was reacting to hers, the same way that hers had been affected by his proximity and warm strength radiating against her back. The same way her nipple had tightened when he had cupped her breast.
Instinct. Nothing more. Had not Aunt Fanchette said all men suffered similar maladies in the morning?
It mattered not. All that did matter was that Callie herself was not attracted to the odious Earl of Sinclair.
“Release me, you scoundrel,” she gritted, struggling to free herself of his grasp.
“Sheathe your claws, woman,” he ground out. “I told you last night, I have no intention of ravishing you.”
“You were kissing my shoulder and being crude in French,” she accused, wriggling to free herself.
Unfortunately, the action only served to wedge her backside more firmly against his manhood, which seemed to have grown even larger. Good heavens. Her cheeks went hot, and that alarming sensation between her thighs would not stop blossoming.
“I assure you, I am crude in every language.” He laughed then, the oaf, and the sound lacked the bitterness of the night before. “I can hardly be held responsible for imagining myself somewhere far more pleasant in my sleep, with a bedmate of my choosing.”
His implication nettled, she had to admit, in spite of herself. But then she remembered the mystery surrounding the manner in which she had wound up in the bed.
“I fell asleep on the floor,” she reminded him coolly. “How did I end up here?”
“Perhaps you wanted to be closer to me,” he suggested, his tone wry.
He was responsible for her presence in the bed, she was sure. “Never!”
She moved some more, but the devil was still disturbingly near. And firm. So very firm. She attempted to scoot from him, and he groaned.
“Devil take it, woman. Cease moving about.”
“Let me go, you vile wretch,” she returned, increasing her struggles.
“Stop wriggling,” he gritted in her ear. His hand had settled upon her hip. His manhood was still nestled against her bottom, firm and insistent and hot.
So hot.
So wrong.
She stilled, swallowing past a knot in her throat. The knowledge that he was affected by her proximity was unsettling. Displeasing, she told herself. Vexing. Horrifying.
Intriguing.
No! She struck the unwelcome notion from her mind. His desire for her was not what she wanted. He was an evil monster. His protestations of innocence aside, he was most definitely guilty of forcing his way into her carriage and spiriting her away. And he was also guilty of binding her. Of insisting upon a marriage between them…
“Mayhap I should ravish you after all, princess,” he suggested, tracing a lazy pattern on her hip.
His lips grazed her flesh as he spoke.
Her heart was pounding fast. With fury, of course. Not with…anything else. She was not attracted to this odious villain. Decidedly not.
“Stop this madness,” she ground out, shifting again, to no avail. “I will not marry you, and nor am I attracted to you in the slightest.”
“Then I suggest you cease bloody moving, because it is damned difficult for a man to think straight with your bottom rubbing all over his cockstand,” he growled.
If her cheeks had been hot before, they were positively scalding now. Dear heavens, had he just said what she thought he had said? The man was an unrepentant rogue. Scandalous and horrible and evil.
“Lord Sinclair,” she chastised past her own shock. “How dare you speak to me with such vulgarity?”
“Do you truly fancy me a murderer?” he asked then, taking her by surprise with his query.
She blinked. “Yes.”
But within her, deep within her, confusion reigned. She was not entirely certain, now that she had met him at long last. Oh, he was a villain. That much was clear. But her brother, Benny’s, words returned to her now, suddenly.
Our brother’s death was an accident.
Benny was wrong, because he had been too lost in his work for the Special League to investigate the truth. She could hardly blame him. He was weighed down with so much responsibility—Fenian bombers running rampant all over London, attempting to blow up the London Bridge and the Tower and even Parliament itself.
But after her mind had cleared from the terrible grief infecting her in Paris, she had seen the answer with such shocking clarity, it had stolen her breath. Alfred had been in love with Lady Sinclair. Lord Sinclair was a devious scoundrel. Of the three, only one of them remained. Logic suggested the culpability of one man and one man alone.
Alfred had fallen down the stairs at his home in St. Johns Wood. But only after