“You will swing for what you’ve done,” Sin growled.
“I won’t! I’ll be with them now. I’ll be with my little girl again. I’ve committed enough sins that I’ll see her now!” The woman laughed manically and staggered to her feet.
Sin lunged forward to stop her, but he was too late. Lyon leapt off the cliff, her screams cutting through the night.
Damn, he was sliding toward the edge. The grass, slick with rain, sloped toward the cliff—
Hands grabbed him just as he managed to dig in his boot. He stopped his slide, wrapped his arms around Portia, who had stopped him from falling, and he got both of them several feet from the cliff.
He gazed into her huge gray eyes. The most beautiful eyes in the world, belonging to a woman who now knew the worst about him. Not everything Will had said was true, and he owed Portia the truth. Once she had it, he would lose her forever.
She cocked her head. She looked so startling beautiful with her huge pale gray eyes, her sweet freckles, her sensual mouth.
The most beautiful, sensual woman he’d ever known. Portia was precious.
“Portia—” That was all he got out because his throat was so dry and tight.
“Wait,” she gasped suddenly. “The shot that stopped Willoughby—where did it come from?”
“That,” he growled, “was Sax. Once I realized Will was still alive, I knew he would think I came alone. Sax armed himself, took cover, and waited. I was determined to save you, Portia, but I had hoped to be able to have Lyon and Will arrested. Of course, if I’d had to, I would have jumped him. Will and I would have gone off the cliff together, but I would’ve protected you.”
“Thank heaven Sax made the choice to shoot, rather than you jumping off the cliff.”
“In the end, Will left us with no other choice but to kill him. And he’s gone.”
“He was in love with you,” she said softly.
He put his hands on her delicate shoulders and leaned close to her. “I had no idea.” That was the truth. In Sin’s wild orgies, Will had been notorious for vanishing into bedrooms with groups of men and women. There was much speculation about what he did in there. Sin himself had played with other men, to delight women or when it had been part of the play at brothels. Will had obviously hoped for more.
Sin bent the last inch, kissed her.
Sax had not come out yet, obviously not wanting to interrupt this moment.
Sin drew away from the kiss, waiting for her to demand the truth. But she just reached up and stroked his cheek.
“You saved my life,” she whispered. “Your planning, your cleverness saved me.”
“Portia, about what Will said . . . aren’t you wondering what he meant by those things?”
“I love you,” she said firmly. “I don’t care what a madman said about you.”
Her faith in him stunned him. “I asked you to marry me because I owed you marriage, but I was certain that if you knew the truth about me, you’d never want to say yes.”
She stared up at him, confused.
“Some of the things Will said were lies. But some were the truth. I don’t know how he found out—he must have talked to everyone I grew up with. He must have figured it out somehow. I didn’t kill my own father. My mother killed him—and she did it to protect me in her own warped way. And to save her own skin. When I was young . . . she did things to me that she had no right to. Things that were wrong.”
His skin was hot, his heart pounding even harder than when he’d faced Will over a gun. “Sexual things. She touched me for years. Fondled me. Then she—hell, I can’t even talk about it. My father found out, hated me, and she—I think she poisoned him because she feared he would punish me. That was how I knew the effects of poison when Sandhurst died.”
Strange how he could talk about it dispassionately. As if it had happened to someone else.
“My brother was older than me. He was my half brother. I was twelve years younger than him. His mother died; then my father married my mother. My mother arranged the marriage between my brother and his wife, Estella. Estella was stunningly beautiful. She was also as warped as Mama, and soon after her marriage to my half-brother, Estella started coming to my bed.”
“How old were you?” she whispered.
“Twelve, I guess. Old enough to know it wasn’t right. My mother had been doing things to me for years before that—I don’t really remember when she started. My father was still alive then. He was so busy with his own mistresses that he didn’t care what was happening. My brother cared, though. He called me out. I was sixteen, facing my brother over pistols. The thing was—I wasn’t sleeping with Estella by then. I’d refused to do it once I reached fifteen. I was away at school then, and she would try to seduce me on the holidays. But I said no. Out of spite, she told my brother. When we dueled, I missed my brother deliberately. But he didn’t miss me.”