The storm was rumbling on now, moving farther away. He was weary to the bone. He ought to be happily slumbering. He turned onto his side, peering into the darkness, in her direction. She was sleeping on the floor. The hard, dusty, cold floor. Though it was nearly summer, nights in Helston Hall were damp and draughty. They had been even before it had fallen into such an appalling state of disrepair.
On a growl, he threw back the bedclothes and rose. He stalked around the bed and found her on the floor, curled in a ball rather reminiscent of a cat. Sin scooped her into his arms with ease.
“What are you doing?” her voice was sleepy, and it lacked the vehemence of her previous protestations.
Had she fallen asleep after all? She was warm and soft in his arms. All woman. Damn, but the lack of her feminine trappings meant his arms were filled with lush, sweet-scented curves. He fought back a swift rush of desire.
“I am seeing you settled for the night,” he snapped, irritated with himself for the hoarseness in his voice. “You are too stubborn for your own good.”
“Mmm.” With a throaty sigh, she nuzzled his throat.
Bloody hell, the woman was definitely half-asleep. And he was half-erect.
He swallowed and lowered her to the bed, settling the bedclothes over her. Cursing himself, he skirted the bed once more. She made a sleepy sound that should not have made his cock twitch.
You hate her, he reminded himself.
She is a deceitful witch.
But as he made his way back to his side of the bed, his inner protestations did not do one whit of good. Gritting his teeth, he slid beneath the bedclothes, attempting to get comfortable. Her even breathing filled the silence of the chamber. She was asleep.
Of course, she was.
How was it that she had been the one to bed down on the unforgiving floor and yet he, in the comfort of the bed, had been unable to find peace? How was it that he was still, even now, being assailed by the twin sensations of guilt and desire?
Perhaps she possessed no conscience.
That would certainly explain it. How else could she write such blatant falsehoods about him?
The air was filled with the soft, faint sounds of Lady Calliope’s snores. Good God, could the woman sleep through anything? Her wrist was bound to the headboard. She had been on the floor with no blanket, no pillow. He had lifted her from the floor and settled her on the bed, and still, she had scarcely stirred.
Again, a twinge of guilt returned. He had spirited her away from London and brought her to this dilapidated hovel. She was frightened of him, that much he could plainly discern. And he had every intention of persuading her of the necessity of their marriage, whatever that took. He was not going to allow her to leave until he had secured her agreement.
Still, alone with his thoughts and the distant rumble of thunder, his mind swirled with unwanted questions. What if she believed what she had written? His reputation was black, and he knew it. He was at fault for that. Guilty of most of the sins ascribed to him.
But not the worst.
He had never committed murder. Celeste had died by her own hand. And he could hardly say what had befallen the last Duke of Westmorland. He had heard it was a fall, a broken neck, and Lady Calliope herself had claimed he had fallen down the stairs. Regardless of the means by which Westmorland had met his end, Sin had been nowhere near the man when it had happened.
Instead, he had spent the night in the arms of his former mistress. When he had returned to his own townhome that afternoon, it had been to discover his wife had already taken her life. Admittedly, he had lost control after that. His affaire with Tilly had ended abruptly, and he had been adrift. He supposed he could see how his subsequent flight from London, to the Continent, could have made him appear guilty.
Instead of mourning Celeste, he had celebrated his freedom from her. A fortnight of overindulgence in drink and quim. He had fucked his way through Paris. And then he had fucked his way through Italy, too.
But those memories were hazy. Nothing more than ghosts.
He could prove his innocence to Lady Calliope if he gave a damn.
Which, of course, he did not. Let her think what she