“Of course you can,” he countered, frowning.
“I cannot.” She held up her bound hands and made a show of attempting to grasp her voluminous skirts. “Unless you wish to aid me, I must have my hands freed. You may continue to preside over me as my gaoler as you wish. But at least grant me the decency of tending to myself.”
His wide jaw tensed beneath the shadow of dark whiskers covering it. “Only until you have finished, and then your wrists will be bound again. And if you attempt anything foolish, it will not go well for you, princess. I have no qualms about hurting you. Do you understand me?”
Her heart pounded. “Perfectly.” She held out her bound wrists to him.
He pulled that same, wicked-looking blade from within his jacket and sawed through the bindings with ease. “Nothing foolish, Lady Calliope.”
Blood rushed back to her fingers as he freed her, making Callie cry out as tingling pain seared through her. She had not realized how tight her bindings had been until their removal. She rubbed her wrists and flexed her fingers, wincing.
His hands were on hers then, and an unwanted heat skipped up past her elbows at the touch. He rubbed her fingers in his, cursing bitterly. “Was it too tight?”
“Why would you care?” she asked, jerking herself from his grasp.
What a strange man he was, acting as if he were concerned. She did not trust him. If he was concerned, it was for his own plans and not for her wellbeing. That much, she knew without doubt.
She turned away from him and went behind the screen, where more shadows and a chamber pot awaited her. Grimacing, she made the necessary motions to relieve herself, terribly conscious of Sinclair’s presence on the other side of the screen. Also terribly aware that she would somehow have to get her hands on the figurine and deliver a blow to the earl’s head with it.
Though she hesitated to harm anyone, her ability to escape him grew fainter by the moment. He had taken her somewhere well beyond the boundaries of London, and she had no hope finding her way back unless she did something drastic.
She took her time, rising and settling her undergarments and gown back into place.
“Are you finished?” came his voice, low and impatient.
“Almost,” she hedged, swiftly crafting her plan.
If she hesitated, lingering behind the screen, it was entirely likely he would come for her, and then she could distract him by throwing the screen onto him, giving her enough time to get her hands on that figurine.
“What is taking you so bloody long?” he demanded, his booted footfalls striding nearer.
Nearer.
She held her breath. At the last moment, she shoved the screen, upending it onto him. His muffled curses were not far behind her as she raced for the figurine. Her fingers closed upon it, and she turned, raising it high, striking him over the head with it.
The figurine smashed into hundreds of ceramic shards, raining all over the floor.
He growled.
But he did not topple over. Nor did he pass out. Instead, he lunged for her.
And that was when she knew she was in desperate trouble.
Chapter Three
After they were both dead, dear reader, I wish I could tell you I experienced a measure of guilt. However, I knew not even a modicum. I gloried in my crime. The Duke of W. and the Countess of Sin deserved their fates.
~fromConfessions of a Sinful Earl
The witch hadbroken a porcelain figure over his head. Sin supposed he ought not to be surprised. Leave it to Lady Calliope Manning to find one of the few pieces remaining within Helston Hall which had yet to be sold off or bartered because it was too bloody ugly, and to clobber him with it.
But she would pay for her folly.
He was not in the mood to find amusement in her attempts to beat in his brains, as it happened. His reaction, he had to admit, was rather something of an overreaction. There was no need to tackle her and pin her to the threadbare carpet beneath him. No reason save his own fury.
And the desire to have her beneath him.
He would not lie about that. As much as he loathed her, Lady Calliope was a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty with a feminine form to tempt a saint. The need to overpower her, to show her just how helpless she was, had become a physical ache that swelled beyond the mere tides of lust.
