Tempting a Sinner

Book 0: Sinners Club

by Kate Pearce

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Known only to a select few, these inscrutable men are bound by dangerous desires and enigmatic pasts. They are the Sinners Club. . . Cold Calculation Within the circles of British intelligence, Benedict, Lord Keyes, is known for his cold brilliance and strict military demeanor. Yet this icy exterior masks a man of smoldering passion and scorching sexuality who will do anything to keep his past a secret. . . Sultry Satisfaction Miss Malinda Keyes refuses to be intimidated by Lord Keyes. In fact, she enjoys a good battle, especially one of erotic wiles and carnal cunning. Determined to expose his lordship's past, she will use every wanton weapon in her arsenal to tease and tempt this sinner into the ultimate sensual surrender. . . "Sinfully hot. If you like your romance hot as you return to the Regency era, where behind the scenes anything goes, then grab Simply Carnal for your reading pleasure." -- Romance Reviews Today "The passion of Pearce's erotic tale is focused and intense. . .. Their sex encounters and fantasies. . .steam up the pages." -- RT Book Reviews on Simply Shameless

Release date: July 29, 2014

Publisher: Aphrodisia

Print pages: 337

Sample

County of Lincolnshire, 1827

Benedict, Lord Keyes, drew his horse to a halt in front of the dilapidated gates of Alford Park, his ancestral home, and considered his options. He wasn’t quite sure why he was here, but the unsigned letter from a well-wisher had sparked his interest. In his profession, once he was on the trail of something, he never gave up until he’d achieved his goal, or caught his man. Or in this case—possibly his woman.

As he turned into the overgrown drive, he noticed smoke belching out of one of the lopsided Elizabethan chimneys. So his source had been correct about one thing. The ramshackle house was definitely inhabited. He doubted his father had forsaken his mansion in Mayfair and decided to take up residence in the county of Lincolnshire. There was no political advantage to be gained here, or anyone to bully. But if his mother’s latest missive was correct, and not merely a ploy to force him home, the current Marquis of Alford was suffering from a mysterious ailment that kept him tied to his bed.

From what he remembered of the family history drummed into him as a boy, this decaying manor house had once been the seat of his family’s power when trade was with Europe and wool was king. In truth, it resembled a castle rather than a house, ready to repel marauders with its stone towers and partially filled-in moat. The locale was desolate now, and from his observations as he rode north, the population scarce.

The faint sounds of a barking dog reached him from inside the house. He straightened in the saddle and checked that his pistol was primed and ready. This might be his home, but it always paid to be careful. The noise increased in volume as he made his way along the main façade of the timber-and-stone house toward the stables at the rear.

A window swung open above him. He swiveled in the saddle toward the sound, bringing his hand up as the sun struck the multifaceted panes and reflected right back in his eyes. The crack of a rifle shot came a second later. Still blinded by the sun, he could do nothing to stop the shock of pain and the blackness of unconsciousness slamming into him and sending him pitching forward onto the ground.

“Oh my goodness, Mally! You’ve killed him!”

Malinda lowered the shotgun and took a deep, steadying breath. Despite the fact that she was trembling like a willow tree, she’d enjoyed aiming at the man coming down the drive as if he owned the place. Even though, officially, he and his family did.

“I aimed at his shoulder, not his heart, Doris. I’ve merely incapacitated him.” She handed the gun over to Jim, the stable hand, and observed the man on the ground. “He’ll get up in a moment, I’m sure of it.”

She advanced a step, her sister on her heels.

“He’s not moving. What have you done?” Doris whispered.

Malinda walked right up to the apparently unconscious figure and used the tip of her riding boot to roll him onto his back. Even in repose, he was still a handsome devil. Blood stained the upper left side of his immaculately fitted blue coat and was spreading rapidly. His hat had fallen off to reveal the thick corn blond of his hair.

“He’s alive. Otherwise he wouldn’t be bleeding.”

“You’re so callous!” Doris moaned and fell to her knees beside the unconscious man. She drew out her lace handkerchief and dabbed ineffectually at his shoulder. “Perhaps he hit his head when he fell.”

“That’s very likely.” Malinda looked behind her at the small audience now gathered by the side door into the hall. “The window distracted him perfectly, Gwen. Will you take the horse around to the stables, and ask Mr. McFadden to take care of it, but keep it hidden?”

“Yes, Malinda.” Unlike her sister, her cousin, Gwen, showed no signs of squeamishness as she stepped over the unconscious man and took hold of the horse’s slack reins. “Do you want me to help carry him inside when I come back?”

“No, Jim and Malcolm can take him upstairs before he wakes. You can meet me there.” Malinda glanced back at the two men. “Bring him up to the crimson bedchamber, please.” She raised her voice. “And remember, if anyone asks if we’ve seen him, we have not.”

Doris moaned again, but she didn’t say anything. That was all Malinda could hope for at this particular moment. She knew her sister didn’t like her plans for Lord Keyes, but when challenged had been unable to come up with anything better. Justice would be served and Benedict, Lord Keyes, would pay for his sins and the sins of his father whether he liked it or not.

By the time the men carried Keyes up to the already prepared crimson bedchamber, he was stirring. She instructed them to lay him on the large four-poster bed, and dismissed them to their usual duties. As soon as the door closed behind Jim, she lifted the red velvet bedcovers, withdrew an iron shackle, and locked it securely around Keyes’s right ankle. She hoped it would hold him. The chain was old and looked rather rusty in places. It was the best she could manage without going into the village and asking the blacksmith to make her something he would probably wonder why she needed.

She checked his pockets and retrieved a pocketknife, a dagger, his purse, and a very handsome and very lethal pistol.

As soon as his eyes fluttered open and fixed on hers, she raised the pistol. He blinked at her very slowly and licked his lips.

“Where am I?”

“You fell from your horse.”

His right hand came up to his left shoulder and he groaned. “There’s no need to point a gun at me. I’m scarcely in a position to hurt you.”

“So you say.”

His head fell back onto the pillow and she wondered if he’d swooned again. Without opening his eyes, he murmured, “I promise not to hurt you if you do me a favor in return.”

“You’re scarcely in a position to bargain, sir, are you?”

“Oh, this is quite an easy favor.”

“I doubt it.” Malinda tightened her grip on the pistol, but her captive made no effort to reclaim his weapon.

His blue eyes opened, and she tensed.

“Am I considered dangerous?”

“Quite possibly.”

His brow creased. “What am I supposed to have done?”

“That’s a question for your conscience, sir. None of us are without sin.”

“But I’m trying to understand why I’m bleeding, and why you’re holding me at gunpoint. Have we met before?”

Oh, she wanted to shoot him now. “What do you think?”

“That’s the problem.” His smile was charming. “I can’t seem to think of anything at all.”

She scowled at him. “Don’t try your tricks on me.”

His hand moved gingerly up toward his head. “I’m not.” He winced. “Damnation, this is ridiculous. I can’t even remember who I am.”

Malinda stared at him for a long moment, but he closed his eyes and appeared to lose consciousness again. The door behind her opened. Gwen came in carrying a basin of water and Malinda’s medicinal supplies.

“How is our patient?”

Malinda waved at Gwen to speak softly. “He says he doesn’t know who he is.”

Gwen came to stand alongside her and stared down at the quiet face. “He did hit his head. Perhaps he really doesn’t remember anything.” She glanced at Melinda. “Does that make our task easier or harder?”

“It depends on whether he’s lying or not.” Malinda rolled up her sleeves. “Let’s attend to his wound, and make sure he doesn’t die before we have a chance to confront him with his misdeeds.”

“How are we going to get him out of that coat?” Gwen stroked the sleeve. “It is beautifully made, and clings to him like a second skin.”

Malinda smiled and produced the knife she’d just taken from Lord Keyes. “I think we’re going to have to cut him out of everything, don’t you?”

“The poor man will be quite naked.”

“And thus unable to run away.”

Malinda slit his right sleeve and soon had him out of his shirt, waistcoat, and coat. She was gentle as she moved across to his left side and eased the blood-soaked garments away from his skin. He stirred in his sleep but didn’t awaken. She paused to examine the wound that marred the perfection of his upper arm. From what she could see, the bullet hadn’t lodged in his flesh, but had passed through, not hitting the bone, and exited through the muscle at the rear. She would have to make sure no strands of fabric remained in the wound, but otherwise it looked as if he would survive.

“I told you I was a good shot.”

“I never doubted it,” Gwen said. “After all, you practiced enough.”

“As I said, I didn’t want to kill him, merely incapacitate him a little.”

“Then I think you succeeded in your aim—unless he really doesn’t know who he is.”

Malinda concentrated on washing out the wound and patting some basilicum powder onto the skin. She accepted the bandage Gwen offered her and slowly wound it around Keyes’s upper arm and shoulder. Now that his injury had been satisfactorily attended to, she couldn’t help but notice how well he’d grown into his frame and how little weight he carried around his middle. He reminded her of one of the king’s racehorses, all fine bone and fast thoroughbred mettle.

“Should we take off his boots and breeches?”

Malinda tore her gaze away from the interesting contours of Keyes’s abdomen. “Yes, we should.”

Gwen paused as she noticed the shackle around Keyes’s ankle. “Is that really necessary at this point?”

Malinda’s sense of well-being dissipated. “Trust me. He’s as slippery as an adder and twice as dangerous.” She turned to Gwen. “Don’t let his good looks and pleasant manners deceive you. This man is a survivor. He and his loathsome family will stop anyone or anything that gets in their way.”

Gwen touched her hand. “It’s all right, Malinda, I won’t let you down.”

She tried to smile at her favorite cousin. “Then don’t let your guard slip for a moment. I’ll sit by him until he wakes up, and see if his ‘memory’ has returned. If it has, he should have no difficulty recognizing me this time.”

“Are you sure?” Gwen picked up the bowl of water and the bloodstained clothes.

Malinda smoothed down the unbecoming folds of her oldest brown dress. Had she changed that much? If she had, it was Keyes and his damned family who’d caused it. At some level she’d imagined that the moment he locked gazes with her he’d remember her, he’d remember it all....

“Malinda?”

She shook off the old memories and concentrated on the present. She held Lord Keyes captive in his own family home. This time, the odds were in her favor, and she intended to win.

Keyes came awake into a haze of pain and darkness and immediately knew he wasn’t safe and that someone was watching him. Had he been captured again? He inhaled the scent of lavender and his confusion increased. A soft hand touched his forehead and then withdrew to be replaced by the blessed coldness of a wet cloth. He sighed and attempted to open his eyes. Something was very wrong, and he didn’t know what it was. Instinct told him to remain silent, but he couldn’t remember why.

“Where am I?”

“You’re quite safe.”

He knew that sultry, low-pitched voice, but when had he last heard it? Yesterday, today, ten years ago?

“Where am I?” He repeated his question.

“In bed. You fell from your horse and damaged your shoulder and head. Are you in pain?”

He choked back a laugh. Was he in pain? How could she even ask him that when he was shivering and whimpering like a child?

“I have laudanum to give you.”

Thank God. He hated the stuff, but he was beyond that now as agony sliced through his shoulder. He moved restlessly against his pillows eager to dissipate the pain but just made it worse. The woman raised his head so that he could drink the laudanum from a spoon. He took it gratefully, murmuring his thanks and allowed her to settle him back on his pillows.

Heat flared through his fingers and burned down his spine and he moaned as sweat gathered on his brow. Her hands on him again, stripping back the covers and pressing cold, dripping sponges against his burning skin. He no longer had a sense of time, only that he had to survive this agony because if he died now, he’d die not knowing who he was, or how he’d ended up in this place, and that was simply unacceptable.

The voices changed and he could no longer sense if that was due to his fever, or that more than one woman was caring for him. Only one of them was distinct, she held him to life, her voice a puzzle he needed to solve.

He woke into darkness, the soft glow of candlelight and the crackle of a wood-burning fire. With some difficulty, he turned his head on his pillow, and spotted a small dark-haired woman sitting beside the bed. She was reading something, her shoulder turned to the light, and her spectacles perched at the end of her nose. He must have made a sound because she looked up, a smile breaking out on her pleasant face.

“You are awake! Are you thirsty, sir?”

Without waiting for him to answer, she came over, picked up the mug beside his bed, and offered it to him. He managed to grasp the cup with his right hand. To his chagrin, it proved impossible to gather the strength to raise it to his lips. With a soft sound, the woman helped him, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and her hand around his and the cup.

“There you are, sir. Drink as much as you need.”

He discovered he was extremely thirsty and gulped down the entire cup. She refilled it and he drank more until, with a sigh, he sank back onto his pillows.

“Thank you.”

His voice sounded rusty with misuse. How long had he lain in this unfamiliar bed?

“How long have I been here?”

“About a week. You fell from your horse and developed a fever from your injuries.” His helper put the cup down and fussed with his bedcovers and pillows.

“But why—?”

She smiled at him and hurried toward the door. “I must tell the others that you are feeling better!”

With that, she escaped, leaving him to the comforting crackle of the fire. He looked around the room, noticing the closed red velvet curtains and the matching hangings on the four-poster bed. It was obviously a fairly wealthy household; the ceilings were high and the furniture ornate. There was also a sense of disuse—as if time had stood still and the trappings of a previous generation’s grandeur had never been replaced. Something nagged at his brain, something familiar, but the thought vanished before he could latch on to it.

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 . . .