“I do not know what you are speaking of, my lord,” she maintained, breathless from her attempts at escape. Her heart was pounding faster than the hooves of the horses beyond the carriage. “If you allow me to return home, I will never speak a word of this to anyone. I promise. It is not too late to put a stop to these plans of yours, whatever they may be.”
He laughed, the sound dark and relentless, sending a chill down her spine. “You can cease your false protestations of innocence at any time. I know beyond a doubt you are the author of the memoirs. Did you believe I would sit idly by whilst my life became fodder for scurrilous gossip and all the doors in London closed to me? Did you truly imagine I would not do everything in my power to prove I am not a murderer?”
His voice trembled with fury, cutting as the lash of a whip.
“You cannot possibly have proof I am the author of those serials,” she snapped.
She had been careful. So very careful. Only Mr. White knew she was the author of Confessions. He had promised her his utmost discretion, and she trusted him. Not even her beloved and overprotective brother, Benny, the Duke of Westmorland, knew the truth.
“The younger Mr. White sang like a bird when introduced to my fists,” Sinclair told her calmly, jerking her bound wrists to an ivory handle on the interior of the carriage and securing them to it with another series of knots.
He was not wearing gloves. She stared at his knuckles as he worked. His fingers were long, his hands large. She did not doubt he could inflict a great deal of damage with them.
The senior Mr. White had promised her he had not shared her identity with anyone. Was it possible he had told his son? Mr. Reginald White was a thin, frail-looking gentleman. She had only met him once, but she was quite certain the massive brute abducting her would decimate him with one blow.
“Nothing to say, princess?” he taunted.
“Get off me,” she gritted.
She was unaccustomed to having a man in her lap, and he was deuced heavy. Not to mention terrifying.
He raised a dark brow, that gaze of his sweeping over her, filling her with a curious combination of cold and heat all at once. “Are you going to behave yourself now?”
Never.
“Of course,” she lied through clenched teeth.
He finally removed his weight from her body, returning to the other bench with a sigh. “You will not escape those knots, and your legs are too short to reach me. I suppose I may as well settle in for our journey.”
Journey?
The word made something inside her freeze. Somehow, she had imagined they would be remaining within London.
But the prospect of a journey… Dear God, it filled her with dread. Where could he be taking her? And for what purpose?
“Surely you do not believe you will get away with a third murder, my lord?” she asked boldly.
“Oh, I have no intention of killing you, Lady Calliope,” he said, bending down to retrieve his discarded blade from the floor.
His tone was calm. As if he had not just taken her hostage, threatened her with a knife, and bound her wrists.
He truly was a madman, just as she had feared.
“What are you intending to do with me, then?” she prodded him through lips that had gone suddenly dry.
He cocked his head, raking her with that fathomless, dark gaze as he ran his bloodied thumb back over the gleaming blade. “I am going to marry you.”
Chapter Two
You ought to have seen the look upon her face, dear reader, as I closed my hands around her elegant, treacherous throat. When she begged me for mercy, perhaps I ought to have listened. But for her, I had no pity. She had betrayed me. She was a candle that was mine to extinguish. My fingers tightened. I cannot deny I enjoyed the sound of her struggling for breath, the power I had over her…
~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl
One of the excellent things about abducting Lady Calliope Manning and bringing her to Helston Hall was that it had long since been closed up, with no curious or well-intentioned servants about to question him. Or to stop him.
But also, there were no servants.
Which meant he would have to play footman, cook, lady’s maid, etcetera, to the woman who was currently glaring at him with murderous intent. That fact rather