by Sharon Page
Sophie stiffened. She hadn’t known about that. Was he still in love with Greybrooke’s sister? Was the duke’s sister someone Cary had wanted to marry but couldn’t because of his memories?
“And you both lost out to Winterhaven. I would have thought Stratham would have lashed out at Winterhaven if that were his motive.”
“True,” Cary admitted. “It does not sound likely.”
Greybrooke’s sister had married someone else. Had that broken Cary’s heart? He could still be in love with her, even if she belonged to someone else.
Sophie’s heart gave a foolish jolt of pain as if it had cracked.
She was only ever going to be his mistress. She knew that.
She wanted him to heal—and that meant he would marry. But if he were pining for Lady Winterhaven, would he ever marry?
Was it a way she could keep him for a long time, if she could find the secret to helping him? Even if she didn’t ever have his heart, she could have him.
“I need to corner both rats in one of their filthy holes,” Cary said. “I intend to do it tonight. Down near the docks. A house on Horton Street.”
“Number four?” Sin asked.
“Figures you would know it.” Cary grinned. He turned to her. “I’m taking you home, angel. Then I have to go out.”
Sophie set down her sherry. “I wish to go with you.”
“I am not bringing you to this place. It makes an orgy look tame.”
Cary took her home and put her up to bed even though it was morning. Sophie hadn’t learned his secret, but she did know she was right. Something had happened to him when he had been a child.
“Don’t go yet,” she whispered. “I want to make you climax.”
“Sophie”—he raked his hand through his hair—“you want to come, love, and I’m happy to oblige. But I’ve got too much on my mind to find ecstasy.”
He opened the bedside table drawer and drew out one of the wands. Then he tossed it onto the bed, along with the vial of oil for moistening it.
With his elegant hands, he stripped off his clothing. All his clothing. He bore scars on his body from the war, but he was so muscular and beautiful.
She watched, breathless, as he rubbed oil along the ivory wand. Then he lay back on the bed and said, “Come over here.”
She did. She had already undressed. Now she moved in front of him, naked with confidence.
They were getting closer to his being able to make love. She was sure of it.
He had let her pleasure him with her mouth. He had then shown her ecstasy when he’d used the wand on her. He’d told her he was teaching her how to pleasure herself, but she was sure she could coax him into more.
She climbed onto the bed.
He cupped her bottom and moved her so she straddled his chest.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. He just showed her. He slid the slick wand inside her, moving it with long, slow thrusts. Sophie moaned. She felt her clit swell and tighten with arousal.
Cary began moving the wand quickly. Then he pulled her forward and lifted his head, and he flicked his tongue over her clit.
Goodness!
She climaxed almost instantly. But he kept pleasuring her. She rode the wand and each movement brought her clit against his tongue. Oh! Oh!
She burst again, seeing stars.
Gently, he drew the wand out of her. Then she sat down on him and took his mouth in a passionate kiss.
He broke the kiss and rolled over so she landed on the bed.
He got up and went over to where his clothes were strewn on the floor. Firelight gleamed along his lean, muscled body.
“I have to go now, angel.”
“Well, I’m going too. We are in this together.”
He bent and retrieved his drawers. She had a magnificent view of his tight buttocks. The small dimples at the small of his back. And the hollow way his haunches indented. He half turned. The sharp lines of his hipbones were undeniably sensual.
She slid out of the bed too and padded over to him. Naked.
She liked to be naked, bathed in the warmth of the fire. Naked with him.
He shook his head. “You are not coming to this damned place.”
Lightly, she touched his bare back. “You act like you are going to face something terrible. What happens at this place?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“How can it make an orgy look tame?”
His eyes searched hers. Pale blue and beautiful but filled with some distant pain. He was trying to hold something in—and failing. “Some people like pain with their sex.”
She remembered Stratham’s threats—or promises?—of what he would do to her. “How can anyone do that?”
“People are strange animals when it comes to sex. There is nothing more perverse and twisted than the human mind.”
“You are not like that.”
He straightened, pulling up his linen drawers, then his trousers. He looked down to fasten them. Under his breath he muttered, “You would be surprised.”
Then she heard his last words to himself as he walked out of the bedroom and left her.
Low, so it was barely a murmur, he muttered, “At this place, I will likely remember all the hellish memories I want to forget.”
She looked out her window and watched him go to his carriage.
She didn’t care what he said—after what she’d overheard him say, she had to go too.
All she had was the address, No. 4 Horton Street. Sophie had no idea where it would lead....
Her carriage arrived at an old, dark building on the shore of the Thames. Fetid smells made her nose curl. Tall masts were silhouetted against the silver of moonlight.
She looked at the stone building. Really, any woman would be foolish to walk in there. But it was the address she had—she must do it.
There was only one lit window.
Another carriage arrived. Sophie hung back and watched.
A couple stepped out.
They wore dark cloaks, their hoods up, covering their heads. The door opened, and another cloaked man—in the dark rough brown of a monk’s cloak, with a rope around the waist—urged them in through the door. As soon as they passed within, the door shut with a clang.
Whatever this place was, people wanted not to be seen going inside.
Sophie had worn her cloak, for the spring nights were cold. She pulled up her hood to look like the others.
She walked up toward the door.
“What are you doing here?”
It was Cary. He wore a cloak and had pulled up the hood, but moonlight glinted on his eyes. “I told you to keep away,” he growled.
“I was attacked by someone in my own room. I’ve already faced grave danger.”
“This place will carve a hole in your soul. One you will never fix.”
“You’re afraid for my innocence? Your Grace, don’t you see that doesn’t matter anymore?”
“Don’t you see that it does?” He pushed back his hood so she could fully see his irate expression. “If I send you away, it won’t work, will it? You will come back.”
“You can’t tell me this place will ruin me and not expect me to want to see it.”
“For any other woman, I might think she would listen. And have a sense of self-preservation. But not you. You are the most stubborn, impetuous woman I’ve met.”
Those were not good attributes. “If I hadn’t been stubborn, my family would have starved.”
Sophie turned to the door. She let out a small scream. A dark figure stood there—
It was the door monk.
Cary’s deep voice played against her ear. “You can’t think of a good thing caused by being impetuous.”
“I met you. So don’t be so certain you are right. I met you, and that has been the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.”
He let out a ragged breath. “At first I thought you were trouble. Now I see the same is tr
“From what? What happened to you?” This was the first time he had put it that way. As if he had done something for which he needed redemption. That was why he was rescuing her?
He didn’t answer, just propelled her toward the entrance.
The monk put his hands together in a gesture of prayer. He bowed to both her and Cary, and pointed a long, bony finger toward the now open door.
“Good lord, we are walking into hell,” she whispered as they stepped inside. They were in a cavernous space lit by six torches on the walls. The light danced and writhed on the water. Magnified and echoing, the lap of water against stone filled her ears.
They stood on a stone walkway. It ran around three sides of the building. The middle was only water. The end of the building had large doors, and windows in the roof let in light from the moonlit sky.
“We go to the doors on the end.” The space echoed Cary’s deep, soft voice. “Follow the walkway.”
She balked. “I’ll fall off that.”
“You won’t. I promise.” Cary put his hand firmly on her hip. Just having him touch her gave her the courage she needed. Carefully, she made her way along.
A slippery bit. Her foot skidded—
Cary caught her and set her down on her feet.
“You’re strong.”
“That’s battle. If you don’t have the strength to fight, you don’t survive.”
They’d reached the end, and Cary rapped on the door.
“This is like a Minerva Press novel.” Sophie gasped. “I expect to find a deformed monk waiting around the next bend to kidnap me.”
Then she realized he knew to rap three times sharply on the door. How had he known that? It could mean he knew this place, that he had been here before.
The door opened, and a second monk admitted them. Sophie laughed out loud. She didn’t mean to; it was just exactly what she’d pictured. And she was so nervous, she giggled.
On and on they walked, then a figure stepped out—a woman, naked but for leather draped around her hips. Her large breasts hung and swayed heavily. And they were utterly bare, though the nipples were a scarlet that couldn’t be natural.
The woman cracked a whip against the ground. “Halt. To pass you must answer my questions. What is your darkest fantasy, my lord?”
“My fantasies aren’t dark, my dear. They are as pure as fresh snow. Innocent and sweet.” A kind of wryness dripped from his tones. “And I am a duke.”
“My apologies, Your Grace.” The raven-haired woman assessed Sophie. “Would you enjoy watching me whip your darling companion?”
“No!” Sophie said—then she tried to swallow the word as the woman’s very dark brows lifted in surprise.
“Not now,” Cary said coolly. “Perhaps later.”
They were walking in a space that looked like a tunnel built of stone.
Out of earshot of the woman, farther up the tunnel, Sophie squeaked, “Later?”
“I have to make it look like we are here for fun, Sophie, love.”
“But would you . . . want her to hurt me?”
“Of course not.” He grasped her hands. He stopped and pulled her to him. “Have I ever done anything that would make you think I would hurt you?”
“No. You have rescued me.”
“Remember that. I will never hurt you. I promise you. I care about you.”
Cared about her? Her breath flew out. Was he saying . . . Could he possibly . . . be falling in love with her?
He let her go. “We’re almost at the house,” he said.
Sophie gasped.
The house proved to have long corridors running front to back, with many rooms that led off the main hall. Like the other brothel, the sweaty, heavy tang of people having sex filled the air. She heard grunts. Cries. Even screams! Muted and from behind closed doors.
There were all sorts of strange contraptions. Long, slender benches made of leather and iron. Along one wide bench, four women kneeled, their bottoms bared. A tall man with huge muscles spanked each woman with a riding crop. One spank in turn, moving along the line, making all the voluptuous cheeks jiggle. The man wore no shirt, only breeches. His skin was coppery brown and slick with sweat. He wore a black mask, and dark stubble shaded his cheeks. He was handsome, if one liked big men. There was a huge bulge in the front of his breeches.
Sophie looked away, blushing.
She realized Cary was watching her. Only her. Not the naked women, the scenes of pain. All around them gentlemen watched, and while they did, they fondled half-naked women. The women fondled them. All sorts of members were exposed and being touched.
The Duke of Caradon was looking only at her.
At another contraption, a standing one, a woman was tied hand and foot. She was half naked, her shift pulled down to her waist. Her red hair hung loose, falling in a flood of bright ringlets down her back. Behind her, a handsome black-haired young man applied a whip with frightening force. The woman took each stroke. Her back was marked but not broken, which meant the whip’s lash could not be very strong.
Sophie recognized the woman by her red hair. She was one of the five courtesans who had sponsored the Cyprian ball. The Fiery Rose, she was called. Obviously, because of her hair.
Women were not the only ones taking punishment. A man lay naked between a woman’s spread legs while another woman whipped his derrière.
The whipping at the large frame ended. The dark-haired man gently untied the woman. Sophie was struck by the tenderness he showed after the whipping. A robe was brought by a man without a shirt—a servant, or man who worked here. The dark-haired gentleman wrapped it around the woman and led her away.
“You next.” The hooded, barrel-chested man pointed at Sophie with his riding crop.
“Not her,” Cary said.
“If she won’t play, you have to leave,” grunted the dungeon master. “You are to do the honors of punishing her, my lord.”
“I’m a damned duke.”
“Your Grace,” the man corrected.
In a soft voice that only Cary could hear, she said to him, “We have to find out about Halwell and Stratham, and we can’t be thrown out. I’ll do it. If you are the one holding the whip, you won’t hit me hard.”
“Sophie, God no. I can’t do this.”
But she knew they must. They were drawing attention. And they had to find out who had attacked her. That had been far worse.
And she remembered what the man had said—he’d been paid to kill her.
He had not finished his job. Did that mean he would try again?
She stepped forward. “Do you wish to have your dress removed?” the man with the whip asked.
She hadn’t thought about that part! Though he asked as if she had a choice.
“She will remain clothed,” Cary said.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
The man smelled of sweat as he got close to Sophie. She held her breath.
“Hold out your arms. Press your wrists and ankles against the pads,” he instructed.
Coarse rope slid around her wrists, then her stocking-clad ankles. He pulled them tight and knotted them. She couldn’t move.
She twisted to see Cary approach, holding the whip.
It hadn’t really hurt the other woman. She had nothing to fear. Except she probably looked afraid.
Cary gazed at her. There was such pain on his face. Suddenly, he shook his head abruptly as if a bee were buzzing around him.
He straightened, his face revealing absolute anguish. He threw down the whip. “I won’t bloody well do it.”
The large man stepped right in front of Cary in a menacing way—
Suddenly, the man was on the floor, and Cary’s boot was on his back, pinning him against the floorboards. The leather-clad man’s right arm was twisted behind him, and Cary held it. The man couldn’t move, and his face was pale with pain.
Sophie had barely seen Cary move. But in seconds, he’d overwhelmed the huge man.
“You won’t throw us out. You will take us to the madam of this godforsaken place,” Cary said.
He’d been stunned when Sophie had agreed to be whipped.
More so when she revealed how much she trusted him.
Cary rubbed his temples. The memories had brought on a throbbing in his head. She had trusted him, and he had been afraid to apply the whip.
He remembered the last time he had been here and how damnably wrong everything had gone....
The next morning, he’d decided to get the hell out of England and become a soldier. But that night, he had been here, playing sex games. He’d come with the other Wicked Dukes.
While playfully whipping a nude courtesan, he’d lost control.
He’d hurt the poor woman. Fortunately, Sin had stepped in and stopped him. Cary had blamed it on his drunken state. But in his soul, something had snapped. An uncontrollable rage had gripped him. It had been illogical, but he’d wanted to hurt the woman. He’d been enraged with her; he’d reacted with her that way, believing her to be one of the people who had hurt him.
After he had been touched by his sick, perverse kidnapper, he could never lose the feeling that sex was wrong. Bad. Every time he tried to enjoy it, all he could remember was the man’s sick, lustful glee. It warped everything for him. Made any desire he felt seem repugnant.
That had snapped when he was whipping the courtesan. He was furious at his desire. He wanted to punish her and himself, even though she was entirely innocent.
Despite his confused and mixed-up feelings toward sex, he’d fought to be normal. He had made love to many, many courtesans to prove to himself he was normal. But that night, he realized how much of a mess he actually was....
With Sophie at his side, he was being taken to the brothel’s madam.
“There is something wrong,” Sophie said. “You looked so haunted when you held the whip.”
“I will not discuss it,” he said as they reached the madam’s rooms.
The woman who ran the brothel was plump, with black hair piled in a mountain of curls, and an enormous bosom. She greeted them, then said, with glittering excitement in her eyes, “Are you a murderer, Your Grace? If so, how utterly intriguing. You must tell me all—what drove you to do it. And how it felt.”
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