never before been kissed in anger. Nor by someone she despised. She had not expected to enjoy it. Indeed, her wits told her she should have abhorred everything about what had transpired between them—his weight upon hers, his big body crushing her, his hot breath fanning over her mouth, and then his wicked assault of her lips.
And yet…she had liked it, much to her shame.
She had liked the kiss of the man who had killed her beloved brother.
What was the matter with her?
She stared down at the plate Sinclair had laid before her, determined she would not eat a bite of it as penance for her sins. Even as her stomach rumbled with the reminder that it had been a long time since she had taken tea and biscuits with her friend, Lady Jo, back in London. It had only been hours ago, and yet seemingly a lifetime had passed.
“Afraid the heartless murderer of wives and brothers has poisoned your supper?” asked Sinclair, his tone dark, angry, and bitter.
“Have you?” she asked.
His lips flattened. “No.”
Did she detect disapproval in his voice? Hurt?
She fiddled with her fork but made no effort to pick it up. “Are there no servants in this ruins to which you have forced me?”
“None, princess. You will have to see to yourself, or you will have to rely upon me.” His smile was insincere.
Yet still beautiful.
He was a dreadfully handsome man, and his sobriquet had never made more sense than it did to her now, in this low light, as she was the beneficiary of all his attention. After his lips had devoured hers.
Sin.
How fitting.
She ground her molars and returned her stare to her plate. Her stomach growled once more, imploring her to eat at least a bite. Her pride would not allow it.
Her captor had no such reservations. He was gustily consuming his chicken and cheese. Strangely, his voraciousness did not disgust her. Rather, it intrigued her. She found herself stealing glances in his direction, only to find his eyes were always upon her.
Almost black, those eyes.
Fathomless.
“You are not hungry?” he asked suddenly.
She cleared her throat at his question. “No.”
His lips twitched. “You will only spite yourself, Lady Calliope. If you do not eat your dinner, you will go to sleep with a hungry belly.”
She doubted very much she would be able to sleep this night. First, she would be far too busy attempting to orchestrate her escape. Second, how could she sleep, knowing she was this man’s captive? She laid down her fork.
He made a low sound of disapproval. “Eat, princess.”
His directive naturally made her balk. “I am not hungry.”
“That is a lie. I heard your stomach rumbling from here,” he said.
Blast him. He likely had. She was starving.
She pasted a false smile to her lips. “I am sure you heard nothing of the sort. I have no wish to eat the food of my captor. Therefore, I am not hungry.”
“This is the food of your future husband.” He lifted a bite of chicken to his well-sculpted lips. “I am not your captor, Lady Calliope.”
She tried not to watch him chewing, tried not to allow her gaze to linger upon his lips. Upon those lips that had so recently been moving over hers. And she most definitely banished any lingering tingling sensations caused by the memory.
“You are my captor,” she reminded him as much as herself. “You took me from London, against my will. If I am free to go, why did you bind my wrists and threaten me with a blade? Why do we not return to London now?”
“I prefer to think of myself as your host. The man to whom you will bind yourself in holy matrimony.” He took a generous sip of wine.
She watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, nettled at his lack of concern. Irritated by his blatant masculinity, too. “I prefer to think of you as a madman.”
“You may as well eat,” he told her. “There will be nothing until breakfast.”
“I will not eat your food.” She compressed her lips and pinned him with a glare.
Her stomach growled again.
He gave an indolent shrug. “Suit yourself, princess.”
And then he continued to eat.
Each clang of his cutlery upon the simple plate irked her. How could he be so unaffected? So cool? Part of her was frightened, part confused, part terrified. And another part? Intrigued.
“You truly suspect I poisoned your food?” he asked suddenly, reaching across the table and spearing a hunk of chicken on the tines of his fork before bringing