Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(45)
For a moment, the sky brightened with lightning. Wind buffeted the house and rain slammed against the glass, as if trying to break in and invade.
Sinclair came and stood over her. He stripped off his gloves and tossed them aside. Warm, strong, his hand stroked her face. She should say no. Tell him to stop. But she couldn’t.
A second death in the space of hours. Suddenly, she needed to press tight against Sinclair. She turned his face into his chest. Strong and safe, his arms went around her.
She needed to be touched. She hadn’t experienced comfort for five years, not since Mother got very ill and confused.
Thunder came then. Delayed and fainter. The boom still made her gasp in surprise, but she knew the storm had passed them. It was going farther away.
At her gasp, he bent over her. He pressed his lips softly to the top of her head. Oh, what that did to her heart.
No, she had to stop this. She moved away. Spoke with the crispness of a school mistress. “I am quite fine now. I had a bit of a shock, but I am all right now. Do you need me to help you?”
“You need to sit. You are not fine. I’m not.” He directed her back to the chair, sat on the arm of the chair, beside her.
Large. Strong. Warm. Male.
She leapt up as if shot from a cannon. “I don’t need to be hugged and coddled. There are far more important things we must focus upon. Such as—who did this?”
“That is not for you to worry about. It is my fault you are involved in this—and I will make this right.”
“How is it your fault?”
“You were brought here as some kind of joke against me. Now this has happened—I don’t know who is responsible for this, but there’s a murderer on this island.”
“It is not your fault!” She cupped his face, feeling the scratch of stubble against her hands. She shouldn’t touch him, but he looked so white and shocked and in pain. He needed to be touched.
To her surprise, he drew her hands away. “Don’t. I’m not in the mood.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant. To make me feel better when I don’t deserve it. Protecting you is what matters to me, Portia.”
“Sinclair, for ten years I have looked after myself,” she argued. “I can do so now.”
The she saw something white on the carpet, near the settee. She stared in disbelief, already certain what it was. “Look. It’s another note.”
Sinclair bent and grabbed the paper. “Where did it come from?”
“It must have been with Willoughby. When you carried him, perhaps it fell.”
“It’s sealed with wax again.” He tore the paper open. She leaned over his arm to read.
A second sinner has paid for his crime. He will not be the last.
10
Crossing his arms over his broad chest, Sinclair drew his dark brows together in a frown. “If you won’t have the brandy, I’ll go down to kitchens and brew you tea.”
Despite the horror of the night, Portia had to smile. “You are a duke. Do you even know how to make tea?”
“I wasn’t always a duke, and I learned in my youth how to brew a cup of tea. For you, Portia, I’m more than willing to hoist a kettle and draw some water.”
He gave a gallant bow.
Her heart wobbled. Once she had felt so close to this man. Over the last ten years, she’d believed she had never understood him. Yet now she saw in him the young man she’d adored.
She shook her head again. “I am fine. I don’t need anything.” Except you, thought her traitorous heart. “But what is going on here? Does it mean someone killed both Sandhurst and Viscount Willoughby?”
Sinclair stood in the middle of the room, grinding his fist into the palm of his other hand. But she didn’t think he realized he was doing that—instead he was looking at Willoughby, a sad, pitiful shape covered by a coat. “I don’t know,” he said pensively. “I intend to find out.”
It was all he said, but Portia knew he had more thoughts. She could tell by the distracted way he answered her. It startled her to realize she knew this man. Ten years ago, when they were falling in love, he would tell her so many things. He had revealed how the duchess, his cousin, hated him. Revealed how awkward he felt being a duke, dealing with the business of the dukedom when he’d never been trained for it. How awkward he felt being in London. He’d told her that the only time he felt happy was when he was with her.
But that was in the past, no matter what he said now.
She almost touched his forearm. She stopped herself. “I can tell you have ideas—suspicions, Sinclair. You’re just not telling me. I believe I have a right to know, since I was kidnapped and brought here.”