If it was the Old Madam, why was she doing this? Had she had a child who had been hurt by all these people—?
Her hands. That was what was wrong! When she had talked to the cook in the kitchen, she hadn’t really thought about the woman’s hands. But now she remembered Mrs. Kent’s hands were elegant. They weren’t tough, reddened. She remembered how long-fingered and graceful they were when the cook touched her locket. And when the cook’s hand had brushed hers in the kitchen, the skin had been smooth. She hadn’t felt any roughness of calluses.
Those had been a lady’s hands. Not a servant’s hands.
But the cook was dead—
Or at least a woman’s body, clad in a gray dress, lay at the bottom of the cliff, where they couldn’t get to it.
Thinking back, Portia tried to compare the cook and the Old Madam. Both had large bosoms and were of similar height. The cook was dowdy and rather plump. The madam had a voluptuous figure and wore rouge, lip rouge, kohl around her eyes. But it was easy to look dowdy in a gray dress. The body at the bottom of the cliff could be the cook . . . or could be the Old Madam.
The cook was obviously not a cook. Certainly the food had tasted quite delicious, but no actual cook would possess such dainty hands.
She sat up.
“Portia, what are you doing awake?”
She almost leapt out of the bed. Sin sat up, the covers falling away from his beautiful, naked chest. The glow of coals in the fire gilded the lines and planes of his hard torso.
Stop thinking of his nakedness and think sense, Portia. “I thought you were asleep,” she said.
“I was, briefly. I have to keep my wits about me and keep you safe, love.”
“Sin, there’s something I must tell you. Something I believe I’ve figured out about these crimes.”
“What is it, my bride-to-be?”
“I’m not your bride-to-be—oh, let us stop arguing about that. Let me tell you about this.”
He held out his hand and as she clasped it, he drew her closer to him. “Tell me, love.”
“I think the cook is the killer. She’s not really dead. She faked her death, just as you did.” All her ideas spilled out madly as she outlined why she thought the cook was an imposter—and a murderess. “There was once she even lost her accent. She stopped saying ‘yer’ and said ‘your,’ but I didn’t notice until now.”
Sin listened. He never interrupted while she explained. Then softly, he said, “I think you’re right.”
“Then what are we going to—”
He put his hand over her mouth, cutting her off. She squawked behind his palm in protest. A muffled sound. He put his finger to his lips. And she heard a sound. Footsteps. Light and furtive outside the door.
She stopped sputtering—heavens, she even tried to stop breathing so they could hear. The steps continued past their door. Then came a soft creak.
“The stairs,” Sin whispered against her ear.
He was getting out of bed. Portia put her hand on his solid, strong forearm. “You can’t. Last time you were shot at. What if it’s a trap? The cook luring you out. What if she shoots again and does not miss?”
“I’ll be careful. This time I know what to expect.” Naked, he walked across the room. Utterly unconcerned that he wasn’t wearing a stitch, he opened the door slightly, glanced around. Then opened enough to slip out and closed the door.
She rushed to the door to follow, just as it opened. Her knees wobbled with relief as he came back in. “You went out naked.”
He glanced down. “I’d forgotten.” Frowning, he said, “It was Sax.”
“Saxonby? Do you think I’m wrong—that Saxonby is the murderer? As you accused him earlier?”
“That accusation was false—to set up the false duel and my fake death. I’ve known Sax since we were boys. I can’t believe he’s guilty. He must be planning to hunt the killer alone.”
“But that’s utterly foolish. He must be stopped—”
“I’ll do it.”
Of course he would offer to do that. And she knew she must let him go. He went for his clothes and impulsively she rushed after him. Threw herself against him, pressing to his firm, hard, naked back. “Do be careful.”
He turned, looking a little affronted. “I will be, Portia. I promise you.”
She hugged him. She liked being pressed tight against him, her breasts against the hard muscle of his back, her cunny against his groin. She was afraid to let him go.
Even though she’d refused to marry him.
He actually had to pry her arms off him. “I’ll lose him unless I go now, love.”
With lithe movements he pulled on his trousers, then stuffed his feet into his boots, which were battered and muddy. He wore nothing under his trousers. There was nothing but bare skin. She held out his shirt, but he shook his head. “The white is too visible.”