Page 95 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
Westcliffe had never in his life hit a woman. But he darted to the right, the bullet went past him, and his fist caught Anne beneath the chin, snapping her head back. She went down like a sack of potatoes, unconscious.
After snatching up the gun, he removed the gag from Claire’s mouth and began untying the rest of the bindings.
“She killed her husband,” Claire began, and the story began spilling out of her.
Stephen was the first through the door. “What the bloody hell?”
Ainsley and Leo quickly followed. And, of course, his mother wouldn’t be deterred by danger. Even Beth peered around the doorjamb.
“Tie Anne up,” Westcliffe ordered as he removed the last of the bindings, sat on the bed, and pulled Claire into his arms. He didn’t know who was trembling more: she or he.
“I heard a gunshot,” Stephen said. “Was she trying to shoot you?”
“Apparently, yes, but she’d come for Claire.”
Beth released a small squeal, darted across the room, and sat on the bed, taking her sister’s hand.
“It’s all right,” Claire said. “I’m all right.”
“What are we to do with her?” Ainsley asked.
“Take her to London, turn her in to that chap at Scotland Yard,” Westcliffe said. “She murdered her husband.”
“What do you think will become of her?” Claire asked.
It was late afternoon, and they were lying together in bed in London. Sir James Swindler had officially arrested Anne when they’d delivered her to Scotland Yard.
“How did I miss that she was insane?” Westcliffe had asked.
“Because she was good at hiding what she was,” Sir James had said. Then he’d given Westcliffe a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Don’t take it to heart, my lord. You’re not the first to be fooled by a pretty face.”
And Westcliffe wondered if he spoke from experience.
“I suspect Sir James will see that she goes to prison,” Westcliffe said now.
“She wanted you badly enough to kill her husband.”
“Apparently. And to kill you.”
“I never liked her.”
He rubbed Claire’s arm. “You don’t have to worry about her anymore. Or any other woman for that matter. You have my undying devotion.”
She rolled over onto him, straddling his hips. She gave him a saucy smile. “Prove it.” And he did.
“I would like to know what your kiss is like.”
It seemed to be all the invitation he needed. Before she could react, he’d wrapped an arm around her, drawn her up flush against his body, and begun a slow, seductive plundering of her mouth, his tongue enticing her lips to part.
He tasted wicked, of something darker than the wine she’d drunk earlier. Her body hummed, erupting with pleasure, like little bubbles in champagne, cascading through her, popping along her nerve ends.
She clung to Westcliffe, because to do otherwise would see her on the floor in a pool of muslin.
It was the most marvelous thing she’d ever experienced.
Epilogue
Lyons Place
