

by Sharon Page

  “Who is she?” the doctor asked. “The one who stabbed His Grace?”

  “No, of course not! I am”—she didn’t know what to say—“umm, a friend. The duke rescued me from footpads.”

  “Now stand aside, young lady,” the doctor ordered. He rolled up his sleeves, demanded a basin of water, and got to work.

  Throughout, as the doctor cleaned wounds and stitched those that needed to be closed, she saw the duke grit his teeth. His strong jaw clenched, but he never cried out. He was remarkably strong.

  He had rescued her—twice.

  And paid for it by being bruised and cut. When she saw, in good candlelight, all the cuts on his face and the blossoming blue-and-black bruises on his body, she wanted to cry.

  She wanted to make up for what he’d been through.

  She couldn’t stop the nagging fear this was her fault—and he would never want to have anything to do with her again because of it.

  The doctor sloshed his hands in the basin of cooling water. “All finished, Your Grace. You will live,” he said brusquely.

  The butler—or majordomo, as he’d introduced himself—Penders asked about infection.

  “The wound is well cleaned,” said the doctor, sounding a bit affronted. “But there is always a risk a fever can set it.”

  Sophie swallowed hard.

  “I will check frequently on His Grace,” Penders promised.

  Check frequently? He needed someone to watch him. Impulsively, Sophie decided she was the one who must do it.

  To the duke, she whispered, “I’ll come back. I’ll sit by your bedside and watch you.”

  Caradon shook his head, groaning. “No. You, my dear, are trouble.”

  Was that really what he thought?

  If she was to have any hope of saving herself and her family, she must prove to him she wasn’t trouble.

  Sophie slipped out of the bedroom she had been given, far from the duke’s room. She was certain she remembered the way back. She still wore her gown—the majordomo had not thought to send anyone to help her unfasten it. Her feet were bare though.

  Moonlight spilled in through a huge, arched window at the end of her corridor, guiding her way. Even this corridor was magnificent, with little niches filled with enormous china vases. Paintings hung on the wall, more paintings than she had ever seen in her life.

  Was she just crazy to try to have a duke for her protector? If the Duke of Caradon died because he’d tried to stop her from becoming a courtesan, even though she didn’t want to be stopped, she would . . .

  She didn’t know what she would do.

  She couldn’t go to another man to try to make him her protector. She wanted no one but Caradon.

  Sophie reached a large double door that she was certain was the duke’s bedchamber. She clicked the latch and opened one door a few inches. “Your Grace?”

  Silly—he wasn’t going to hear that whisper from his bed.

  At least there was no one else in the room.

  “See? You made the right decision,” she whispered to herself. “He needs someone to watch him constantly.”

  A moan, a horrible agonized sound, came from the bed.

  The sound raised the hairs on the back of Sophie’s neck. She stood, paralyzed.

  She rushed to the bed as the duke began to toss under his covers. His arms moved, thrashing at the sheets, and his legs kicked to-and-fro.

  The covers slid off him, revealing his wide, hard muscled torso, his tight waist, and the flat expanse of his belly. She saw his lean hips, his solid strong thighs. His—

  She stared as his naked cock. Surprisingly, it was at half-mast. And he made Samuel look . . . like a young lad.

  He mumbled. “No, don’t touch me, no . . .” His voice was hoarse and panicked. He sounded terribly afraid.

  She stopped staring, and put her palm against his forehead. At her touch, he ceased to move, but he moaned again. She felt the lumps of his bruises, but his forehead wasn’t hot; it was cool. This wasn’t a fever.

  Was he dreaming of the attack?

  “Untie me . . . God, untie me . . .”

  She stroked his head. “Shhh,” she murmured. “It’s over. You’re home and you are safe, Your Grace.”

  He soothed a bit.

  She kept stroking his face, gently running her palm along his cheek. The stubble on his skin and the sharp jut of his cheekbone tickled her hand. But she was soothing him, so she kept doing it.

  Even bruised, he was so beautiful. She winced, seeing the blossoming purple-and-green marks on his cheeks, his jaw, his temple.

  In the light of the glowing coals in the grate, his hair gleamed like pure gold.

  His long, black lashes flickered against his cheeks, and he suddenly jerked and started muttering again. He wasn’t thrashing, but he wasn’t at peace—

  Footsteps sounded outside. Light showed at the base of the door. She had to think quickly.

  She slid off the bed and ran around it. The door handle turned.

  Sophie dropped to the floor, hidden by both the thick mattress and the skirt of the bed. She wanted to squirm under the bed, but in the wretched corset, she couldn’t lie down. Stupid, stupid fashion. All she could do was press tight to the bed and pray she was hidden by shadow.

  Footsteps came to the bed. Looking up, not daring to breathe, she saw a glow of light. Smelled the burning wax of a candle. Good beeswax, not tallow. It must be Penders checking on his master.

  The duke must have fallen into a calmer sleep. She didn’t hear any movement of the mattress.

  The servant left, closing the door, satisfied his master was all right.

  But Caradon was not all right—he had been experiencing a horrible nightmare.

  She had seen how bravely and courageously he had faced the three men in the alley. What had he dreamed about that had frightened him?

  Sophie gripped the bed, struggled against the tightness of the wretched corset, and pulled herself up to her feet. She squealed—then cut off the sound partway.

  Caradon was awake, his pale blue eyes focused on her.

  “Christ, Miss Ashley, what are you doing here?” His voice was a croak. “Did you come to get into my bed?”

  There was something in his expression . . . in his eyes....

  Was it desire? Lust? He looked as if he desperately needed to be kissed. She tentatively touched him again, letting her hand stroke his cheek. “I came to watch over you.” Impulsively, she added, “Please call me Sophie.”

  “Miss—Sophie, God . . . I had a dream.”

  “I know.”

  He tensed. “How?”

  “You were thrashing. And you said the words no and ‘Don’t touch me.’ ”

  “That’s all?”

  Goodness, the duke looked grim and worried.

  “You did also say, ‘Untie me,’ Your Grace,” she said.

  “It was just a nightmare. And call me Cary.”

  A nickname. Her heart leapt. She gazed down at him. “But what were you dreaming about? You faced those men without fear. You defended yourself against a knife with a cravat, for heaven’s sake. What tormented you in your dream—was it when you were a prisoner of war?”

  He groaned. Then said, “Your touch is so sweet.”

  He wasn’t telling her to stop. To go away. His pale blue eyes gazed into hers. “Let me do this,” he growled. “Let me make love to you. Let me prove I can.”

  Her heart hammered with hope. With desire. He was so beautiful. He had rescued her—he was so wonderful.

  His hand came up and cupped her neck, and he drew her into his kiss.

  6

  I must have you. You obsess over me. Leave the Marquess of N——and become mine absolutely.

  Finally, I had a duke speak those words to me.

  “You are too cruel and too callous,” my viscount declared when he found out I had not refused the duke’s offer. “You’ve broken my heart long enough. I am finished with you.”

  Then he was gone. I
hugged myself and paced by the fire. Really, what was the loss? I had a duke!

  I had a duke to please—

  Indeed, I began to wonder if I could be more than a mistress. Perhaps my next conquest should be something of great accomplishment. Something on the matrimonial front. All I had to do was capture the heart of the right gentleman through my rather unique endowment—my mind.

  I knew I should be able to become a duchess—if I played my cards with patience, skill, and cunning. For now that I had lost my viscount, to what else could I aspire? Not love, surely. It had proven itself to be the playground of fools.

  —From an unfinished manuscript entitled A Courtesan Confesses by Anonymous

  He needed to do this.

  He needed to kiss her, and he needed to blank out that damned dream.

  Cary cupped Sophie’s slender neck and threaded his fingers in her loose black hair. He drew her down and touched his mouth to hers.

  Slowly, he caressed her lips with his, and he knew, from her shivers and shudders, that she felt the magical tingle. It would hit his lips, then rush through him like a jolt of lightning.

  He let his tongue caress her lips, and he felt her quiver. Heard her moan softly. Breathlessly.

  He wanted her to like this. He needed her to like it.

  To prove—

  Suddenly, he was in the melee of battle, surrounded by screaming cannon fire and the metallic tang of spilling blood. A horse went down beside him, and the great beast slammed into him, knocking him back. A bullet sliced along his left bicep as he went down, neatly parting his tunic and bringing forth a stream of blood—

  The shot had been aimed at his heart. If the horse hadn’t hit him, the ball would have passed right through him, ripping his heart to bits.

  Hit by the horse, stunned by the shot, he lay on the ground. The falling horse had pinned him.

  Then something had slammed hard into his skull.

  Next thing he’d known, he was in a in a cave, in a makeshift cell built of bamboo, and chained to the rock.

  One by one, the other prisoners had died. They had been more badly wounded. Infection had led to fever. Dehydration had killed them. Two had gone mad, screaming like lunatics before dying in seizures.

  He’d been tortured to force him to talk but, he hadn’t broken.

  Mainly, because he’d found he couldn’t talk. Something had gone wrong in his brain, and no matter what his captors had done to him, he wouldn’t talk.

  He hadn’t spoken until days after he’d been freed—

  The memories surged up, swamping him.

  Cary broke off the kiss, drawing his mouth back. He rasped for breath. His heart hammered. “I can’t,” he muttered. “You’re too sweet. Too innocent.”

  He couldn’t kiss her, damn it. Sexual pleasure wasn’t strong enough anymore. Even intense desire didn’t push the memories away now.

  This was why he couldn’t marry. A woman would guess, wouldn’t she, that something was wrong?

  Sophie ran her tongue over her lips. The poor sweet looked afraid.

  “But I’m not sweet, Your Grace! I’m very naughty. When I’m with you, I feel like I’m on fire. And I want you.”

  Cary watched her hands move. They went behind her back, an action that thrust her breasts forward. Perfect, round little breasts that bulged over the scooped neckline of her dress. Two voluptuous swells like perfect peaches.

  His tongue curled instinctively. It had been a long time, but he remembered the sweet, velvety, rubbery feel of a nipple against the flat of his tongue.

  Her neckline loosened. She was undoing the buttons of her gown.

  Then she stopped and pouted playfully. “I can’t go any further. And I want you so much. But I don’t need my gown all the way off to make love to you.”

  Her knee dipped into his bed, and she pulled her shift up, revealing her sleek legs, her rounded hips—and the dark curls between her legs because she wore no drawers. She bunched the shift at her hips and swung her leg over him.

  God, she was climbing on top.

  “Don’t,” he growled.

  But it was too late. Sophie straddled him, looking down at him, and she settled her rump down on his thighs.

  Her sweet, flowery, warm scent wrapped around him. He picked up another scent too. Her arousal. He smelled it faintly as she wriggled, grinding her warm, sweet crotch against the semi-hard lump of his cock. He gave a ragged groan.

  God, this was good. He loved the pressure on his cock, which was fighting to harden while trapped between her warm body and his abdomen.

  She’d taken out her pins, and her hair showered around her in wild raven waves. What would it look like flying around her as she rode him?

  She lowered, her breasts spilling over the brim of her bodice. Succulent, sweet, and he ached to lift his hands and touch them.

  He was ready to do it—

  Then his brain flashed to the past again....

  Where he was pinned down and he couldn’t fight. Couldn’t protect himself.

  “I can’t do this, Sophie,” he croaked.

  “I told you I am not a virgin. I have experienced . . . rutting.”

  “I’m sorry you lost your husband.” His heart hurt for her.

  “Poor sweet,” he murmured. He knew the hell of battle—she knew the loss of it too.

  Her sweet mouth was there. She bent just a little farther. He had a good look down her bodice at the swells of her breasts, the hot, tempting valley between them.

  She’d been in love and lost the man she loved. No wonder she was impoverished. She’d married young, and her husband had been snatched from her, leaving her with nothing—

  She kissed him—and reached down and wrapped her hand around his cock.

  Suddenly, blood shot down so fast, he was light-headed. His cock went rock hard.

  She was hurting. He was hurting.

  He wanted to lose all his pain in loving her. Take her pain away.

  She wriggled on his prick, and he felt like a lion in a menagerie ripping free of its chains.

  He lifted his hips and ground his pulsing hard cock against her.

  She did it! She had tempted the duke beyond control. And he was going to make her his.

  Victory made Sophie heady. She giggled in sheer joy—a sound which got silenced as the duke put his lips over hers again.

  He kissed her so hot and masterfully, her lips felt like they were sizzling and about to catch fire. Slowly, his hands moved down. One slipped with skill inside her loosened bodice and cupped her breast.

  Her hand was wrapped daringly around his most intimate place.

  Against her palm, his staff was rigid and so hot. His skin was like velvet, but beneath—oh, it was hard as iron. She stroked him and sensed him tense.

  With each stroke of her hand, his finger brushed lightly over her nipple.

  Goodness!

  It made her sizzle everywhere.

  She let her hand slide all the way to the head of his erection, fat and firm and velvety in her hand. She breathed in the ripe smell of him.

  Sophie trembled.

  This man was a hero to her, just as Samuel had been. And he was so decadently handsome.

  And—

  He pinched her left nipple, and the tweak made her cunny clench. She ached for him. Positively ached.

  Gently, he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and sensation exploded. She’d never dreamed her nipples would like such rough treatment.

  His tongue slipped into her mouth. His other hand slid down and nestled between her legs. Aching so much, she rubbed against his hand.

  The duke’s fingers tapped a place under her skirts and between her thighs—a place that sent a bolt of lightning streaking through her and made her cry out in shock.

  His hands did things. All kinds of things. Wickedly good things.

  Then he grasped her hips and held her still as he ground his thick erection against her.

  Sophie moaned as need hit
her with a jolt that made her weak. She was so wet, it made her blush.

  He wasn’t saying anything. But then Samuel hadn’t either on the night they had made love. He’d kissed her wildly and sloppily and made love to her, but he hadn’t said much.

  She assumed men were like that.

  Caradon’s kisses were playful one minute, hard and demanding the next. He would touch his lips to hers so gently, her mouth simply tingled, then his open mouth would take hers, and his tongue would come in and thrust inside in the naughtiest ways. She didn’t know there was so much to kisses. Caradon’s were . . . complicated.

  They made her melt. She was shaking, so aroused she was almost sobbing with need.

  He lifted her, moving her so she had to let go of his cock and grip his shoulders. Her quim settled down right on top of the ridge of his erection.

  He must be eager. Beneath her—and there was nothing between the slick lips of her private place and his erection—he was as hard as a cricket bat. He felt huge where she pressed on him.

  He kissed her hungrily, and she pushed on his shoulders to break away from his mouth.

  Breathlessly, she looked into his lust-hazed eyes. “Do you want me to put you inside me now?”

  He pulled her down roughly, his mouth coaxing her lips wide. His tongue surged in. It was a luscious kiss.

  She wanted him so much.

  She couldn’t wait any longer.

  Now!

  She reached down and wrapped her hand around his shaft again. Her heart galloped, and she took him inside.

  He was so thick and so long, and she felt so full that she cried out. Her cunny gripped tight around him, and she planted her hands onto his shoulders to ride him—

  “No, Sophie.” He jerked back from the kiss, his breathing ragged. “I can’t do it, love.”

  “What?”

  “We have to stop.”

  No. Nooooo! “But—but why? What have I done wrong?” She was whimpering.

  “Nothing,” he said hoarsely. He gripped her thighs and lifted her. She lifted off his erect cock, and it went twanging out of her like a bow.