in the road, jostling them both. She held her breath, praying he would not wake, and then she slid her hand inside his coat, to the hidden pocket where she had seen him secret it earlier.
His heat seared her fingertips. Gently, she searched his lean form, seeking the blade. All she felt was hard, male chest. Another bump in the road made the carriage sway, knocking her into him. She froze, studying his face for any sign he had awoke.
His expression remained serene. His dark lashes were long, fanned on his cheeks. Almost too long for a gentleman. His cheekbones were proud slashes. His nose was a sharp blade bisecting the handsome symmetry of his face. His jaw was proud and wide, his lips full.
But she was not meant to be admiring him. She was meant to be divesting him of his weapon. She moved at last, searching once more for the blade.
His lips twitched. Before she could remove her hand, he snagged her wrist in an iron grip. His eyes opened, his gaze almost obsidian, shockingly alert. There was not a trace of slumber in them.
“Are you attempting to seduce me, princess, or were you hoping to kill me in my sleep?” His rich baritone was undeniably amused.
“Neither,” she said on a gasp as he yanked her into his lap. “Lord Sinclair, please…”
“Such pretty protestations,” he said, his gaze flitting to her lips. “I like it when you beg me.”
Resistance rose within her. She struggled to remove herself from his lap, but her actions only served to mire her more firmly against him and twist her skirts around her. How neatly he had trapped her once more. She wondered if he had even been sleeping at all.
Her pride would not allow his comment to go unanswered. “I would never beg you for anything.”
Another of his rare smiles curved that wicked mouth. “I would not be so certain of that if I were you, sweet.”
She had not found his blade, and now instead of outwitting him at his own game, she had failed abysmally yet again. “I am more certain than I have been of anything else.”
She would beg him for nothing.
Ever.
Not even for mercy.
“More certain than you are that I am a murderer?” His smile had disappeared now, but his stare was still upon her lips.
She licked them, wishing she could not still feel the imprint of his mouth on hers. “Do you have proof of your innocence?”
His stare flicked back to hers at last. “If I told you I do?”
Her heart pounded faster. “If you do, then I demand to see it.”
“Such a brazen creature,” he said, his thumb tracing over her wrist in slow, lazy circles.
Belatedly, she realized he was no longer holding her wrist in a manacle-like grasp. Instead, he was caressing her. And she was not unaffected by that touch, regardless of how desperately she wished she was not.
What was the matter with her?
She yanked herself free of him, reminding herself she must think of Alfred. “What is your proof?”
“My mistress,” he replied easily. “I was with her the night your brother and my wife died.”
His mistress.
Of course he had a mistress. She ought not to be surprised by his admission. He had legions of them. That was what all the rumors suggested, was it not? That was the reason he was known as Sin—his love of debauchery and the pleasures of the flesh.
But somehow, the notion of the Earl of Sinclair having a mistress made her feel strangely perturbed.
“Why did you not say anything in your defense, if that were true?” she asked him.
“My mistress was a married lady, and she had no wish to be drawn into my scandals lest there be repercussions with her husband,” he told her calmly. “I respect her enough not to involve her purely for my own gain.”
She searched his expression for any indication he was lying. But he met her gaze as boldly as ever, his regard unrelenting. Several things occurred to her simultaneously: firstly, that she had never even considered he may have been elsewhere that awful night, that someone else could vouch for him. She had never supposed he was innocent. She had always believed him hopelessly, irrevocably guilty.
Furthermore, he had said his mistress was a married lady. Did that mean his mistress was no longer married? Or that she was no longer his mistress? Also, why should she care?
She told herself she should not. That he was sinful and amoral. That she loathed him.