Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed (Sons of Sin 1)

Sirius rose with a yawn and padded across to lay his head on Sidonie’s lap. Absently, she scratched his ears while watching the duke. Would Sedgemoor come down on her side? Would his loyalty to Jonas endure? Or would he decide that he owed Jonas nothing and that Sidonie was merely an inconvenient petitioner?

The pause extended. In the silence, the fire crackled and popped. Under her ministrations, Sirius gave a canine groan of pleasure.

The duke sighed heavily and stood. He didn’t smile as he stared down at her. “Very well. Miss Forsythe, Sirius has his way. You and I are off to Newgate.”

“No such luck, Cam, m’dear.” Sir Richard rose, disturbing Sirius, who turned to watch his master. “I’m in on this reunion.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jonas lay reading The Essays of Elia on the luxurious bed brought, like all the furnishings in his prison cell, from his London house. When he heard keys rattle at his door, he set the book aside with a sigh of irritation.

What the hell did his jailer want at this late hour? After three days in prison, Jonas knew the routine. And the routine was that mostly he was left to himself, unless he was discussing the conduct of his trial with the ruinously expensive solicitors he’d employed. The turnkey was paid well to stay away and keep the curious, who were legion, at bay.

Sitting up, Jonas ran his hands through his untidy hair. The door swung wide to admit his jailer. Behind him was a woman. Not just any woman. The woman who haunted his dreams. The woman he’d missed like the very devil in the week since he’d seen her.

“Sidonie…” he breathed, wondering if he’d gone mad. Surely he hadn’t. Everything in his cell was how it always was. Her presence alone transformed it into paradise. His heart somersaulted with sudden, unexpected happiness.

“Half an hour, miss.”

She pushed back the hood of her hideous cloak and cast a nervous glance at the jailer. “Thank you.”

“I take it you’re happy for the lady to stay, Mr. Merrick?” The man’s expression was blatantly salacious.

“Mind your manners, Sykes,” Jonas said in a dangerous tone. “The lady is a member of my family.”

“Aye, sir.” The man’s head bobbed and he scuttled away, locking the door behind him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jonas strode across the Turkish rug to clasp her hands. Seeing her was like standing in sunlight after a long, hard winter, but he couldn’t be easy meeting her in such surroundings.

“Oh, Jonas,” she said in a broken voice and started to cry.

“Tesoro… sweetheart… my love,” he choked out, cradling her in his arms. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

So many times since his arrest, he’d remembered holding her. So many times since his arrest, he wondered if he’d survive this latest crisis and hold her again. The reality of having her here surpassed all fantasy. He drank in every detail. Her warmth. The scent of her hair and skin. The way her hands curled around his arms to keep him close. In his lowest hours, he’d wondered if he imagined the passion and joy of those days at Castle Craven. They were so divorced from current bleak reality.

“I’ve been so afraid,” she muttered into his shoulder, sliding her arms around his waist.

He kissed wherever he could reach. Her hair. The side of her face. Her shoulder. Her neck. All the while the litany of endearments flowed. He was helpless to resist calling her every sweet name he knew.

After too short an interval, she sucked in an unsteady breath and started to withdraw. He tightened his hold. “Not yet.”

When she raised her face, her eyes were swollen with crying and her cheeks were flushed. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “Jonas, we haven’t got long. We must talk.”

“I’d rather touch you.” He held her slender shoulders and feasted his eyes on her. She caressed his scarred cheek. He no longer minded her touching his scars, so much had he changed.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” He pressed his face into her hand. She was here. She was here. He hardly believed it. “Now I am.”

She glanced around the extravagantly furnished room. “I’d imagined—”

He found it in himself to be wryly amused as he took her hand and drew her toward the bed. He’d never imagined he’d laugh in this bleak prison where every stone whispered that his luck had run out and he wouldn’t escape execution.

“I know. Manacles. Racks. Fetid water seeping from bare stone walls. There are advantages to being a rich man, carissima. This cell costs a fortune, but I won’t be here long. The evidence is circumstantial at best. I’m paying through the nose for my lawyers. They’d better damn well earn their keep.” He hoped his completely false optimism convinced her. He couldn’t bear to think his fate troubled her.

They sat on the bed facing each other, holding hands. “What happened? Everything was going so smoothly.”

“Don’t you know? I thought the gossip would be all over Barstowe.”