Deeper in Sin (17 page)

“That was just me at that point, I think.”

He stared at her, confused.

“I was twirling around the room—dancing around it—and I knocked over the teapot and fell on the bed.”

“In the dark, you were dancing around the room?”

“I was happy.” She looked up at his face. “Because of you.”

He didn't react to that. “You said he told you he had been paid to kill you.”

“That's what he said,” she explained. “I offered him money to spare me, and he said he'd been given more to kill me.”

“Poor love.” He looked at her so tenderly, she almost melted. Then he asked, “By whom?”

“He didn't bother to tell me.”

“Sophie, you are remarkable. Any other woman would be sobbing and in a mess.”

“But I'm safe now.”

His gaze lingered on her eyes. “You are.”

“I didn't see hardly anything of his face. I think he wore a cloth over part of it. In the light—there's barely any light in that room, even on the middle of the sunniest day—I saw his eye, his cheekbone. Oh, and hair. He had golden hair. Rather like yours.”

“No, he did not.”

“He did. That much I am certain of, because I saw it.”

“You saw this, Sophie.” Cary picked up something from behind him, on a table. At first, she thought he'd picked up a cat. No, it was a handful of blond curls.

“A wig,” he said.

“But why? Why wear a blond wig?” She stared at Cary's beautiful sculpted face and his golden hair, which was a mess, drifting over his brow.

“A woman was killed—a woman I had been seen pursuing at a Cyprian ball. Last night I was seen with you, and subsequently, you were attacked.”

“But you had nothing to—” Then she understood. “You mean, someone is trying to make you look guilty of this? But why?”

“I don't know. But you are not going to return to that room. You can spend the night here. Tomorrow, I will have a house rented for you.”

But he said it with a sigh. He did not look particularly happy.

Why would he be happy? He was not going to have any of the pleasure of having a mistress. She felt suddenly nervous. He was rescuing her, but at a huge cost.

She really must become his lover. She must give him something back. “I wish you would . . . come to my bed. I don't understand you. Why would you buy me a house and give me so much?”

“Apparently, now, my dear, I owe it to you. You were attacked because of me. I don't why, but that's what happened.”

“But you will have a mistress and no—no fun. That can't be enough for you?”

“Yes, love. It is enough for me.”

But she didn't believe it. “Nell said you used to be wild. She said you were the most wicked of the Wicked Dukes.”

“I had a lot of sex to make me forget. That no longer works. Now, come on. We will get you to your bed.”

He took her to the bedchamber she had used before—just a few nights ago—and she slipped into the bed. The bed was cool, but a fire burned in the grate.

“Try to sleep and remember, you'll always be safe now.”

“I—Thank you.” It was so sweet, so good of him that she wanted to cry.

As he closed the door, and Sophie closed her eyes, she knew the truth—she was unstoppably in love with the duke.

This was not a love she could forget, or force herself to ignore.

She shut her eyes. Coals in the grate lent a soft red glow that faintly lit up the room. Sophie heard the faint tick of a clock.

Then suddenly she was in a great house, in one of the corridors, and there was no light but eerie silver-blue moonlight. A young boy cried out. Her son, Alex! She began to run down the corridor, but the cries got farther away. Terrified, she turned, but in any direction she ran, she was only going away from her son—

“Alexander!” She gasped, launching up in the bed.

Sitting there, with the covers at her waist, her body drenched in cooling sweat, she knew what had happened.

A dream. Just a dream. “Oh, thank God. Thank God.” She almost sobbed in relief.

Cary was haunted by fear, and so was she. His fears were memories. Hers were for a horrible future that could come true—she could lose her son, maybe even her life.

Would Devars really leave her alone?

She couldn't think about that now. She must go forward. Cary's protection had to be the answer; otherwise, what could she do? He would save her, and maybe she could save him. . . .

Sophie frowned.

Cary had said he used sex to forget. She assumed he must mean the awful memories that haunted him. But Nell said he had been a wicked rogue
before
he was kept as a prisoner of war. It was
after
that he had changed.

The memories that bothered him couldn't have been from Ceylon.

They had to be from something that had happened before.

12

Cary heard the creak of his bedroom door behind him, and he turned away from the window. He met Sophie's startled gaze.

“Oh!” she said. “I thought you would be asleep.”

He quirked a golden eyebrow. “And you intended to get into bed with me. Or get on top of me?”

Her cheeks went scarlet. “Well . . . er, I wanted to be with you. Of course I had no intention of doing anything you didn't want—”

“Sophie, no.”

“But you're unhappy, and I wanted to heal you.”

He'd had women desire him, but never quite like Sophie. He almost felt like a blackguard for not taking her to bed, as if he were personally wounding her. Once he made Sophie his mistress and got her a house, he couldn't visit her. She would probably leap on him as soon as he got in the door.

“I realized something tonight,” she said. “I realized that if you used sex to blank out your memories, then your terrible memories had to be from long before you were taken prisoner in Ceylon.”

Framed by her loose black hair, she looked at him so earnestly.

Christ, how astute she was. She had figured that out. She was waiting for him to explain. To tell her what had happened to him.

He couldn't. “Go back to bed now. But why don't you join me for breakfast, Sophie?”

“You are trying to change the subject,” she accused. “Please tell me what happened.”

“No,” he growled. “That is my condition for you to be my mistress. You can't ask me questions. I won't talk about it.”

“All right,” she said.

He looked at her with suspicion. She had agreed too easily.

“But I would like breakfast with you. Your breakfasts are smashing.”

She was so adorable. And he was so damned destroyed. How had she figured this out so quickly? She was going to have to give up.

He got up, led her to his door. “Now, go back to bed and sleep. You have nothing to worry about.”

She nodded, again arousing his suspicions. But he closed the door behind her as she went back to her bedchamber.

He would set her up in a house, give her an allowance, and then he would not see her again. He would know she was safe.

It was enough.

And what about his promise to wed? That meant being able to put his past behind him and perform in bed. He could keep quiet about his past, not tell a wife anything. But he couldn't seem to put it behind him to have sex, damn it.

Cary had no idea what in hell he was going to do.

 

Cary had to smile as Sophie mounded food on her plate from the hot breakfast dishes laid out on the sideboard. She took ham and sausages and potatoes.

She blushed as she sat opposite him. “I suppose you fear I will end up fat. Now that I'm your mistress—”

“I'm not condemning you, Sophie. I suspect you haven't had much to eat.”

“What are we to do today?” she asked. Her ham had already vanished from her plate, and half her potatoes were gone—all in the blink of an eye. The poor thing was starving. She sipped tea and gave a blissful sigh as if she were savoring heaven on a breakfast plate. “Are we to stay here? Perhaps in your bedroom? Or we would simply talk, if you prefer. There is so much I would love you to tell me about . . . well, you.”

Two dangerous things—bed and the temptation of sex, and talking. “Neither today,” he said. “I have to get a house for you. And I want to return to your room in the stews and look for clues. That will take me a while.”

She set down her tea. While he'd been thinking about what she probably wanted to talk about, she'd consumed a sausage.

“And me too,” she said. “I am going with you to investigate.”

“No, you are not.”

“Why not? It is my room, and I was the one who was attacked. Besides, I know the people who live there, and they know me. They will talk to me.”

“I can bribe them,” he pointed out.

She folded her arms over her chest. She was wearing a dress that had belonged to his sister. A pretty ivory-and-yellow muslin that looked lovely and spring-like. It was an innocent-looking dress, but strangely, that made Sophie look even more seductive and alluring.

“I am still going,” she declared.

“No, you are not. Protectors issue commands. Mistresses obey.”

“Yes, but you have told me I am not really your mistress. And when I believe I can help you, you cannot expect me just to wait for you and do nothing!”

She could be so sweet and innocent, yet Sophie had a backbone of steel.

Damnation, she was trouble.

Guilt followed the thought—Sophie was in trouble now because, apparently, someone was murdering young women and trying to make it look as if he were the killer. One woman had been murdered. There had been an attempt on Sophie's life by a man paid to kill her.

That had to mean the bastard would try again.

Cary wanted to keep her safe—that was why he had wanted her to stay here. He didn't have a house for her yet, so if he went, he would be leaving his “mistress” in his family home. All he needed was his mother and sisters to show up. That would be awkward, to say the least.

And given his mother had threatened to intervene if he didn't get engaged . . .

He had no idea when his mother would decide he was not progressing and would show up at the house.

It would be best to take Sophie with him.

 

Sophie peered out the window of the duke's carriage. She wore a gown borrowed from the wardrobe of one of his sisters—a beautiful dress that a London lady would wear for shopping, topped by a smart dark blue velvet pelisse. She wore a bonnet too. At first she'd protested, but he insisted the clothes were no longer those worn by Claudia, his sister. And since Sophie had been determined to go with him, she needed to wear something.

Now, as she got closer to her old room, the place where she'd been attacked, she began to feel cold with fear, stiff with tension.

But she had nothing to fear. Not now.

Cary's hand rested gently on hers on the velvet seat. “Are you all right, love?” he asked.

Love.
That made her heart wobble. But she knew it was just a careless endearment.

If she were to say it, she'd mean it.

She looked at his handsome but troubled face. “Do you really think someone is trying to make you look guilty of—of murder?”

“I admit it's just an assumption. But the man who attacked you wore a blond wig, and that likely made him look like me to anyone who saw him.”

“But why would someone do that?”

“I don't know. I spent last night trying to fathom a motive. If it is to attack me, it's a sick and sadistic way to do it—harming innocent people. It could be that this person wanted to hurt both you and Sally Black, and thought the best way to get away with it was to throw suspicion on me.”

“What reason would he have to attack me?”

“There are men who like to hurt women for pleasure—” The duke broke off and shook his head. “But you said he told you he was paid to hurt you. So it wasn't because he's a bastard who gets pleasure from hurting women. You were chosen by someone else.”

“And that leads back to you, doesn't it? Someone trying to destroy you.”

“But not kill me,” he said softly.

Sophie shivered. “I guess we need to know who your enemies are. Who would want to hurt you?”

He hesitated. Then shook his head. “I have no idea.”

The carriage stopped. It couldn't fit in the narrow lane that led to her door. Cary jumped down before his servant lowered the steps, then he took her hand. He helped her down just as if she were a lady. He'd done that last night too—

She looked down the lane. The sun shone, but the narrowness of the lane cast it in cool shadow.

“I realized that if I hadn't done my impetuous, silly dance and knocked things over, you would have gone before I was attacked. If you hadn't heard the crash, you wouldn't have come back. My adoptive mother had always scolded me for being impetuous. Sometimes she scolded me just for being happy. But this time, my foolishness had actually saved my life.”

“Sophie, you really are—” Suddenly, Cary pulled her into his arms.

“I am what?” She gasped.

But he didn't answer. He kissed her.

In the narrow, impoverished lane in front of her former home, the duke wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. His mouth took hers in a slow kiss. A slow, firm, caressing kiss. Her lips sizzled hotter and hotter. His mouth coaxed hers to open, and his tongue came in to play.

She loved his kisses and the parry and thrust of his tongue. It was so intimate. It was like having sex standing up—it made her heart pound, her private place get achy and wet.

She wriggled against him.

But he eased back.

She looked at him, dazed and half drugged with pleasure and desire. “You are adorable,” he said.

Then he asked her for her key.

“Couldn't we kiss again first?”

“Not now. Serious work now,” he said softly. He turned her key in the lock, then thoughtfully studied the door. “He was waiting for you, which means he got into the room before you unlocked it.”

“Could he have gotten through the window?”

“Too small for a man of his size. He must have picked the lock, then used a similar device to relock the door from the inside. He is intelligent.”

“He smelled like a gentleman,” she said suddenly. She hadn't thought to say it before. “I mean, he smelled of some kind of cologne. Something exotic and astern. His leather gloves—” She shuddered. “They were as fine as yours almost.”

“So not a ruffian from the stews?”

She shook her head. “But why would a gentleman be . . . attacking women for money?” She couldn't say the word “kill.”

Cary stroked his jaw. Watching his fingers skim himself left her rather breathless. “Debts?” he pondered. “Or he's a man from a lower class who has earned enough to emulate gentlemanly behavior—I mean, in method of dress.”

Cary unlocked and opened her door. He stepped inside, then turned to her. “It's all right for you to come in, love.”

She stepped into her room. She wrapped her arms around herself. “Do you think he will try to hurt me again?”

She wanted Cary to put his arms around her. Ever since she'd been thrown out of her house, she'd had to be strong. She'd had to be so positive and hopeful, it hurt. Now she was crumbling.

As if he knew, he suddenly looked up. In two strides, he'd crossed over in front of her. His arms went around her. “No one will hurt you now. You are under my protection.” Then softer. “You are mine.”

Those words made her shiver. In a good way.

She watched as he looked around her room. What did he think of what he saw? He grimaced. She felt ashamed, then defiant. It had been the best she could do.

“Where were you on the bed when you heard him behind you?”

She sat as she thought she had done. Cary walked behind her. “The fiend must have stood here, in the corner.”

“I got off the bed and went to light the candle—” She stopped. Next thing she knew Cary held her hand. He lifted her to her feet. His fingers stroked her palm in her borrowed white gloves. Firm, soothing strokes. Strokes that gave her courage.

“That was when he grabbed me and shoved me against the door. He stuffed his hand into my mouth to smother my scream.”

Cary cradled her close to his tall, strong body. He was such a good man.

“But then he moved his hand, and I could scream. Then he dragged me across the room and slammed me into the table so hard, I lost all my breath. That was when I offered him money to leave me alone, and he told me about being paid to kill me. . . .” She sucked in a shaky breath. “Then you came in and you saved me.”

His lips brushed the top of her head, on the brim of her bonnet, for he couldn't get any closer. Then she gasped. “Look there. That isn't mine.” She pointed at a fragment of paper.

Cary picked it up. It was torn from a larger sheet, a diagonal tear along one edge. All it had on it was her address.

“Someone gave the villain this so he knew where to find me,” she said softly.

“That's the curious thing.”

She gazed at him, not understanding. “What do you mean?”

“When was the fiend given this? Sally Black was attacked on the night I encountered her at the Cyprian ball. I'd never met her before. So if it was the same scenario—he was paid to kill her—when was he contacted? Was he given this after the orgy, when I was seen with you?”

“Which means it was someone at the orgy?” she asked.

“It could. Or this could have been arranged days ago, after the Cyprian ball. But to start, we will assume someone at the orgy contacted this man—maybe sent a messenger with your address. And he came immediately to your room, broke in, and waited for you.”

There was something in his tone. He didn't sound as if he believed what he was saying. “You don't think that was what happened?”

“I don't know, Sophie. But regardless, it doesn't give us the important answer. Who contacted the assassin?”

The word made her legs wobble.

Suddenly, Cary's arms were around her again. She smelled his gentlemanly smells—good smells on him. Sandalwood, clean skin, something sharp and bracing that he must have used after shaving.

“It must have been someone at the orgy.”

“Not must, but it's a theory we have to explore. This person was also at the Cyprian ball. It gives us a large field.” The duke looked around the room. “I don't think this room has anything more to tell us.”