Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 01] by One Wicked Night Page B

intermingled with something sour. Like aged goat cheese.
    He felt ragged, as if he had overslept but not quite gotten the rest that he needed. A late night at Tipton’s Tavern perhaps? His memory was fuzzy, his senses dull.
    He peeled his gummy eyes open and saw that hewas lying on a canopied bed with fluted, ivory columns supporting a mint green embroidered tester. He tried to rise, only to realize he was hindered. His arms were fastened.
    “What?…” His cry came out as barely a croak. His throat felt burned to ash. He yanked his arms again. They were tied with silken cords. What the hell was going on?
    Panic pulsed through him, bringing with it sharp awareness. For the first time, he took a good look at his situation. He was as bare as the day he was born, with a thin sheet covering him to his waist. He was in a fancy bedroom with one white paneled closed door. Probably locked. A dresser, a divan and two armchairs by the fire. Wait. One of those chairs was occupied. Pulling on the bindings, he stretched as high up as he could to see. He could not have been more stunned if it had been Father Christmas.
    A lush young woman lay curled up asleep in a corner of the chair, her back to him. She wore a rail of the flimsiest silk in a color that reminded him of a lush peach. Golden red curls cascaded loosely over her shoulders and down her back like a wealth of silk. The swell of her derriere pressed against the skin-thin chemise, giving him a view that, on any other occasion, he would have appreciated.
    What the hell was happening here? He felt too awake for this to be a dream, and too cross for it to be a fantasy. Though he had had a few offers, he had not once felt the inclination for erotic sport. His brain scrambled for memory. Green furnishing. Cognac. Miss Figbottom.
    His inability to function.
    Poison.
    “Bloody hell!” Though his throat burned raw, it felt good to scream.
    She jerked awake.
    He heaved his arms, struggling to pull free. “You’d better keep me tied! I’m going to kill you when I get my hands free!”
    Uncurling, she sat up and turned.
    Shock stole his breath. “Lady Janus?”
    She blinked, her gaze clouded, her hair mussed from sleep. Seeing him, her eyes widened.
    “Untie me,” he urged.
    She just sat there, as if afraid to move. Was she likewise a hostage in this nasty game?
    Her chest rose and fell as if she were out of breath, drawing his gaze to the swell of her creamy white breasts.
    He ripped his mind back to his predicament. “Were you drugged? Are you unwell? Untie me. I can help you. We’ll get out of here….”
    “I can’t.” She swallowed, slowly rising. She was half-naked, but he couldn’t think about that right now.
    “Why not?”
    Her eyes slid away.
    He felt the knowledge slam into him like a blow. “You did this to me.”
    She shook her head no, then slowly yes. “It was not my idea, but…yes, I am the reason. For Dillon, Lord Beaumont…”
    He had never felt the inclination to hurt a woman before, but the powerful urge pulsed through his blood like vengeful fire. His hands clenched and unclenched, eager for violence. He was panting, his heart clapping against his rib cage. How dare she?Poison, shackle and whatever she had in store…His anger ripped through him like a mighty cyclone, ready to wreak havoc in its wake.
    “You bloody bitch!”
    “This seemed the only way to—”
    “You think this will convince me to work for Beaumont?” he cried derisively as his mind raced through alternatives. This was her home territory; no hint of rescue if he called out. It was unlikely he could change her mind. So it was up to him to break free.
    Her chest, neck and cheeks were flushed red with discomfiture. “I need to prove to you that Dillon did not kill Lady Langham.”
    Eyeing the bindings, he saw that they did not look particularly complex. If he could keep her talking, she would be distracted while he freed his hands.
    “Prove it, then,” he sneered. “I am a