~fromConfessions of a Sinful Earl
Callie was bedraggled,tired, and wretched. Not necessarily in that order.
Her captor, however, was dozing comfortably on the Moroccan leather squabs opposite her, his long legs stretched out across the interior of the carriage, his booted ankles crossed. The deep, even sound of his breathing suggested he was slumbering without a hint of conscience, now that he had gotten what he wanted and they were en route back to London.
In repose, he looked somehow less menacing. Less like an angry god. More like a mere mortal. Still more handsome than sin.
She was going to marry this man.
Callie could hardly credit the knowledge. The last day seemed more like a horrible nightmare from which she would wake safe in the comfort of her bed at Westmorland House than reality. The man she had spent the last year believing responsible for Alfred’s death, the man she had ruined, the man with the blackest reputation in London, was forcing her to become his bride.
How she hated him.
She thought suddenly of his blade. Now that she had agreed to Sinclair’s demands, she was no longer bound like a prisoner. Mayhap it was not too late to escape him after all. She had no wish to truly hurt him with the knife—indeed, she did not think she could stomach it. But if she could somehow get her hands upon it…
Slowly, she made her way across the carriage, until she had settled herself beside him on the bench seat. He continued sleeping as the carriage went over a rut 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?
