If she held one of the trees, she could go close to the edge. And look over.
A flash of color caught her eye. Something pink on one of the branches, fluttering in the wind. More ribbon?
Portia took a step toward it and her leg bumped something, startling her and throwing her off balance. She tumbled forward, slipping on the wet grass. Sinclair’s arm shot out and his hand grabbed her wrist to keep her from falling. He was hauling her back toward him as the strangest sound came to her ears—a sharp, mysterious twang.
“Bloody hell,” he barked.
She almost flew through the air. Sinclair had jumped to the side, pulling her with him. He landed on the grass with a thud and she fell upon him. Landing hard enough that she lost her breath.
His hand was on her head and he pulled her down hard, just as a sudden whoosh of wind passed over her head. Wet leaves splashed against her, cold and horrid. Water rained down on her. A tree branch rested over them, along with a dripping length of rope.
“Heavens, that would have hit me if you hadn’t pulled me away. I would have fallen off the cliff. You saved my life, Sinclair.”
His hands stroked her back. She was trying for calm, and his touch was so soothing. But also slow, enticing . . . How could she think of that when she could have died?
“I saw a piece of ribbon,” she said shakily, “and took a step toward it.”
“It was a trap,” he said huskily. “Rigged to be set off by someone walking there. What you saw was intended to lure you—or one of us out there.”
His hand cradled her head. His fingers twined in her hair and he drew her into a kiss. Hot, scorching. The rain turned to steam on their lips.
After danger—in the middle of danger—how could she want to kiss him? But she did, hungrily. She cupped his face, delighting in the scratch of stubble on her palms. He was flat on the ground underneath her. She could have been killed! Yet instead of panicking, she was kissing him like mad. Her lips on his. Their tongues tangling. She wriggled on his strong, hard body. She loved the way her breasts were squashed against him. She wiggled her hips—and discovered he liked this too. She was straddling a very obvious erection—
“Ahem. I thought you two were dead. I called to you and neither answered. I thought you’d gone over the cliff.”
The smooth, urbane tones belonged to Saxonby. With a tiny “erk,” Portia tried to scramble off Sinclair. Almost impossible to do with a cloak and wet skirts.
Sinclair lifted her. She had no idea how, since he was on his back. He moved her over onto her bottom; then he sprang up and clasped her hand, helping her to her feet.
He had saved her life.
“I had best get to work,” Sinclair began.
“You cannot rappel down the edge of the cliff now!” Portia cried.
“Portia, I must.”
“No! Not when we know there are traps.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“You will be dangling off a cliff!”
“With care.”
“No! You can’t risk your life. And why should you? The victims were selfish men. The marquis was horrible and abusive. Sandhurst was innocent, but he was only interested in his own pleasure. And Willoughby was a horrible man who lured and ravished innocent women. All of those men deserved what happened to them. They had committed sins—”
“They didn’t deserve death even then, Portia. Who gives this person the right to be self-appointed judge and jury for them? This person is mad. Dangerous. And what of you? Was it allowable for someone to kidnap you, as long as he murders men to whom you object?”
“No . . . of course not. But it might not be the same person.”
“We have both a kidnapper and a killer on the island? I am not going to stand by, waiting, Portia,” he growled. “You could have been killed today—swept off the cliff by that trap. If I hadn’t realized the branch was pulled back at a strange angle just before you stumbled—”
“I think we should go up to the house,” Saxonby said, breaking into the argument.
She saw Sinclair glance, nod, and she knew. “You both are trying to get me out of the way. Then you will return and do something mad and risky. You cannot do this—”
“To the house,” Sinclair repeated.
Sinclair’s arm slipped around her waist, surprising her. He tried to draw her to walk with him, but she dug in her heels. He gave her a wry look, then started walking away. “Watch her, Sax.”
Bother it! She couldn’t just let him go—couldn’t let him walk into danger over her.
She hurried after him, cloak and skirts swishing around her. She followed him to the terrace, where he turned and lifted her into his arms. He carried her around to the stone wall of the house, where they were sheltered from the wind and rain. Where there was the roof overhanging, keeping them dry. There were no windows. And Saxonby hadn’t followed.