Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(49)

“No, you can’t. At least, not my legs.” Touches were something she craved, but they were so very dangerous to her heart. “Are you really intending to search the island tonight?”

He frowned. “That was my plan. Yet you make it sound idiotic.”

“It’s pouring rain and pitch-dark. Would someone really be out here? If they are, they must have taken refuge.”

“We’ll hunt for other buildings.” He took the poker from her hand and clasped her wrist.

She felt safer being hand in hand with him. Though it spoke of joining, of partnership, and she fought to ignore that.

He took her down the terrace and they followed the lawns toward the edge of a cliff—the end of the island, where the rock was a drop to the sea.

Her slippers (also left for her, since she’d worn sensible half boots into the stews) squished with each step. That felt worse than wet clothes. They were also as slippery as metal runners on ice, and she was careful as she ventured near the edge of the cliff. Below, in great bursts of silvery white, waves crashed on the rocks, sending spray up to collide with the cascading rain.

It might be June, but outside, wet to the skin, she found it freezing. Sinclair was looking below, over the edge of the cliff.

“No one could be there, could they? They’d fall and be killed. It must be slippery and deadly on the rocks.”

“True,” he murmured. She barely heard his deep, low voice over the rain. He held her hand tightly, and his was warm, despite the cold rain running between their palms. “We’ll work around to the house.”

She had insisted on coming out with him, now she knew she’d been mad. She’d thought London rain—cold, dreary, and filled with the soot from all the fires—was awful. This rain felt like icy needles jabbing her. She sneezed.

Brushing back his hair, the duke stopped. Looked down at her. “Damn, you’re soaked through and you’re going to catch cold. I need to get you back to the house.”

Before she could protest—or even agree—he scooped her into his arms. The cold ridge of the poker was pressed between his palm and her bottom. But she barely noticed that. She couldn’t stop thinking: I’m in his arms, held tight against him.

He carried her toward the house. She hated to give in and she was used to being tough, but for once in her life she wanted to be safe inside and dry. Well, as safe as she could be.

How strong his arms were. She felt the hardness of them, his unyielding muscles pressing against her. His hands were splayed under her bottom. Even though she was very practical—she’d been raised to be practical—she couldn’t help but melt at being swept off her feet.

They reached the terrace, then the doors, and he set her down. She skidded a little as wet slipper sole contacted even wetter smooth flagstone. Skidded and slid so she fell against him, dropping his coat—an accident. It meant her wet nightgown pressed right against him, with her in it.

His hands went around her waist, drawing her close to him. The poker hit the flagstones with a clang. Another ridge, almost as hard as the poker, pressed to her from the front.

His mouth touched hers. Warm lips caressed hers. As if ten years hadn’t happened—

He pulled back. This time he was the one to do the sensible thing. “You need a hot bath. Then bed.”

“A bath? It’s the middle of the night. The poor maid will be asleep. I can’t bear to wake her. I’ll towel off and be fine.” She stopped on the threshold of the door. Perhaps, inside, there was a murderer. Waiting. Or perhaps he was out here....

“Do you really think there is someone hiding on the island?” she asked. “Or do you think it’s one of them? If Willoughby did awful things, like ruin women, perhaps one of those people wanted revenge.”

“Possible. So it’s a good thing we’re sharing a bedroom tonight.”

“What?”

“You’ll sleep in the bed, after we’ve gotten you dried off. I’ll sleep on a chair. But with the door locked, I’ll know you’re safe.”

Portia knew she would be safe, even locked in a bedroom with the notorious Duke of Sinclair. She knew he would be a perfect gentleman.

But she had kissed him again. And, as wrong as it was, she’d wanted more than that brief, soft kiss.

Would she be safe from herself, locked in a bedroom with Sinclair?

* * *

She was curled around her pillow, sleeping like an angel, except she looked like a temptress in his bed. The silky sheets had slid down off her body.

Sin was sprawled in the wing chair. After returning to the house, he and Portia had woken Humphries, and he and the butler had carried the body up to Will’s bedroom, where they’d laid him on the bed and covered him with a sheet. Shocked, appalled at Will’s death and fretting over their bedraggled condition, Humphries had certainly looked genuinely surprised and horrified.