Tempting a Sinner (2 page)

Tentatively, he sat up, wincing as his fingers grazed the goose egg on the side of his head just above his ear. He’d definitely fallen from his horse. His fingers found the edge of a bandage, and he inhaled sharply and studied his shoulder and upper left arm. He recognized the hot, tearing sensation of a bullet wound beneath the bandages.

But why had he been shot?

He took another look around the room. He wasn’t on the Continent. He had a vague sense that England was no longer overtly at war with France, so this wasn’t the result of a battle. The woman who’d tended him had also been English. Anxiety tightened his gut. He attempted to swing his legs out of the bed only to realize he couldn’t. With all his remaining strength he threw back the heavy covers and discovered he was completely naked apart from the shackle on his right leg.

With a groan, he fell back against the mound of pillows. He didn’t even have the energy to test the strength of the metal. A soft
click
announced the opening of the door and the return of the woman who’d helped him drink the water.

“Oh, dear, sir, you must be cold!” She drew the covers back over him. “Please try not to set back your recovery with such foolish tricks.”

“Where am I?”

She looked at him, her gaze attentive. “Don’t you know?”

“Ma’am, at this point in my existence, I don’t remember anything.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Not even your name?”

He considered that. “No.”

“You did bang your head quite badly.” She was all sympathy. “My cousin is going to bring you up some nice broth.”

“But—”

“Ah, here she is now.”

The door opened again, and he stopped speaking as a tall auburn-haired woman entered carrying a tray. She bore herself like a queen and had a certain air of authority that made him think she was the mistress of the house, and potentially the one who’d planned to keep him chained to his bed. Or was it her bed?

She placed the tray carefully on the table and smiled at the other woman. “Go and have your dinner, Gwen, dear. Jim is outside the door if I need him.”

He waited until she finally looked at him, her gaze as searching as his own.

“Do you remember me, sir?”

Another wisp of thought, this time even fainter.

“I assume you are the woman who shot me?”

She slowly blinked at him. “What else was I to do?”

“Ask my name and business like any other civilized human being?”

“Ah, but I’m not civilized, and I wasn’t expecting visitors.” She raised her chin. “I have a right to be wary. The last man who came here tried to force me out of my home.”

“Did I look that threatening?”

“Sir, you had a loaded pistol in your hand. I couldn’t take the chance that you might be an enemy.”

There was no apology in her tone, which might have amused him if he hadn’t been her intended victim. She leaned forward and offered him a spoon of gruel, the lavender scent of her soap enfolding him. She wore a thin gold band on her finger and he wondered where her husband was and whether he was aware of his wife’s machinations. It seemed unlikely. He was too hungry not to eat and sipped gratefully at the fragrant broth until he’d emptied the bowl.

“Thank you.”

She took the bowl away and sat back to study him.

“Are you quite certain you don’t know who I am?”

He focused his gaze on her interesting face. She’d never be called beautiful. She was all sharp angles, pale porcelain skin, and ruthless determination. “There is something familiar about you, but I just can’t remember what it is.”

Her lips thinned. “And what is your name?”

“I can’t remember that either.”

“Why should I believe you?”

His strength deserted him. “You don’t have to believe anything. You have me at a disadvantage, chained to my bed. Was that
necessary?
”

“You were delirious, sir. We were worried that you might hurt one of us, or try to get up and wander about before you were well enough.”

“And now?”

She rose from her seat. “You’re getting better. Isn’t that enough?”

“Which is no answer at all.” He closed his eyes. “Good night, ma’am. Thank you for your care. I promise not to try to escape tonight.”

“That’s very good of you, but Jim will be here just in case. Good night, sir.”

“Do you know my name?”

She paused at the door and looked back at him. “Does that distress you? Not knowing who you are, and what you’ve done?”

“Yes.” He forced the word out.

“One would think it might be a blessing.”

She swept through the door. He distinctly heard the sound of a key in the lock and the low murmur of voices before her footsteps died away.

He closed his eyes, flooded by a terrible wave of helplessness, and cursed in several languages he didn’t even know he knew.
Distressed?
He was bloody terrified and she knew it. He took several deep breaths and forced himself to calm down. She knew who he was; he’d wager money on it. Now he just had to find a way to make her tell him.

“I
really don’t know whether he’s telling the truth or not,” Malinda concluded her story and studied the rapt faces of her audience. They’d assembled in the kitchen after dinner to hear what she had to say. “Is it possible that he really has lost his memory?”

“It might be true,” Jim said doubtfully. “My brother fell out of the hay cart once, and was unconscious for days. When he woke up, he couldn’t remember a thing about what happened on that day. He never could.”

“Lord Keyes remembered being shot.” Malinda shuddered. “I’m just not sure if he’s lying about losing his memory. It would be rather convenient. Remember, he is the head of a spying network and probably knows every trick there is. He could just be pretending.”

Yet, she’d sensed his bewilderment and the fear he’d been unable to conceal.

“What are we going to do?” Doris wailed. “This isn’t working out how we anticipated at all. I told you it was a ridiculous idea, Mally.”

Malinda shot her sister a severe look. “We will continue with our plan, and assume that at some point Lord Keyes will either stop playacting, or regain his memory.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“He will, Doris, he can’t afford to languish here forever.”

“And what if someone comes looking for him?”

“If they do, we’ll simply say we’ve never seen him.”

“But what—?”

“Doris, will you please try to be positive? If Keyes sent that obnoxious man to drive us out of our home, he deserves to suffer. And he must have done so, because he is the only person who knew I was here.”

Doris looked unconvinced so Malinda continued. “Don’t forget, he arrived with his pistol at the ready. I really had no choice but to shoot him. If we hold him captive he’ll
have
to agree to let us stay at Alford Park.”

“But what if he
doesn’t?
”

“He will. He thinks he’s far too important to the running of our nation for it to manage without him. He’ll
have
to capitulate eventually.”

And when she had guaranteed the safety of Doris and Gwen at Alford Park, she’d embark on the second part of her plan—to use Keyes to get to his father, the Marquis of Alford. She’d promised her mother revenge on the Keyes family, and if she had to use Benedict to get it, she would.

Malinda gave Doris an encouraging smile. “I have an idea to test whether Lord Keyes is pretending or not.” Doris wouldn’t like her new idea either, but as far as Malinda was concerned, it was an excellent notion. “I’ll speak to him in the morning and see how he reacts.”

Jim, Malcolm, and the cook dispersed to continue their various tasks, and Doris went to the stillroom to brew some more witch hazel for their patient’s many bruises. Malinda sat across from Gwen and poured them both some more tea from the large brown earthenware pot.

“What exactly are you intending to do to our reluctant guest, Malinda?” Gwen asked.

“I’m going to construct him an alternative identity so scandalous that if he’s pretending, he’ll choose to regain his senses in a second.” She smiled at her cousin. “I might need your help.”

“With something scandalous?” Gwen leaned in and touched the rim of her mug to Malinda’s. “I can’t wait.”

He’d woken from his troubled sleep when a maid had opened the curtains and re-laid his fire. The sky outside was leaden and gray and didn’t help raise his spirits. Benedict glanced down at his right ankle. Even if he did get the shackle off, where would he go? His clothes and pistol had disappeared, and he had no idea where he was, or even his own name. Running into the nearest village, stark-naked and babbling, would simply result in him being taken off to the nearest madhouse, which would solve nothing. At least here he was comfortable and slowly regaining his strength.

The man named Jim came in with a bowl of water and a towel over his arm.

“Good morning, sir. I’ll help you wash if you’ll sit up.”

“I’m not a child.” He favored Jim with his most disdainful glare. “I’m old enough to piss by myself, and shave too.”

“The pissing part I can help you with, sir.” Jim used the toe of his boot to nudge a potty out from under the bed. “The razor, not until my mistress says so.”

Benedict managed to maneuver his shackled leg well enough to use the pot, and allowed Jim to hand him a sponge to wash with and then a towel to dry himself.

“It’s damned chilly in here. Any chance of my clothes being returned to me?” he asked.

“I think they’re still in the wash, sir.” Jim eyed him speculatively. “I’d give you one of my nightshirts, but you’d burst it at the seams.”

“Thanks for the offer.” He sank back onto the mattress, exhausted by even such small measures of independence.

“You’re welcome, sir. Now just bide quietly for a bit, and my Ellen will be bringing you up a nice bowl of porridge for your breakfast.”

He ate the porridge, which was remarkably good and served with thick cream and honey, sipped at his tea, and felt his energy returning. Ellen removed the tray and he contemplated his first full day of lying in bed doing nothing....

“Is your mistress about?”

“Oh, there it is, can’t having you lying on that now, can we?” Ellen retrieved his spoon, which he’d tried to hide under the edge of his pillow. “She’ll be up to see you soon, sir. She told me to tell you so.”

He realized there wasn’t a clock in the room and waited impatiently for any sign of his hostess for what felt like hours. When she did appear, she wore a high-waisted gown made of the thin patterned Indian muslin popular ten years ago. Her dark auburn hair was braided and coiled on her head apart from two curls that fell over her ears. She should’ve looked dowdy, but somehow her elegance made everything she wore seem interesting and fashionable.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Ma’am.”

She drew a chair beside the bed and sat down. She produced a leather wallet and a money bag that clinked when she laid it on the covers. “Today is laundry day, and when we were trying to discover whether any of your clothes were salvageable, Ellen thought to check the pockets for any valuables or identifying marks.”

“What a shame that no one thought to do that when I first arrived. Did you discover who I am?”

She unfolded a piece of paper and looked up at him, a slight blush reddening her cheeks. “Actually, it is rather embarrassing.”

“In what way?”

“The thing is, I probably shouldn’t have shot you after all.” She bit her lip. “It never occurred to me that Madame Helene would respond so promptly, or that she would actually send a”—her gaze swept over him—“a man such as you. I was expecting someone of lower class, of more
earthy
appetites.”

“Madam, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

She sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to tell you the whole story.” “That would be helpful.”

She sat up straight, giving him an excellent view of her rounded bosom, which was on level with the side of the bed. “I am a widow of several years, but like most women who have experienced the
pleasures
of the marriage bed, I found myself
lacking
something.” She blinked at him. “If you understand me, sir.”

“I believe I do, but I’m not sure what—”

She rushed on. “I have an acquaintance in London who put me in touch with a Madame Helene Delornay, who occasionally helps ladies like myself find that which they are missing.” She held out the letter to him. “I found this in your coat. I can only apologize for the misunderstanding, Ben.”

Ben?

It sounded almost right; he tested it in his mind, and focused on the letter. The closely written words floated across his eyes, and he shook his head.

“I can’t decipher this scrawl with a headache and without my spectacles. Can you read it for me?”

“Yes, of course.” She took the letter back and cleared her throat. “My dear madam, please let me introduce Ben to you. He is proportioned exactly as you required (fair-haired, muscled, and tall with a goodly sized rod), and is as lusty as a stallion. Please enjoy him, and send him back to me only when you are
completely satisfied
. He is extremely biddable, and well worth the money. Best wishes, Helene Delornay.”

He let out a long, slow breath. “You are suggesting you bought my
stud services?
”

She had the grace to look guilty. “It appears so.”

“I’m a
prostitute?
”

“I have to admit that when I saw you, the idea never crossed my mind.” Her smile was hesitant. “But thinking about it now, and considering how much I had to pay for you, perhaps you are very sought after, and can live like the gentleman you so obviously are.” She patted his hand. “One might ask how a man such as yourself became involved in such a trade, but I wouldn’t want to be insensitive.”

He simply stared at her as his mind cartwheeled around seeking a sense of truth, of something in her outrageous claim that resonated within him. Nothing surfaced except a distinct conviction that he had played many parts. Perhaps this was why. Did he spend his life acting out women’s fantasies?

She was still holding his hand, her thumb rubbing back and forth across his, her beautiful hazel eyes full of shy hope. Damnation, was she expecting him to admit it? To throw back the covers and invite her to inspect her purchase? To touch his goodly sized rod that was stirring to life at such a bizarre idea.

She rose to her feet and kissed his cheek. “I’m so sorry, Ben. I will, of course, offer you compensation for my appalling mistake. I hope you will consider staying here until you are well enough to return to London and the bosom of Madame Helene’s pleasure house.”

He couldn’t think of a single word to say as she brought his hand to her lips and tenderly kissed it before escaping through the door.

Once outside his door, Malinda stuffed her fist into her mouth to stop herself from laughing. She’d leave Lord Keyes alone for a few hours, and see whether he preferred to be a male prostitute or a peer of the realm. From the horrified look on his face, she was going to assume his memory would come flooding back. It was almost a pity, though; she’d fantasized about having him doing her sexual bidding many times over the past years....

Gwen met her on the stairs and Malinda took her aside to tell her what she’d done. Soon her cousin was laughing too.

“Oh my goodness, I almost hope he believes you so that I can pretend to be another grieving deprived widow too!” Gwen touched Malinda’s arm. “Not that I’d actually want him to—”

“It’s all right, in the current circumstances I’d be quite happy to line up all the staff and insist he service each one.”

“Men as well?”

“Why not? He went to Eton. I’ve heard he’s not averse to male companionship.”

Ben . . .

No, that wasn’t it.

Benjamin?

No.

His headache worsened as though his mind protested being made to function normally. He let out his breath and concentrated on breathing regularly, ignoring the pain, a survival technique that had come back to him with such ease he suspected he’d been badly injured, or in danger on more than one occasion.

Benedict . . .

He opened his eyes, aware of a vast surge of relief. He had a name. Now what? Nothing else surfaced from the murky depths of his muddied thoughts, but it was a start. He contemplated his joined hands, turning them over to examine the palms. There were a few calluses, but he obviously wasn’t a manual laborer. He spoke like a gentleman. Was he, in fact, this “Ben” the madam had offered her client? Why else would he have had the letter in his possession if he weren’t that man?

Because he played many parts.

Because his captor was a consummate liar.

Was he an actor, then? Perhaps an actor who supplemented his income by playing the whore? It was a possibility, although it didn’t feel quite right. He slid a hand beneath the sheets and cupped his balls. If he was Ben, was he willing to fulfill his part of the contract if it meant his captor would eventually release him? His cock stirred. All he had to do was “completely satisfy her,” and that wouldn’t be a hardship. He ran his thumb up the side of his cock.

Another day or two of good food, and he’d at least be able to lie back and let her have her way with him. Would she like that? His fingers curled as he imagined thrusting a hand into her thick, unbound hair as she rode him to a climax.... He gently rubbed his shaft. He was trapped in bed, so why not be agreeable? He could play the part fate had assigned to him, and gradually gain her trust. Women always confused the physical act of sex with emotion. If he pleased her, she’d be clay in his hands.

For the first time in days Benedict smiled and contemplated a far more agreeable future.

With a huff of annoyance, Malinda contemplated her sleeping patient. For the last three days all he’d done was eat everything offered to him, and sleep. Jim reported that he’d barely managed to rouse him long enough to help him wash. Tentatively she placed her hand on his forehead. His skin was cool to the touch, and his cheeks were slightly flushed beneath the faint fair stubble on his chin.