to the bed. There was only so far she could travel.
His fingers were on the buttons at her nape, plucking them one by one. She moved away from him, but he caught her, hauling her against him once more. Never had she felt so inconsequential. So incapable.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, struggling against him, though it was futile.
“Playing lady’s maid.” There was a hint of amusement in his baritone.
She did not like it.
“How dare you?” She fought against him with greater furor, attempting to kick his shins and tear herself from his grasp.
All to no avail.
Her bodice was gaping.
And he laughed, the devil.
“Take care, princess. If you incite me too much, I may be tempted to hasten our wedding night,” he warned grimly.
She stilled, believing him. Thunder clapped with ferocious intent. Lightning flashed almost instantly afterward. Rain lashed the windowpanes.
“Do what you must,” she told him.
She would suffer what she had to suffer. Lord knew there was only one man she would ever love, and he was forever lost to her. To find vengeance for her beloved brother, she was willing to endure anything.
Her gown and all her undergarments save her chemise were gone in mere minutes. Swept away as if they had never been. The sole issue had been in the sleeve of her gown. Because he had already tied her to the bed, he had not been able to remove it, and had instead used his wicked blade to slice it from her arm.
“I will have nothing to wear tomorrow,” she said, when at last he had finished and released her.
She was breathless.
From fighting him, of course.
And she was also irritated by her own susceptibility.
“Perhaps I shall keep you in your chemise and nothing else.”
He was still near. Too near.
She spun about to face him, heart pounding. “What do you intend?”
He gave her a faint smile. Thunder cracked again. Wind railed against the exterior of the old pile of rubble. “Sleep.”
And then, much to her surprise, he left her, standing there in nothing but her chemise, drawers, and her stockings. He skirted the bed, returning to the opposite side, and shucked his trousers. Standing there in nothing more than his smalls, he met her gaze.
“Good night, Lady Calliope. Our business shall resume in the morning.”
He slid into the bed and drew the counterpane over his beautifully masculine form. She had done her best not to look, but there was no denying the sheer strength of the man, the corded muscle, the sinew. He was as flawless as any sculpture she had ever seen. A god come to life.
An evil god. A wicked god.
A demon, more like.
“Are you intending to stand there all evening?” he asked, settling himself comfortably, the bedclothes round his ear. He even sighed, then yawned.
She wondered what he had done with the knife.
Wondered how she could escape him now.
“The blade is beyond your reach,” he said, as if he had read her thoughts.
She stiffened. There was a chill in the room. Her nipples were hard. Gooseflesh pebbled on her arms. The heaviness low in her belly, pooled between her thighs, was tension, she was sure. Anxiety. Hatred. Despair.
Mercifully, the bonds tying her to the bed were slack enough she could lower herself to the worn carpets. They were woolen and scratchy and dusty, but they would have to suffice.
She would not even ask for a pillow. Her pride would allow for no concessions from this man who had taken her as his prisoner. This man who had murdered her brother, she reminded herself.
“Suit yourself, princess,” he said, curt. “Sleep well with the mice and the spiders.”
He extinguished the lamp, bathing the chamber in darkness.
The booming of thunder punctuated his edict with a chilling finality. A reminder of how small she was in the world, of how little control she possessed over her own future and wellbeing.
Slumber proved elusive for quite some time.
Chapter Five
I forced my mouth upon hers, dear reader. Her trembling fear did not slow my desire to ravish her. It only made me want her more…
~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl.
Fucking hell.
Sin could not sleep.
He told himself it was the storm and not the fact that his beautiful captive had chosen to bed down on the rug with nary a pillow or blanket for comfort that kept him up. But he lied to himself.
There was an odd sensation prodding at him, all sharp angles from within: guilt.
Not that he ought to feel even a modicum of it. Lady Calliope had brought this