“A fall down the steps in the middle of the night after you had attacked and threatened him within earshot of the servants,” she scoffed, breathless. “And on the same night as your wife’s sudden death. So many curious deaths, all revolving around one despicable man.”
“Unfortunately for you, I am the same despicable man you are going to marry.” His lip curled. “How will it feel to spend the rest of your life bound inextricably to the man you wanted to destroy, princess?”
He was taunting her, it was true. In truth, it had been a long day. A long journey. He had been filled with rage and desperation for far too much time. And now, it was all mixing with the heady potency of lust. A dangerous combination indeed.
She moved beneath him with increasing, futile violence. “I will never marry you.”
She had no notion that her thrashing only rubbed her breasts against his chest and ground her curves into his straining prick. She had no idea her breathlessness and open berry-red lips called to him. Even her anger excited him. Her hatred made him want her. He had not been prepared for the depths of his own depravity.
But there was a reason he was known as Sin.
Part of him reveled in the depraved.
And this physical battle between them? It was the stuff depravity was made of.
“Oh, marry me, you will,” he promised her.
And then he gave in to temptation, to wickedness. He pressed his mouth over hers. He would not call it a kiss, because it was not that; it was less and yet so much more. It was a claiming. It was also possession. He would never raise his hand to a woman, regardless of what she had done to him, but he wanted to dominate Lady Calliope Manning. He wanted her weak. On her knees.
He would settle for her mouth. He kissed her viciously, with bruising force. And it startled him, how much he liked it. How suddenly ravenous he was for her, this woman he loathed, this capricious chit who had brought about his ruin with her wild imagination and poison pen.
There was something between them. Something more than hatred. More than lust. He kissed her, and he forgot why they were here, what she had done, how he had taken her from London, her subsequent attack with the worthless piece of pottery. For a moment, he forgot all the reasons. Forgot everything but the woman beneath him. She smelled sweet and exotic at once, like lavender and tuberose. He inhaled her scent, her breaths, her fear.
Her lips moved against his. She was breaking, giving in. Kissing him back. He lost himself. Lost reason. Had to taste her. He slid his tongue into her mouth. She made a mewling sound, her tongue moving against his.
And then, the spawn of Satan bit him. His tongue, specifically. Hard enough for him to rear his head back, severing the connection. With enough force to draw blood. For the second time that day, the copper flavor of his own blood was in his mouth.
“Vicious princess,” he ground out, staring down at her.
“I will never marry you,” she returned, all fire.
He smiled. He was enjoying this far more than he had anticipated. Enough of these games, however. He had no intention of consummating their union until she was officially his countess. And before that could happen, he would have to lay out the plain facts for her.
But first, he was hungry. Not just for her beneath him, but for his dinner.
“I will enjoy proving you wrong,” he told her, and then he moved quickly, rising to his feet and hauling her along with him. “Do not try anything so foolish again, Lady Calliope. I would hate to have to cut your pretty flesh, but I will if you make me. It is only fair, since you have drawn first blood.”
He did not want to bind her wrists again. When he had cut her bindings and she had made a sound of undeniable pain, guilt had eaten at him. He was good with knots, but he was not accustomed to binding another for longer than what bed sport required. And despite the fact that he despised this woman and what she had done to him, he had no wish to cause her physical pain.
He withdrew his blade as a reminder, and then he tugged her along with him. “Come. It is time for us to have dinner and to talk.”
Callie did not want to have dinner with the beastly Earl of Sinclair.
Nor did she have any inclination to speak with him.
And yet, she found herself seated opposite him at a scarred old table in the kitchens of the ruins where he had taken her. She had watched in amazement as he had filled plates with cold chicken, hunks of bread, and cheese. Simple fare, and yet, somehow, she had not expected a heartless murderer to care enough to make certain her stomach was not empty.
And as she watched him fussing over the meager meal he had somehow acquired in the brief pause in their travels earlier in the day, when he had left her in the carriage, her lips stung. They stung with the reminder of those awful kisses. Who could have anticipated his hated lips would have felt so very right upon hers?
She had never before been kissed in anger. Nor by someone she despised. She had not expected to enjoy it. Indeed, her wits told her she should have abhorred everything about what had transpired between them—his weight upon hers, his big body crushing her, his hot breath fanning over her mouth, and then his wicked assault of her lips.
And yet…she had liked it, much to her shame.
She had liked the kiss of the man who had killed her beloved brother.
What was the matter with her?
She stared down at the plate Sinclair had laid before her, determined she would not eat a bite of it as penance for her sins. Even as her stomach rumbled with the reminder that it had been a long time since she had taken tea and biscuits with her friend, Lady Jo, back in London. It had only been hours ago, and yet seemingly a lifetime had passed.
“Afraid the heartless murderer of wives and brothers has poisoned your supper?” asked Sinclair, his tone dark, angry, and bitter.
“Have you?” she asked.
His lips flattened. “No.”
Did she detect disapproval in his voice? Hurt?
She fiddled with her fork but made no effort to pick it up. “Are there no servants in this ruins to which you have forced me?”
“None, princess. You will have to see to yourself, or you will have to rely upon me.” His smile was insincere.
Yet still beautiful.
He was a dreadfully handsome man, and his sobriquet had never made more sense than it did to her now, in this low light, as she was the beneficiary of all his attention. After his lips had devoured hers.
Sin.
How fitting.
She ground her molars and returned her stare to her plate. Her stomach growled once more, imploring her to eat at least a bite. Her pride would not allow it.
Her captor had no such reservations. He was gustily consuming his chicken and cheese. Strangely, his voraciousness did not disgust her. Rather, it intrigued her. She found herself stealing glances in his direction, only to find his eyes were always upon her.
Almost black, those eyes.
Fathomless.
“You are not hungry?” he asked suddenly.
She cleared her throat at his question. “No.”
His lips twitched. “You will only spite yourself, Lady Calliope. If you do not eat your dinner, you will go to sleep with a hungry belly.”
She doubted very much she would be able to sleep this night. First, she would be far too busy attempting to orchestrate her escape. Second, how could she sleep, knowing she was this man’s captive? She laid down her fork.
He made a low sound of disapproval. “Eat, princess.”
His directive naturally made her balk. “I am not hungry.”
“That is a lie. I heard your stomach rumbling from here,” he said.
Blast him. He likely had. She was starving.
She pasted a false smile to her lips. “I am sure you heard nothing of the sort. I have no wish to eat the food of my captor. Therefore, I am not hungry.”
“This is the food of your future husband.” He lifted a bite of chicken to his well-sculpted lips. “I am not your captor, Lady
Calliope.”
She tried not to watch him chewing, tried not to allow her gaze to linger upon his lips. Upon those lips that had so recently been moving over hers. And she most definitely banished any lingering tingling sensations caused by the memory.
“You are my captor,” she reminded him as much as herself. “You took me from London, against my will. If I am free to go, why did you bind my wrists and threaten me with a blade? Why do we not return to London now?”
“I prefer to think of myself as your host. The man to whom you will bind yourself in holy matrimony.” He took a generous sip of wine.
She watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, nettled at his lack of concern. Irritated by his blatant masculinity, too. “I prefer to think of you as a madman.”
“You may as well eat,” he told her. “There will be nothing until breakfast.”
“I will not eat your food.” She compressed her lips and pinned him with a glare.
Her stomach growled again.
He gave an indolent shrug. “Suit yourself, princess.”
And then he continued to eat.
Each clang of his cutlery upon the simple plate irked her. How could he be so unaffected? So cool? Part of her was frightened, part confused, part terrified. And another part? Intrigued.
“You truly suspect I poisoned your food?” he asked suddenly, reaching across the table and spearing a hunk of chicken on the tines of his fork before bringing it to his own plate. “Witness: I will prove to you it is perfectly safe to eat.”
She watched him tuck into the thieved chicken with the same enthusiasm he had shown the rest of his meal. “Why do you care if I eat or not?”
His jaw tensed. “I do not give a damn about you, Lady Ruthless. You are a means to an end. But if you starve yourself before I can make you my wife, you will be of little use to me.”
Lady Ruthless.
She did not like that sobriquet any more than she liked princess.
She tilted her chin up in defiance. “Perhaps I shall starve myself, then. It seems the most palatable solution.”
If only her stomach agreed. She was desperately hungry. So hungry, she was beginning to feel ill. She ought to have eaten something more significant when she had the chance. Ordinarily, she did. But she had been so preoccupied with stealing away to the publisher with her friend Jo’s newest pamphlet for the Lady’s Suffrage Society and her own latest installment of Confessions of a Sinful Earl.
It was the wickedest part of the serial to date. And even she could admit to herself that by now, the character she had created—the Earl of Sinfulness—had taken on a life of his own. Nothing in what she had written had a basis in truth. It had been written with all the rancor in her heart. The words were meant to hurt the man before her. To cut him deeply. To ruin him.
He raised another bite of chicken to his lips, catching it between his teeth. Even the way he consumed his dinner was sinful. She had never seen a gentleman dine in such a blatantly carnal fashion. He was aiming to shock her, she suspected.
Her cheeks warmed in spite of herself as she watched his mouth move. As she stared at his tongue gliding over his upper lip. She told herself to look away, but somehow that seemed like surrender. She was determined to win this battle between them.
“Starving is a better option than marrying an earl?” he asked, before biting into a hunk of bread.
Her heart was beating fast again. Faster than the wings of a hummingbird, it seemed. “When the earl in question is you, yes.”
“You may change your mind, darling.” The smile he flashed her was darkly amused.
“Never,” she vowed bitterly. “And do not presume to call me your darling.”
“Never is a long time.” He raised a brow, then took another calm sip of his wine. “At least have a drink, princess. You must be thirsty.”
She was, blast him.
Callie swallowed. “I would prefer tea.”
“Alas, I have none.” He settled his wine back upon the weathered table. “I am afraid it is wine or nothing.”
The dearth of food, drink, and servants suggested he did not intend to keep her here long. Or if he did, he would need supplies.
“Nothing,” she clipped.
She would not accept his food or his wine. He could go to perdition where he belonged. She must remain firm and strong, for Alfred’s sake. Her beloved brother had been a saint among men, rivaled by only her brother Benedict, who had become duke after Alfred’s death. She owed it to her brother’s memory to continue this mission of vengeance. Alfred was gone. Surely she could summon enough strength to abstain from cold chicken and wine.
“As milady wishes.”
His mocking tone was not lost on her. Nor was the sting in his regard. He looked at her as if she were the detestable one, between the two of them. She had done nothing wrong. At least, nothing that was not deserved. If she had caused him misery and agony, it could hardly compare to the suffering he had dealt her when he had taken Alfred away forever.
She pushed the plate away from her, sending it across the rough surface of the kitchen table. And then she slid her wine toward him as well. “There you are, milord. I will not be consuming any of your tainted food or drink.”
His nostrils flared. “It is not tainted. I am not a murderer, in spite of your feverish fantasies to the contrary. Nor am I an opium eater. I have never touched the stuff.”
Her wrists were no longer bound. She was feeling bold. Callie stood, her chair legs scraping on the rough stone floor. “I do not have fantasies, feverish or otherwise. I have facts. My brother is gone. You are responsible. And your poor wife too, though I scarcely knew her.”
The former Lady Sinclair had been beautiful. Callie well understood why Alfred had fallen in love with her. She had been golden-haired, a perfect English rose. Callie had only ever met her once, in passing. She had come alone to a ball Alfred hosted.
How different life had been then.
Alfred had been alive. Simon had already been gone.
Her heart gave a pang at the remembrance of her betrothed. So much loss. Such a short amount of time. She occupied herself well now, keeping her mind from thoughts of the lost. If she lingered too much upon her painful past… Well, she had done that in Paris, had she not? And she had almost lost herself in the process.
“Sit down,” Sinclair ordered her.
Still calm, so calm. As if he were paying her a call in his brother’s home during her at-home hours. As if he were a suitor. As if he were not the architect of the demise of her family as she had known it. Three siblings—Alfred, Benedict, and Callie. The alphabet, they had once been known. And now, one of them was missing.
“No,” she denied. “I will not sit. I refuse. I will not eat, I will not drink, and I will not be a part of your mad scheme a moment longer.”
With that, she spun on her heel and began stalking from the dank, shadowed kitchens. It was a large room. From the looks of it, this familial rubble where he had secreted her had once been a vast, proud estate. Now, it looked better served to host spiders and rodents than guests of the human persuasion. Either way, she cared not. She was leaving.
Fleeing him.
But he was on his feet and chasing after her. Footfalls echoed on the stone, hard and forceful. She gathered her skirts in her hands, lifting them—cursing herself for abstaining from her traditional divided skirts earlier—and breaking into a run.
The Earl of Sinclair was faster. Stronger. Hands caught her waist in a punishing grip, staying her flight. He yanked her backward, into his tall, lean frame.
His face was near. Against her back, she felt the pounding of his heart. His breath was hot on her ear. “You did not truly think you would escape me that easily, did you, princess?”
Her eyes fluttered closed on a wave of misery. She attempted to elbow him in the ribs, but he anticipated her movement, catching her arm in a swift grip. His body radiated heat into hers.
“What are you seeking to prove?” she demand
ed wearily.
“If I said my innocence, would it make a difference?” His lips were so near, they grazed the shell of her ear when he spoke.
She could not quell the shiver that went down her spine. “You cannot possibly prove that when you are guilty.”
“As I thought.” His tone was grim, his grip still tight upon her, the heaviness of her skirts crushed between them not enough to separate her from him. “You have already decided you are right and I am wrong. That I am evil and you are the innocent who has been wronged. Have you not, Lady Calliope?”
Her eyes opened at last, and all she saw ahead of her was the dankness of the unused kitchens. Vast fireplaces, an outmoded stove, all of it lifeless. The air smelled damp, and it was apparent there had been no inhabitants within for some time. The busyness of the kitchens at Westmorland House had always been a secret source of pleasure for her. From the time she had been a girl, she had adored sneaking into the kitchens, which had always smelled of baking bread.
The disparity between that happy place and this dark, dank kitchen, her captor at her back, made her shiver again. At least, she told herself that was the reason, and not the way he felt, molded to her. So strong. So dangerous and feral.
“Why the sudden quiet, my lady?” he demanded. He anchored her to him with one steely arm, entrapping her, and then, his hand was on her throat. His fingers encircling. Bare skin on bare skin.
She held herself still, as a new fear swept over her. Callie swallowed. “If you are going to kill me, have done with it. There is no need to play with me the way a cat paws at its prey.”
Chapter Four
What sin can possibly quell the ceaseless urges of a villain like myself, dear reader, after murder? It was the question which drove my days, the obsession that consumed me. I developed a thirst for innocence…
~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl
She had tenacity, Lady Calliope Manning. Sin would grant her that much. But she was also stubborn and foolish. And now, with his fingers wrapped around her sleek, pale throat, she gave away her fear. Her pulse beat a rapid staccato beneath his touch.
Lady Ruthless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 1) Page 3
