“It is. You don’t need to look,” he said. But she peeked around him, his broad body trying to block her view.
In a huddle at the bottom, trapped in a small circle of jagged rocks, a bundle of gray cloth moved, pushed up and down against the rocks by the waves. From the height, she couldn’t really tell if it was a body. It looked like the cook’s dress. The she saw it—one spot of lighter color. A hand. A pale hand. Now she could spot a shape that must be the cook’s head. A foot.
“Do you think she was thrown over alive? Or dead?”
Sin’s arm went around her. “She’s gone now, either way.” “And so is Nellie. And the Old Madam is missing. But is she also dead? Or is she the killer? Is she the one who had a child, and who is driven to get revenge for that child? We’ve searched the island with no sign of her—”
“If she went over the cliff, her body could have been dragged out to sea,” he muttered. “We’ll take the steps down to the sea. Your idea of a boat in a cave may have been a bluff, but I’d like to make sure.”
He was armed with a pistol, with knives. They went down together, but they found no boat. They couldn’t reach the poor cook’s body. As they went back up the steps to tell the others, Portia could only think: Was the Old Madam lying in wait? Were they walking back into danger?
Surely, if they were careful, if they stayed together, watched each other, and focused on survival, they would indeed all survive.
21
“You’re so beautiful, Portia.”
At the soft, awed sound of a masculine voice, Portia awoke and opened her eyes. Sin was leaning over her in the bed they’d shared last night, naked, smiling softly at her.
She swallowed guilt. So many people had lost their lives, she felt terrible to be happy in Sin’s arms.
“What’s wrong?” he asked gently.
She explained, and he bent and nuzzled her neck, kissed her earlobe. “This makes it all the more important for us to celebrate being alive.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I supposed that’s true.” She felt safe here, in his bed, their door locked.
She and Sin had returned to the house yesterday to discover the house apparently empty with no sign of the Old Madam. Another storm blew in, lashing the house with fierce winds and cold rain, forcing them all to give up the search.
The six of them—her, Sin, Saxonby, Rutledge, Blute, the Incognita—had taken food from the locked butler pantry and eaten in front of each other. Then they’d gone to their bedrooms and locked the doors.
Sin had spent hours making love to her last night. Even from behind, as she leaned over the vanity table. She sensed he needed to do it to forget the horror of what they’d found. Portia would never forget the erotic scene of him driving into her—and her coming—in the mirror. Perhaps it wasn’t right, but she too had wanted to push aside thoughts of death and fear. And if she had very little time left, if the murderer did get her, she wanted to enjoy every second before that.
Sin drew away from her neck. He levered up on his side on the bed. “I’m going to marry you.”
Portia blinked. Was she still addled with sleep? “I beg your pardon?”
“We’re to be married, love.”
“Are you asking me to marry you? You did that before, with rather disastrous results, Sin.”
“Last time, I broke the engagement because I was not good enough for you. I’d fallen into a dark world of sex and orgies, and I couldn’t be the kind of husband you deserve. You loved me and I hadn’t lived up to that love. This time, it’s not about love. I’ve taken your innocence and it’s my duty and obligation to marry you.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. “Duty and obligation? I see. And I’m just supposed to put up with your shocking parties?”
“There won’t be any more of those. I’m going to behave myself as your husband. I’m a decade older, a hell of a lot smarter. I owe you marriage, and it will be my duty to make you happy.”
She’d had enough. Portia sat up, the sheets tumbling down. “I’m not a duty. I don’t want to be an obligation. I don’t care that I’ve given up my virginity. I knew perfectly well what I was doing. I’d decided I wasn’t going to marry. I am happy running the foundling home. If I’m not going to marry, it hardly matters that I’m ‘ruined.’ So I don’t need a marriage and I certainly don’t want one where you’ve been forced to marry me.”
The words squeezed her heart. Duty. Obligation. This wasn’t about love. He didn’t love her.