Chapter 7

Was that hope she heard in his voice? Killing him really might be the best option. She didn’t need her father to skin him; she’d do it herself. Cynthia glanced down at the hearth, at the small knife that lay beside the remains of the cheese. It was not a very sharp knife, but she reckoned it could do harm. It might even be more painful than a sharp one would have been. Bloody bastard. He was the bastard, not baby Hope.

The worst was she knew he was right. Marriage was the correct answer, the right answer, perhaps the only answer. And she wanted to do the correct thing no matter how difficult, but not this. Never this. The thought made her stomach churn.

“That is of no concern of yours.” She tried to sound as if she believed the words she spoke. In truth she wasn’t sure what she would tell her father and stepmother about her sudden absence. And then an idea struck. “I will say I was in the country with Jasmine. Your father is still sticking to that story and it is believed by most. I will say I sent a note telling them that I had heard she was very ill and I could not wait to see her. Somehow the note went astray and—”

“And you expect they will believe that you headed down to our estate on the spur of the moment without a maid or a single trunk?”

Blast him. He should be trying to help her, not poking holes in her story. “I will say that I stopped by to visit Jasmine in Town, and your father told me how ill she was. He loaned me a maid and a carriage when he saw how distraught the thought of her illness made me.”

James’s lips pressed tight, drawing her gaze. “It is dangerous to try to manipulate my father. He always finds a way to come out on top. He will have no desire to help and will find some other method to ruin you if he feels forced.”

“I can handle him. I have before,” she said, sticking out her chin, even as her mind screamed that she must have lost any remaining wits. Handle the Duke of Scarlett? It would be easier to handle a bucket filled with pythons and scorpions. It was true she’d played a harmless prank on him as a girl, but even then she’d felt the limits, known what would happen if she ever truly brought about his displeasure.

“You know better than that. If he decided to bring you down, there are a thousand little things he could say that would ruin you. Even your father, the earl, would not be able to help.”

That was probably true, but…“I will not marry you. I don’t know much about physical matters, but from what little I do know it seems unlikely that I am with child. You did not have time to spill your seed.” At least she didn’t think he had. She truly didn’t know much about these things. If she ever got out of here she would have to ask Jasmine, surely she knew—or would know someone to ask.

James stared across at her. He clenched his fist, drawing her gaze to his strong hands. “That may be true, but it only makes it less likely, not impossible. A little cum can leak at any time.”

“Cum?”

“My seed, as you so elegantly put it.”

Was that right? She hated not knowing. But then, she hated everything about this. Everything. “Well, if there is only a slight chance that I am with child, why should I marry you?”

“A slight chance is still a chance. I will not leave you heavy with my bastard.”

“I don’t think…”

He took a step toward her, his fists remained clenched. “I don’t care what you think. We will do what is right.”

Her mind refused to clear. She would not agree to this, could not agree to this. “Why don’t we both head back to Town. We can meet at a ball there and you can begin to court me. If it turns out that I am with child, and we are getting along, then I will agree to wed you.”

“It will be too late then.”

“It will be far from the first seven-month babe to be born.” Tears were building behind her eyes and it was all she could do not to break down and wail. The more they talked of this the more real it became and she could not bear for it to be real. How had her life changed so greatly in one single night? Yesterday morning she had been the one trying to help a friend in trouble, now…She’d always known her sense of adventure might one day lead to disaster, but she’d never imagined this.

“We must marry.” His voice was firm and demanding.

Cynthia shivered. It would be so easy to give in to him. Her every instinct cried for her to listen, to do as he said. But she pushed them down, just as she pushed down her tears. She shook her head, unable to speak.

“Blast it all,” he exclaimed and, pulling on his boots and grabbing his coat, headed for the door. “I’ll see if it’s possible to cross the creek. The sooner we are out of here the better.”

The door creaked open and then slammed shut.

The icy rain hit his face, cooling him. What was wrong with the woman? Why could she not understand simple reason? As a girl, she’d always been so sensible, so easy to talk to. He wasn’t happy about the situation either, but surely she could understand that they needed to marry, that there was no other option.

He stopped and stood still, letting the rain drench him. How could everything have gone so wrong? It had been such a simple plan to have Jasmine brought here, to remove her from the brothel and have her brought someplace safe, someplace where he could take care of her, someplace where he could make her begin to see reason.

He loved his sister. They might not have been as close these last years, but it was natural for a man to want to escape the family nest and equally natural that a beloved daughter or sister should be kept in it, safe and secure. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what had happened to Jasmine to move her to the place she was now—well, beyond the obvious, and he would kill the man who had left her with child if he ever discovered who he was.

He clenched his hands into fists. The anger that filled him could not be cooled even by the freezing rain.

And it was freezing. He looked down as he felt the first crunch of ice beneath his feet.

Bloody hell. He was never going to be free of the cottage, free of the girl, free of Sin—Cynthia.

And that was the heart of his anger.

Cynthia Westhope.

He was no better than the man who had abused his sister. How could he not have realized that she was a lady, a pure maiden? Although, she hadn’t seemed pure as she pressed herself against him this morning—and surely a true lady would have preferred to sit in a chair all night, shivering, before she shared a blanket with a man who was not family, who was a stranger.

Again his mind filled with the image of a young Sin gazing up at him with absolute adoration.

She had known who he was and she had trusted him.

They had to get away from here, get back to civilization. It would have been bad enough being trapped here with his sister, but being trapped here with Sin…Although it would give him time to make her see reason.

He stomped through the mud and rain, his boots snapping through the paper-thin sheet of ice.

He reached the creek and stopped.

Hell.

Last night he’d been unwilling to take his horse across the shaking beams, today only one remained and it was missing a section in the middle—and was also coated with the beginnings of a sheet of ice. Sometime in the night something large must have been dragged down the creek, slamming into the old bridge.

He sucked a gasp of frigid air into his chest. Alone he might have dared to cross it. His balance was excellent, and while the water below still raged, he took pride in his swimming skills.

With Cynthia along it would be impossible. There was no way he could risk having her attempt to cross.

Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.

He turned back and stared up the hill at the cottage, a glimmer of light shining through the gray of the day.

He would have to go back, but what could he possibly say to her, say to Sin?

Cynthia huddled on the cot, digging her toes into the straw mattress. She’d left the blankets on the floor, unable to bear their touch. Every time she looked at them she was filled with the image of what had happened, of what a fool she had been—of what she had let happen. And that was the truth. She had let it happen.

She had not protested until it was too late, much too late.

She had reveled in James’s attention, both emotionally and physically. Denying it would have been easy, but she would not take that road, would not lie to herself. She wrapped her arms tight about her knees, shivering although she no longer felt the cold.

She was ruined.

She might be with child.

It was not likely. She was not completely ignorant, as she had explained to James, but…

But…

Her mind froze there.

Another shiver coursed through her.

James had been inside of her, violated her—and it had hurt. She pushed her legs tighter together, trying to forget the sensation.

And the trouble was it wasn’t the pain that she remembered, it was what had come before, the feeling of need, of wanting more—and the pleasure. She’d never understood how such a thing could be pleasurable, never understood the attraction of touching lips and other parts. She’d been kissed before, several times, and had not disliked any of them—but neither had she felt the attraction. She’d decided that it was something women did because it made men happy, just like all the rest of— No. No. No.

Don’t think about it. Think about something else.

Think about the new ball gown her stepmother was going to order her.

Only her stepmother would never order it if she knew…

Think about sketching—only she could remember so clearly those hidden sketches she’d drawn of James as a girl.

Think of…of…Of Hope. Sweet and innocent. So soft and smelling of newness.

She might be having a child of her own, a small bundle of…

No. No. No.

Her mind turned in circles, locked into an endless train of thoughts that all ended with how stupid she’d been, what an idiot she was.

Not knowing what else to do, she bowed her head and finally let the tears of uncertainty flow, until none remained.

James stood in one of the low outbuildings, little more than a thatched roof on legs, covering a pile of dried logs. He’d spent the last half hour splitting firewood, not an activity that he had partaken in frequently, but one that fulfilled his need for physical activity, to work hard until he couldn’t think, until he could barely move. Only then did he feel ready to return to the cabin, to return to Sin.

Filling his arms with wood, he strode back to the house, feeling the sweat on his muscles steam and cool. He felt in control and ready to explain, coolly and logically, to her all the reasons that they must marry, to give her no choice in the matter, to make her understand that it was what was best for her. While splitting the logs, he’d reconciled himself further to the coming marriage. He’d always liked her, found her amusing. Surely she could not have changed that much. And she’d always been so easy to be with. It was a quality he’d never appreciated enough, the feeling of simply being comfortable with someone. Plus, she was an attractive woman, more than attractive. Her ass truly was beyond compare. His mind filled with it—and all the things he’d like to do to it. And that wasn’t even thinking about those long muscled legs—he remembered she’d been quite the horsewoman even as a girl—and her more than satisfactory tits. He’d always been a man who preferred quality to quantity. A sensitive nipple was far more important than overwhelming bounty. And if he remembered how she’d rubbed into him, she was more than sensitive. He might very well enjoy torturing her with pleasure.

His cock grew against his leg.

Maybe once he’d persuaded her to marriage they could indulge a little. The damage was already done. A little more wouldn’t do any harm—although his thoughts were of far more than a little.

He knew he’d hurt her with his unknowing carelessness, but he was more than ready to make it up to her. He’d certainly felt her response before that moment—and if she was still sore, there were many other things they could do.

Did one do such things with a fiancée or a wife? Well, he didn’t see why not. If he was going to be forced to marriage—and he would have been at some point even if not this soon—then he certainly intended to make the best of the situation.

His mind circled back. She’d always seemed remarkably sensible for a girl. He smiled as more memories came to him: Sin debating points of history—she’d always thought we should just have let the colonies go, hadn’t we paid attention to what happened in France? Sin riding across the fields, jumping the hedges as well as any man twice her age, Sin playing the most delicious pranks, she’d once put salt in his father’s morning chocolate—ah, the expression on the duke’s face, Sin arguing that she should be allowed to take fencing lessons, didn’t a girl need to be able to defend herself? In fact, it was surprising that his men had been able to abduct her. They were probably lucky she hadn’t landed a couple of kicks right between the legs.

Yes, he had always liked her, although then she’d been a girl and now she was a woman. He could only hope that she’d not become as foolish as most women. Her insistence on not marrying made him worry that she had. It was so like a woman to not understand what must be done and just move on from there. Only a woman would live in such a world of fantasy.

And not at all the type of fantasies that he liked to indulge in.

Reaching the door to the cottage, he rapped on it with his elbow, waiting for Sin to come open the door.

No answer.

Blast, how like a woman to be stubborn. If he’d had time to cool off, surely she had as well.

He knocked with his elbow again.

Still no answer.

His mellowed fury began to rise anew.

“Open the door,” he bellowed, juggling the logs.

Not a sound from within.

Had she tried to leave on her own? He could only hope not, but slight worry began to gnaw in his belly.

He turned his head up to the falling rain and swore softly, before lowering the logs to the ground and pushing down the latch to open the door.

Still no sound. Using a leg to prop open the door, he lifted the logs and stormed into the room, striding to the hearth. He dropped them there loudly and spun, ready to let Sin know just what he thought of her behavior.

He stopped cold. She sat curled on the barren cot, head bowed over bent knees, absolutely still. He could not see her face and yet he could sense her frozen despair.

His anger evaporated in an instant. This is not what he had wanted, not what he had imagined.

“Cynthia. Sin,” he whispered softly, but she gave no indication of having heard him.

Blast.

Watching her carefully he went over to the chair and lay down his coat, before sitting to pull off his boots. He debated his shirt and breeches. His clothing was not drenched as it had been last night, but it was distinctly damp. Half-naked or wet? He glanced at Sin. Damp. He did not think it was a good time to confront her with his bare chest and thighs.

On quiet feet he walked over and sat beside her on the cot.

Still no indication that she even knew he was there.

What the hell had happened while he was out? When he’d left she’d been resistant and strong, now she seemed completely defeated.

He edged closer. Nothing. He moved until his hip touched hers. She shuddered slightly but did not move away. Lifting a gentle hand he stroked her hair once, and then again. He brushed the upper curve of her cheek, visible even with her bent head. Another shudder. He reached out with care and placed an arm about her. God, she was freezing. He was the one who’d been out in the pouring rain, but she felt like she’d been sitting in the midst of a blizzard.

He stood quickly and went to add more logs to the fire, building it until it blazed. He lifted the twisted blankets from the floor and walked back to her. He stopped again and with some consideration dropped his breeches and pulled off his damp shirt. She needed warmth more than she needed decorum. She’d seen him in his smallclothes already and had not screamed—and this time he would know better than to let his foolish body take the lead, no matter where his thoughts and fantasies might lead him.

He sat down next to her, placing an arm about her thin shoulders, and wrapped them both in the blanket, tucking it securely about her.

And then they just sat. The fire lit the room despite the continued gloom outside. His stomach rumbled with hunger. It had been hours and hours since he’d finished the bread. There was more food in the saddlebags he’d carried in, but he did not move to retrieve it. He merely sat and waited…and waited…and waited.

She wasn’t as cold. It was the first thought that she’d had in—well, she didn’t know for how long, but it had been a long time. Warm. She was getting warm. Toasty. She turned her head slightly and glanced at James from under her lashes. She’d known he was there, of course, but had refused to think about it. It had been all she could do to merely exist.

But now feeling was seeping into her as well as his warmth.

His arm was warm about her bare shoulders. She should have put her gown back on earlier, but it had not even occurred to her. All that had mattered was wallowing in her pain.

Temptation grew in her to press into his side, to feel all that silken warmth against her skin. She resisted, hugging her knees more tightly, not understanding her own feelings. How could she find safety in his touch? Why was she not edging away? She needed to be wary. Trusting James is what had led to her current dilemma.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. His stomach rumbled.

Was she? She hadn’t thought about it. She supposed she should be. It must be hours since she’d gnawed on the bread and even then she’d only had a couple of bites. “I am not sure.”

“How can you not be sure if you’re hungry?” He sounded genuinely confused.

“My stomach does feel empty, but I can’t even imagine eating. And does it matter? We finished the bread this morning and I am sure there’s not enough cheese remaining for the two of us. You go ahead and eat it if you wish.”

His arm tightened about her shoulders. “I brought more food in my bags. I even brought some of those ginger biscuits that Jasmine used to gobble by the pound. If I remember correctly you shared her fondness for them.”

Ginger biscuits? How long had it been since she’d had a ginger biscuit? He was right; she had adored them. “The ones your cook used to make?”

“The very same. And I have more cheese and some sausage and bread, if it isn’t either soggy or dried out.”

Her lips curled slightly. It did seem likely that it would be one or the other, no matter how opposite they were. “You do make me wonder if I might have an appetite.”

“I think there’s another bottle of wine as well.”

“I am not sure that is wise.”

“Wise or not, it will help you stay warm.”

That was true. And how much worse could things get? “Why don’t you get your bags and find exactly what is in them?”

He pulled away and immediately she missed the heat and security of his body. The blanket still retained warmth, but it was not the same as having her own private furnace.

Her dress hung on a hook across the room. Had James hung it for her? She could not remember doing it herself—although she could not be sure. Should she slip across the room and put it on? Somehow that seemed even more intimate that sitting here wrapped in nothing besides her chemise and the blanket. Had she ever gotten dressed with a man in the room? No. She wasn’t sure that she could even remember putting on a cloak or pelisse with a man there—although she must have. For a moment she let her mind slip back, trying to recall such an occasion. Surely she must have. Why could she not think of a single occasion? A winter ball or a cold autumn day? Her mind refused to find a single time.

It was a silly thought, but so much easier than focusing on her current situation.

And then she giggled under her breath. Cooper, her father’s porter, was definitely a man and he’d been present almost every time she put on outerwear. In fact, he most often brought it to her. It felt a slightly shameful thought to admit that she hadn’t really considered him a man. She’d never wanted to be someone who didn’t see the servants and thought they were all interchangeable. That was not how she’d been brought up. Her mother had always been clear that the serving and laboring classes might be separate, but they were no less human.

And that made her glance at James. The Duke of Scarlett’s household had been quite the opposite. The duke had called all the footmen John and all the grooms Tom. Individuality was not allowed. They were there to serve him and for no other purpose.

James must have been raised with the same beliefs. It was odd the things one couldn’t be sure of, even with those one had known for years.

On the other hand, Jasmine had always seemed to know her maids’ Christian names, even if her father insisted on calling them all Mary. And from their few recent conversations it seemed that Jasmine was even looking out for the girls who worked for her, the…the whores. Cynthia wished she could think of a more pleasant name for them, but that part of her brain seemed sealed shut.

“You have a strange expression on your face,” James said, his footsteps causing her to raise her head and stare at him.

The light from the fire filled the whole room with a golden glow and sent reddish sparkles through his hair. His mouth quirked as he moved toward her, almost a smile. The man really was beautiful. Beautiful wasn’t normally a masculine word, but James was all man and yet she could think of no other word to describe the perfection of his strong, even features and the muscular symmetry of his body.

For a second her breath caught, and she held it, waiting for clearness of mind to return.

Not that anything about this day was clear, not the weather and certainly not her mind.

He raised a brow, expecting her to say something. “I was thinking about how Jasmine was raised, how strange it must have been growing up in the duke’s household.”

“I can’t say that I found it strange at all, but then I never knew anything else, and I am the second son. I can’t imagine growing up as Langdon did, having every want met and being told the world belonged to me. I always knew that I was second, the extra.”

“And that is an odd thought, too, although perhaps it was the same for my younger brother. It is different being a woman.”

His eyes swept over her and for a moment heat filled them. “It certainly is.”

And how had they gotten here? Yes, she was trying not to contemplate the whole situation, but if she weren’t careful they’d end up right back where they started. “Did you find any wine?” she asked.

“Yes, two bottles.” He held them up.

And didn’t that sound dangerous.

“I was sorry to hear about your mother. She was always kind to me. I wished to attend her funeral but it was over by the time I’d heard,” James said, letting his head fall back against the rough wood of the wall. It would be much more comfortable to move back to the blankets before the fire, but he hesitated to make any such suggestion.

“She always did like you,” Sin answered with a catch in her voice. “But then, she liked everyone—even your father. I think she remembered him from before he became duke and never felt the same fear as others. She once told me how lost he’d been when both his father and older brother died within a week of each other. She thought he’d become such a decisive man because it was years before he felt he had the right to make decisions, but that he couldn’t let anyone else know that.”

Truly? It was hard to imagine his father as being anything other than what he’d always been, all powerful. But then, how would he feel if both Scarlett and Langdon were to suddenly be gone? He’d never really considered becoming duke himself, although he’d always known it was a possibility. “I’ve never heard that; although, of course, I know the basic facts.”

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to distress you.” Sin turned her face to him, her eyes glowing almost pure green in the dim light.

“And I was worried I’d distressed you by mentioning your mother.” He brushed a stray curl from her cheek.

“No, or at least not really. It does hurt to talk of her, to think of her, but it hurts even more not to. I get so tired of everyone avoiding the subject. It’s been much worse since my father remarried. Gillian is a fine woman, but a trifle nervous. My father does not like my mother’s name to be mentioned in front of her. He believes it distresses her to be reminded of his prior marriage.”

“And are you not a reminder?”

Her face paled.

He should probably not have asked the question, but it had flowed so naturally from the conversation.

She swallowed and then began to speak. “I suppose I am. It is some of why I do not worry about being missed. Since the marriage my father is often out accompanying Gillian and I do not spend much time with them. If I need a chaperone they often call upon the aunt who accompanied me while my mother was ill. I can sometimes go a week without seeing either my father or Gillian. It may only be the servants who will notice that I am gone.”

“That does not sound easy.”

“I do not mind it.”

Why did he not believe that? “It sounds lonely.”

“But my father is happier. He was so quiet in the months after my mother’s death. I sometimes worried if he would just fade away.”

“That doesn’t mean you are not lonely.”

“Perhaps I am. Perhaps that is why I was so eager to visit Jasmine, even though I knew I should not. I missed her so much—not at first. I think at first I was so caught up in my own grief that I didn’t notice she was gone, but then suddenly I became aware just how great a hole there was in my life.”

Part of him wanted to bring up marriage again, to press his point. Surely he could make her see that if she would only agree to wed him, she would never be lonely. He would promise her that—and mean it. If she lived with him he would notice if she didn’t come home at night and have a thousand searchers out. She would never live unnoticed.

But he held his tongue and only reached out to squeeze her hand.

She squeezed back. “I can’t believe it’s been so long since we were last together. For years you seemed like you were part of my life and then…then I don’t know what, but somehow you slipped away.”

“I must admit it was the same with me. Perhaps I put you away with my boyish belongings when I felt ready for more manly adventures.”

Her lips quirked. “And are you going to tell me of those manly adventures?”

His skin suddenly felt hot as he realized how much he’d like to show her instead of tell her. “I think perhaps not. I imagine Jasmine has told you enough of my secrets.”

“I am always happy to hear more.”

“I am sure you are, but I think perhaps we are better discussing you. Are you sure you went to visit Jasmine because you were lonely and not because you were seeking trouble? If I remember correctly, you were always good at that.”

She sat up straighter, her breast brushing against him heavily. “I never sought trouble. It just always seemed to find me.”

“And the fact that you put meat scraps in Langdon’s pockets so that every hound in the house followed him around had nothing to do with it.”

“He had complained that he didn’t think the dogs liked him. I was only trying to help.”

“Or the time you slid down the banister and—”

“It was an awfully nice banister. Irresistible, one might say.”

“Or the time you tried to see how far you could slide in the great hall and tipped over the bust of Queen Elizabeth.”

“It was a very ugly bust—and besides, that is unfair. I would never have tried it if you had told me exactly how far you’d managed to slide in only your stockings.”

“I suppose that is true.”

They were quiet then for a few moments and he let an arm slip about her pulling her close. “Would you like some more of that wine now?” he asked.

“I should say no. I am sure I am rambling because of it, but I admit I am not yet ready for sleep.”

He leaned over and refilled the mug, handing it to her. The wine stained her lips for a moment and it was all he could do not to lean nearer and lick it off. He shifted, his pants suddenly tight. “I like your rambling. I always did. I was never bored when you were about.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I am not sure that I believe that. I seem to remember you falling asleep more than one afternoon as I chattered on.”

“I believe that may have had more to do with late nights than with your chatter—and no, I am not going to discuss those nights.”

Another sip and then she let her lips curve in a pout. “You are no fun. How’s a girl supposed to learn when nobody will tell her anything?”

“I rather think you already know enough.” He wished he could pull the words back as soon as he’d said them. The last thing he wanted was to bring back the awkwardness of that morning.

Sin pulled back for a moment and stared at him. He could feel her brain swirling. Her mouth opened and then closed. A deep breath in. She looked away, staring across the gloom of the small cabin. And then with a slight sigh, she leaned back against him and let her head fall to his shoulder.

He took the mug from her hand and took his own deep swallow.