Wicked Captive

by Carole Mortimer

  “Are you frightened now?” he challenged, easily holding her in place with a hand placed firmly against her spine.

  She turned to glare at him over one bared shoulder. “No.”

  Jericho raised his other hand and brought it down sharply against her ass cheeks, causing them to jiggle enticingly beneath her drawers. “Now?”

  Her struggles to right herself proved in vain. “How dare you treat me in this undignified manner? You are nothing more than an arrogant son of a—”

  “Oh, I believe we might both agree my mother was so much more than a bitch,” he bit out humorlessly before landing another blow to the globes of her bottom. “Have you learned to fear me yet?” he challenged in a hard voice.

  Jocey’s primary emotion was not fear but arousal. As she had surmised when last Jericho threatened to spank her, those stinging blows to her bottom were painful but arousing, and caused a heat and gushing between her thighs. Her hardened nipples were also pressed uncomfortably against the material of her chemise.

  “I do not fear you. I hate you!” she announced vehemently, her efforts to right herself proving useless against Jericho’s superior strength. “I hate you,” she repeated as tears of humiliation gathered hotly behind her closed lids.

  The third blow against her bottom cheeks carried less force but was still as painful when her abused flesh was already smarting from the previous two. “And now I will demonstrate how easily hate can turn to desire,” Jericho remarked conversationally.

  Jocey drew in a shaky gasp at the feel of Jericho’s fingers parting the slit in her drawers, her gasp becoming a low groan as those fingers stroked along the wetness of her swollen nether lips. “What are you doing?” Her legs had turned to the consistency of jelly, every inch of her body tingling and aroused.

  He gave a harsh laugh. “Showing there is more than one way in which to torture information out of you.” As if to prove his point, his fingers now stroked the sensitive nubbin nestled amongst the curls covering her mound.

  “I— This is truly shocking!” Jocey gasped.

  “And yet this part of you is not in the least shocked.” He gave another stroke of his finger against that pulsing nubbin.

  “What information?” Jocey groaned weakly, pleasure coursing through the whole of her body from those knowing and experienced fingers. A pleasure that rose higher, and then higher still as he continued to stroke her, until she felt herself poised on the edge of falling over a precipice she instinctively knew there would be no coming back from.

  “I want to know who you report to and what information you gathered while you were in France and have passed on since your return to England.”

  “I do not—” She broke off with a low groan as she received another slap to her bottom, her arousal now such that she could not think or feel anything but pleasure as Jericho’s fingers once again caressed the flesh inside her drawers.

  “I forbid you to come.” He ceased the torment of her throbbing nubbin. “Your punishment is to not be allowed release until you have answered my question.”

  “How I can I answer your question when I do not understand it?” She sobbed in humiliation at having her body aflame with a need she had no control over. That control belonged solely to Jericho. A control he seemed bent on exploiting for his own ends.

  Whatever they were.

  Jocey had no idea what he was talking about, and her brain was so befuddled with the lust he had incited, she was unable to think clearly enough to even guess his meaning.

  “You understand this.” His fingers resumed their caressing, stroking her swollen nether lips now, then around and about the throbbing nubbin above without quite touching it.

  She understood Jericho was trying to drive her insane as he took her to the edge of that precipice again and again, his hand alternating between spanking her bottom cheeks and stroking between her thighs. Her bottom now throbbed almost as intensely as that need between her thighs. But each time she reached that pinnacle and was about to attain a release, Jericho would cease both activities, wait until her desire had receded, and then begin the torment all over again.

  Nor was he unmoved by the intimacy; Jocey could feel the ridge of his hardened cock, long and thick, pressing against her side. She could only imagine how it would feel thrusting inside her, giving her the release Jericho continued to refuse her. That he refused to give them both.

  Her drawers were now drenched with the juices that gushed copiously from her pulsing channel, and her nipples tingled with such a need to be touched, they had become painful and oversensitive.

  At this point, she was willing to tell Jericho anything if only he would set her free from this physical torture. “The only people I saw in France was my mother’s family,” she choked. “My aunt and uncle. My cousins.”

  “Who else?”

  “No one.”

  “Who else?” he demanded again as his hand moved from her back to slide forward and unfasten and pull down the front of her chemise.

  To Jocey’s everlasting shame, her bared breasts now dangled in front of her, free of all confinement.

  Jericho took one of the engorged nipples between his thumb and finger, squeezing and pulling on that swollen nub until Jocey writhed and groaned unashamedly with need. “I said you will not find release unless I say you can.” He spanked her bottom again when she attempted to rub her neglected pussy against his thigh in an effort to find relief.

  “No one else,” she said again brokenly. “I saw no one else. Please, Jericho!” she pleaded shakily. “Please.”

  “You wish for release?”

  “Yes! God, yes!”

  “Then answer my question truthfully.”

  “I have!” Jocey hated her weakness, the desperate need that caused her to beg Jericho in this shameful way.

  “And whilst you were in London for a week?”

  “I saw no one— The Germaine sisters,” she recalled agitatedly. “But I have told you that already.”

  “Who else?”

  “Worthington and Romney. But I told you about that too.”

  “What did you do, Jocelyn?” he rasped harshly. “What the hell did you do?”

  “Nothing! I did nothing—” Her breath left her in a whoosh at the suddenness of being tumbled to the flagstone floor as Jericho surged to his feet.

  Her hands moved instinctively to cover her bared breasts where her chemise hung loose at the front, the dampness of her drawers uncomfortable between her thighs. The ache and throb of her arousal prevented her from feeling the cold of the floor or the bruise she might later have on her hip from landing so heavily.

  Jericho turned his back on her. “Go.”

  “But—”

  “Now!” he thundered as he turned to glare at her with glittering dark eyes. “Before I do something we will both have cause to regret.”

  The humiliation Jocey felt caused her to already regret ever meeting this man, let alone believing she might actually be falling in love with him. But she was not about to run, was made of sterner stuff than that. “What was in the letter you received to cause you to behave in this brutal manner?”

  The cold and numbness that had held Jericho securely in its grip since he read Stonewell’s letter had been seriously undermined by the intimacy of this incident with Jocelyn. By touching her. Spanking her. Caressing her. Behavior he usually reserved for his sexual trysts with ladies of the demimonde. Women he rarely saw more than once and certainly had no personal knowledge of. For Jocelyn to now demand answers from him had succeeded in dispelling the last of that cold numbness about his emotions, leaving a red tide of anger in its place.

  His hands clenched at his sides. “The fact you dare ask me that shows me you have no sense of self-preservation whatsoever.”

  Her chin rose. “That I am asking shows I have no idea what the answer is.”

  Jericho’s nostrils flared and his jaw clenched as he attempted to maintain control of his anger. “You have admitted to having met with fou
r people during your week long stay in London. The Germaine twins and two of my own friends. Two of those people are now dead.”

  “W-what…?” Jocelyn’s face paled as she staggered before sitting abruptly on the chair Jericho had recently vacated, staring up at him with bewildered and pained gray eyes.

  Jericho said nothing as he waited for her to recover—if she needed time to recover rather than only pretended to do so—from whatever emotion she felt at his news.

  “Who?” she finally voiced emotionally. “Who is dead?”

  A nerve pulsed in Jericho’s jaw as he fought to control his own emotions. “Lady Priscilla Germaine and—and Lord Jeremiah Worthington.” Saying his friend’s name out loud for the first time since Jericho had received word of his death was almost too much for him to bear.

  He had no siblings. Consequently, the other seven Sinners had become his family once they had all met at boarding school. Jeremiah Worthington was as dear to him as any brother by blood could ever have been.

  Had been as dear to Jericho as a brother.

  Because Worthington’s body now lay forever cold and lifeless in his family crypt in Cheshire.

  Nor, he realized bleakly, did Worthington’s comment three weeks ago of whether or not they had “attended a wedding or wake” hold any humor now that it was his wake that had been attended.

  Chapter 8

  Jocey was barely aware of her surroundings, or of her shaking fingers tying up the fastening of her chemise, the tears cascading unchecked down her cheeks as she desperately tried to make sense of what Jericho had just told her.

  Priscilla, only twenty years old and so beautiful and full of fun and the joy of life, was now gone?

  Worthington, that handsome and flirtatious gentleman with the twinkling blue eyes, also now gone?

  Both of them dead.

  No matter how many times Jocey said that word inside her head, it did not seem possible it could apply to Priscilla and Worthington. They were both too young. Too vibrant. Too beautiful in their own way to be dead.

  “How?” She finally managed to choke out that single word.

  The marquis’s lips flattened into an uncompromising line. “Were you not informed of what the method of their demise would be? Or did you just not care as long as they died?”

  She gave a shake of her head, causing hot tears to cascade down her cheeks. “I do not even know what you mean by those questions.”

  “There were five of them traveling together by carriage to attend a weekend house party. Worthington. Romney. The Germaine sisters and their maid,” Jericho informed her abruptly. “The carriage lost a wheel and turned over, and as it was evening, there was a lamp alight inside. The lamp broke, spilling the oil, which then caught fire and set alight the furnishings inside the carriage. The carriage door had been damaged in the crash and refused to open from the inside. It had to be forced to do so by one of the grooms outside. They managed to pull Romney, Lady Prudence, and her maid from the flames, but Worthington and Lady Priscilla were consumed by the flames.”

  Jocey rose to her feet, distressed at the cold manner in which Jericho had related the horrific details of those deaths.

  She was also too consumed with grief for her dead friend, of knowing how devastated Prudence must be at this horrible death of her twin, to suffer Jericho’s intolerable behavior a moment longer.

  Her hands were clenched at her sides for fear she might actually strike him if she completely lost control of her emotions. “News of Priscilla’s d-death is as much of a shock to me as Worthington’s must be to you. It is—is a truly horrible way to die.” She bit painfully into her bottom lip to stop it from trembling and more tears from falling; there would be plenty of time for tears after she had settled this situation with Jericho once and for all.

  “It is,” he acknowledged grimly.

  “Whatever delusion you are under that causes you to believe I was somehow complicit in those deaths is not only hurtful in the extreme, but also unforgiveable. You are unforgiveable,” Jocey added so there should be no mistake as to how she now felt toward him. “You may keep me here for as long as you wish, torture me in whatever manner you choose, but I will never admit to being involved in something I was not nor ever could be a part of. Priscilla and Prudence are my friends.”

  Wessex remained completely unmoved by her impassioned outburst as he looked coldly down the length of his nose at her. “We will not be leaving here until you have told me the truth.”

  She gave a disgusted shake of her head. “I have already done so.”

  He nodded abruptly. “And I choose not to believe you. You have French relatives, were in France visiting them only weeks ago. You returned to spend a week in London, during which time you admit to having visited the Germaine sisters and to also having seen Worthington and Romney there.” He listed her recent movements in a flat and unemotional voice.

  Jocey wondered if Jericho’s suspicion toward her was also the explanation as to why he had been so cold and stern with her from the beginning of this visit. Why he was being so cruel and unemotional now. It certainly made sense if that were the case.

  Except… “I did not conspire to have any of them killed!” she protested. “Why would you even think I could do such a thing?” She was truly bewildered by such a conclusion.

  His mouth tightened. “Because we know there is a French spy amongst the ton. A female spy. A woman known to be responsible for helping Bonaparte escape Elba earlier this year, and as a consequence, all the death and destruction which followed.”

  Her eyes widened. “And you believe me to be that spy?”

  “That is what I intend to find out before you are allowed to leave here,” he stated grimly.

  Jocey thought long and hard. “You are an agent for the Crown,” she finally said with a frown. “Are the rest of The Sinners also?”

  He eyed her scathingly. “You sound convincingly surprised.”

  “That is because I am,” she stated in the face of his obvious mockery. “Am I the only lady under suspicion of this crime?”

  “No,” he drawled. “But four of my friends have already proven their ladies’ innocence. In fact, they have married them,” he added disgustedly.

  Jocey knew four of Jericho’s close friends, the Duke of Wolferton, the Duke of Huntley, the Earl of Carlton, and the Marquis of Deveril, had all married in recent months.

  To the ladies they had investigated under suspicion of treason?

  Jocey could only imagine that must be the case.

  A similar outcome would not be forthcoming between herself and Wessex.

  She frowned as another thought occurred to her. “The Germaine sisters…?”

  “Also under investigation by Worthington and Romney. Although the demise of one of them means there is only Prudence Germaine left to investigate,” Jericho added with a frown.

  Jocey breathed noisily. “I hardly think Prudence would have conspired to cause an accident which killed her own twin. She might even have been killed herself.”

  He shrugged. “I am sure Romney will take that into consideration when he is well enough to resume proving her innocence or guilt.”

  She eyed him incredulously. “He will actually continue investigating Prudence, even after all that has happened?”

  He nodded. “We must find the traitor before more damage is done.”

  “But—” Jocey gave a shake of her head. “What purpose does it serve for anyone to attempt to kill Worthington, Romney, and the Germaine sisters?”

  A nerve pulsed in his jaw. “We believe the intention is to deflect the blame. To muddy the waters enough to cause confusion while more treasonous acts are carried out.”

  “And yet you choose to remain here,” she scoffed.

  “I am not so easily distracted from my purpose,” he assured her grimly. “Admittedly, I was consumed with grief for three days, but that does not, and will not, change my determination to find the person—the woman—responsible for treason, and
latterly the deaths of two innocent people.”

  The woman Jericho believed was her. “And how am I to prove my own innocence when you are obviously already so convinced I am guilty?”

  It was a question Jericho had no answer to as yet. He only knew he must somehow have unshakeable proof of Jocelyn’s guilt or innocence before they left Pomeroy Cottage. It was the least he owed Worthington and Priscilla Germaine.

  Jericho had not even been able to pay his last respects to his friend.

  It had taken several days for Stonewell’s letter to reach him, by which time Worthington’s funeral had already taken place at the church in Cheshire where the family were now in residence for the winter months. Jericho very much doubted Worthington’s parents had envisaged burying their only son as being a part of that visit.

  Jericho still found it too shocking, too unbelievable, to accept that his friend was truly gone.

  As well as being childhood friends, the eight Sinners had worked together as agents for the Crown for ten years or more now. The chance of one of them being killed, as they often worked behind enemy lines, had always been a possibility.

  But this, Worthington being killed in London and when they were no longer even at war with France, was beyond comprehension. As was the method of his death.

  Jericho had no doubt the other six Sinners were as devastated by the loss of one of their closest friends as he was.

  Romney had been seriously injured in the accident, but was expected to survive. Prudence Germaine had been thrown from the carriage when it turned over and received only cuts and bruises. The maid had suffered burns and a broken leg, but was also expected to recover fully.

  None of which altered the fact Jocelyn could be the woman responsible for having arranged for the accident to happen. Until Jericho knew for certain or was convinced otherwise, he now had no choice but to continue to treat her as if she was guilty.

  He turned his back on her to stare sightlessly out the kitchen window. “I am telling you this for the last time—remove yourself from my sight before I forget I am a gentleman.”