Ah well, at least the grim features had softened and the air of danger crackling about him lessened to a muted tingle.
He was once again the handsome ruffian who made odd things flutter within her.
“Enough,” he murmured. “You possess information I need.”
Clara sighed. He was certainly persistent. Like a fly that refused to be shooed away.
“I cannot imagine what it might be. Not unless you possess an interest in mathematics or riddles.”
He shifted back on his heels and peered down the long length of his nose.
“What is your relationship to Lord Doulton?”
This was the information he desired? “Lord Doulton?”
“Do not pretend you do not know of him.”
She stiffened. She did not care for his tone. It sounded decidedly accusing.
“Of course I
know
of him,” she said tartly. “My governess insisted I learn all the names of the titled families as well as their tedious heirs, although I could never comprehend why. It is not as if I shall ever have need to move among society.”
“What is his connection to you?”
“There is none. He is not related to me, nor have we ever met.”
The thin nose flared. “You are lying.”
Clara surged to her feet, an angry heat flushing her cheeks. Why . . . the . . . the . . . She was too angry to conjure an appropriate insult. He had just branded her a liar. Her. Miss Clara Dawson, who never lied.
If her father had not insisted that good manners were essential no matter what the situation, she would have stomped on his toes.
“I do not lie, sir,” she gritted. “Why should I?”
His eyes narrowed. “That is what I intend to discover.”
“There is nothing for you to discover.”
“There has to be something.”
Clara forced herself to suck in a deep breath. His tenacity was becoming less a source of annoyance and more a source of downright harassment.
“Why? Why do you presume I have something to do with this Lord Doulton?”
There was a silent beat before he stabbed her with a glittering gaze.
“Because he wants you dead.”
Clara’s heart stopped beating and then an odd buzzing entered her ears.
“What did you say?”
“He has hired a gang of ruffians led by a very nasty bloke named Jimmy Blade to ambush your carriage and murder you. There must be some reason why.”
Clara swayed in shock.
Dead? Someone wanted her dead?
No. It was not possible. She opened her mouth to protest but no sound came out. Instead a wave of darkness slammed into her. She thought her knees might have buckled, but it was impossible to determine. The darkness had taken hold and she thankfully knew no more.
Hawksley muttered his way through his favorite list of curses as he snatched up the unconscious Miss Dawson and carried her to the loft. It was a long list, but he went through it twice more as he carefully tucked his captive on the mattress tossed on the floor and covered her with his caped coat.
He did not want to miss one.
Returning down the narrow flight of stairs, he tore his way through the cupboards, shifting aside the inevitable bottles of brandy until he at last discovered the small flask of whiskey. Taking several long pulls, he waited for the fiery spirit to settle his rattled composure before collecting a glass of water and returning to the loft.
Damn and blast.
The woman had scared the hell out of him when she had so abruptly fainted. It had occurred so quickly he had barely managed to take a step forward before she had toppled backward, banging her head on the bench before crumpling onto the floor.
Just for a moment he had been terrified the blow to her head had killed her. Although there was no blood, she had been shockingly pale as she lay in a motionless heap. Dropping onto the floor beside her, he had nearly swooned himself when he felt the steady pulse.
It was then he had gathered her in his arms and taken her to the loft.
And began swearing at his stupidity.
Setting aside the water, Hawksley settled himself on the edge of the mattress and studied the woman lying beneath the blanket.
Darkness had nearly enveloped the cottage, but there was still enough light to make out the delicate features and the dark fringe of lashes that rested against her pale cheeks. Instinctively he reached out to brush a silver curl behind her ear.
Damn, but she looked so fragile. And far too innocent to be involved with a scurrilous creature like Lord Doulton.
Whatever the reason the blackguard desired this woman dead, Hawksley was finding it increasingly difficult to believe she had been intimately involved in his brother’s death.
She might be aggravating to a near-historic degree and far too outspoken for a proper lady, but she was incapable of deception. He was certain of that.
How he could be so certain was a matter he did not bother to ponder.
Keeping his vigil at her side, Hawksley was at last forced to go in search of a candle as the darkness filled the loft. He had just set it on a low stool when Miss Dawson gave a moan and her lashes slowly fluttered open.
Returning to the mattress he hovered over her, his hand pressing against her shoulder when she attempted to lever herself upright.
“No, do not move,” he commanded softly.
Baffled green eyes clung to his countenance, as if attempting to determine why she might be lying on her back in a darkened loft.
“What happened?” she at last demanded.
“You fainted.”
Her brows snapped together. “I told you, I never faint.”
“Then you must be an extraordinary actress,” he retorted in wry tones. “I have seen any number of women swoon on cue, but you are the first to roll your eyes back and thump your head upon a bench.”
Her hand lifted to gingerly touch the lump that no doubt was still aching.
“Ah. That would explain the pain in my head.”
Hawksley resisted the urge to smile. He was beginning to expect the unexpected with this woman.
“You collapsed too quickly for me to prevent your plunge to the floor. On the next occasion you might at least offer some small signal. That way I can be properly prepared to avert disaster.”
“I have no intention of fainting again.” Her lips thinned in disapproval. “I would not have done so in the first place had you not made that absurd claim.”
His amusement died a swift death. “Kitten, there is nothing absurd about it.”
“It must be,” she insisted. “Why would anyone desire to kill me? I live alone in a small village with no relatives, little money, and few friends. The only things I possess of value are my father’s books, and they are not worth more than a few pounds.”
“Lord Doulton must possess some reason.”
“There can be no reason. He does not even know me.”
“Then how do you explain the fact that Lord Doulton not only knew your name as well as where you live, but he also knew the precise day you would be traveling to London?”
She bit her bottom lip, her brow creased. “I cannot say, although my trip was no secret. I would suppose most of my neighbors knew of my travel plans.”
He considered the possibilities for a moment. Could Lord Doulton have some association to the village? Some nefarious dealings there that this woman might be jeopardizing?
Possible, but he was not going to leap to conclusions.
“Did you write to tell anyone in London of your arrival?”
“I . . .” Surprisingly, her words trailed away as a hint of a blush touched her cheeks.
Hawksley discovered his curiosity fully roused. “What?”
“I did send a message to Mr. Chesterfield, but I cannot be certain he received my note.”
“Chesterfield? He is a relative?”
“No . . . he is . . . an acquaintance.”
Hawksley shifted on the mattress, planting a hand on each side of her shoulders. He did not care for the notion that this woman was traveling to London to visit some male acquaintance. And he certainly did not care for the notion that this male acquaintance might be the reason Miss Dawson was hoarding her first kiss.
“You were slipping off to London to meet a gentleman? Really, Miss Dawson. That is hardly the behavior of a proper lady.”
She tightened her lips, although he could sense a lingering embarrassment she attempted to keep hidden.
“I was concerned for him.”
“Why?”
“I really do not feel it is any of your business.”
Hawksley smiled. Ah, she had no notion.
“At the moment, everything about you is my business.”
“You cannot force me to tell you.”
Her words echoed through the empty cottage. Rather audacious for a woman being held captive by a strange gentleman far from any hope of rescue.
Of course, he was beginning to suspect that Miss Dawson made a habit of audacity.
He lowered his head until their noses were nearly touching. “I may not be capable of forcing you, but I can certainly keep you in this bed until you do so.”
She unwittingly licked her lips, although he did not believe it was from fear. Or even from intimidation.
Not when her eyes had darkened to that intriguing shade of emerald.
“You cannot keep me here,” she breathed. “My reputation will be ruined.”
Her reputation was not precisely what was on his mind at the moment.
“Then tell me what I wish to know.”
“I have nothing to tell.”
Turning his head, he allowed his lips to softly stroke the tender skin just below her ear. She sucked in a rasping breath, but she made no move to push him away.
“Why were you going to visit Mr. Chesterfield?” he demanded. “Did you hope for him to become your lover?”
He felt her stiffen beneath him. “Certainly not. Our relationship was not of that sort.”
A hot rush of satisfaction flared through him. Ridiculous, but what was a gentleman caught in throes of lust to do?
“What sort of relationship was it, then?”
“We knew each other on an . . . an intellectual level.”
Hawksley pulled back to regard her with a lift of his brows. “On a what?”
“An intellectual level.”
“And what precisely would that be?”
Perhaps sensing his stirring amusement, she gave a small sniff. “We have corresponded with one another but we have never actually met in person.”
“Never so much as exchanged a glance? Hellfire. I must say that this Mr. Chesterfield must possess a golden quill to lure a proper young lady from her home to join him in London,” he murmured. “Did he bewitch you with love poems and promises of happily ever after?”
Her expression became decidedly huffy.
“If you must know, he sent me mathematical equations.”
“Math . . .”
Hawksley could not help himself. Tilting back his head, he laughed with startled enjoyment.
Chapter Four
Clara was not surprised by her kidnapper’s amusement. Although naïve, she was not a fool. She knew that most gentlemen did not seek out ladies for their intelligence, or for their sensible nature. How could she not know?
They wanted women they desired. Women who charmed them and played those mysterious games she had never been capable of learning.
Still, she did not entirely appreciate his boorish reaction. So, she was not the sort of female to attract gentlemen. So, night after night she found herself sitting at home rather than being invited to the numerous entertainments held about the village. At least Mr. Chesterfield appreciated her unique qualities.
There was no need to mock.
Glaring into the beautiful features that could make a woman’s heart forget to beat, Clara waited for him to gain control of his mirth.
“Are you quite finished?” she at last demanded.
The blue eyes continued to smolder in the flickering candlelight. “I must admit that I have never considered using mathematical equations to seduce a woman.”
Clara was not about to reveal that the equations were only the beginning. That they formed the basis of a secret code that when properly calculated spelled out a poem. The beast might choke himself laughing at her.
Perhaps not entirely a bad thing.
“Mr. Chesterfield was not attempting to seduce me,” she bit out, shifting on the mattress. She was not at all certain how clean it might be. A worrisome thought. Perhaps even more worrisome than the large gentleman who was hovering over her like a hawk circling for a kill. “We simply possess a shared interest.”
“Kitten, you are either astonishingly gullible or the best liar I have ever encountered,” he taunted softly.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You might consider an intellectual relationship the stuff of dreams, but I assure you any red-blooded male is interested in something a bit more . . .” His gaze deliberately lowered to her lips. “Tangible.”
Oh my.
A hot flash seared through her before Clara was sternly squelching it.
“I will not discuss this with you, sir.”
The blue gaze reluctantly returned to her flashing eyes. “You would prefer we do sums?”
“I would prefer you tell me what is occurring. First you kidnap me, and then you announce that some gentleman I have never encountered desires me dead. I believe I am due some explanation.”
He considered her demands for a brief moment. “Perhaps, but I have yet to decide if I trust you.”
Trust her? Trust
her
? Well, that took some bloody nerve.
“If anyone is untrustworthy it is you, sir.”
He lifted a brow at her tart tone. “Now, my dear, is that any way to speak to the gentleman who saved you from a nasty ambush?”
“I have only your word to prove I was in any danger in the first place. And since you are a kidnapper and a ruffian, it is only logical to assume that I am the more honest person.”
He shrugged. “But I am larger.”
“Larger? What does that have to do with anything?”
“It ensures that I am the one who gets to decide who is to be trusted and who is not.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It does not have to.”
Her lips thinned. “Barbarian.”
“Not entirely.” Shifting back, her captor slid his arms beneath her and gently lifted her to a sitting position. Then, reaching to one side, he produced a glass of water and held it to her lips. Clara’s throat was too parched for her to dwell overmuch on whether the glass had been recently washed or if the water was fresh from the well, and taking a large gulp, she closed her eyes in relief. “Better?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
He pressed the half-empty glass into her hand and reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear.
“Let us start from the beginning,” he said, ignoring her heavy sigh. “You claim you have no knowledge of Lord Doulton.”
“None whatsoever.”
“And you were traveling to London to meet with a Mr. Chesterfield, whom you only know through correspondence.”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
His gaze skimmed her pale features. “Your family did not object to such a scandalous journey?”
Drinking down the last of the water, Clara set aside the glass with a small click.
“There is nothing scandalous in my traveling to London. Besides which, I have no family. I am a lady of independence who is perfectly capable of making decisions for myself.”
He seemed oddly displeased with her confession. Obviously he did not consider the notion that if she did possess a mythical relative, he might very well discover himself gazing down the barrel of a loaded pistol.
“You have no guardian? No one to protect you?”
“I have no need for protection.” Her brows drew together as he gave a short, humorless laugh. “What?”
“For God’s sake, if any woman is in need of protection, it is you,” he growled. “Not only is a gang of thugs currently attempting to do away with you, but you are being held hostage in a bed with a dangerous ruffian.”
She blinked at his fierce tone. “Are you dangerous?”
With an exasperated shake of his head, he allowed his features to soften. “That depends on what sort of danger you mean. I do not intend to slit your throat or dump you in the nearest well.”
“What do you intend to do?”
The blue eyes darkened in what was becoming a familiar manner. “Now that is a most intriguing question.”
Distracted by a pair of green eyes and kissable lips, Hawksley nearly missed the faint sound from below. Tensing, he reached behind his back to withdraw the pistol he had shoved in the waistband of his breeches.
Beside him Miss Dawson abruptly scooted away, clearly not having heard the soft scrape of the door opening.
“What are you doing?”
Leaning close, he whispered directly in her ear. “Remain here and do not make a sound.”
He waited for her slow nod before lifting himself off the mattress and inching his way down the narrow stairs. Careful to keep low and to remain in the thicker shadows, Hawksley reached the lower floor and leaned against the wall. He had no intention of moving until his eyes managed to adjust to the darkness.
Several moments passed before a figure slid through a slanting ray of moonlight, and his tension eased. Straightening, he stepped away from the wall.
“Dillon.”
Little was visible beyond a squat, blocky body. Had there been light, however, he would have seen a pug face crisscrossed with knife scars and a squashed nose that had been broken more than once. He had hired Dillon as his manservant shortly after arriving in London, more for his ability to watch his back than for any talent as valet.
Thank God, since no sane gentleman would allow the brute near his throat with a razor.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“Jimmy just left the road,” the servant warned in a raspy voice.
Hawksley gave a slow nod. He had expected as much. Jimmy Blade would not easily allow a small fortune to slip through his fingers. Especially not when it would mean returning to Lord Doulton and confessing he had failed.
“Is he coming in this direction?”
“I’d say there is the likelihood that he’ll eventually stumble across this place.”
Hawksley shoved the pistol back into his pants. “Take Brutus and hide him in the woods.”
“What of you?”
“We will wait in the tunnels. Signal when it is safe to come out.”
“The wench may not be so pleased with your plans.”
Hawksley gave a dismissive shrug. “The wench would not be pleased if I got down and kissed her feet, but she will do as she is told.”
There was a moment of silence, warning Hawksley that his friend was battling a surge of amusement.
“Or?”
Hawksley’s lips twitched as the image of seducing Miss Dawson to his will rose to mind.
“There are any number of possibilities I am considering,” he at last murmured.
Dillon gave a short laugh. “Just make sure those possibilities are done quietly.”
“I will be as silent as a mouse.”
“And her?”
Hawksley smiled. “Now that I cannot promise.”
Turning on his heel, he made his way back up the stairs. He was careful to ensure that Miss Dawson was not poised to knock him upside the head or tumble him backward before stepping into the loft. He would never be fool enough to underestimate his competent angel.
Finding her waiting upon the mattress, Hawksley moved forward. With one smooth motion he had scooped her into his arms. He paused only long enough to wrap his caped coat about her and pinch out the candle before returning to the stairs.
“Sir, what are you about?” Miss Dawson squeaked, obviously not quite as pleased as she should be at finding herself in his arms. “Put me down at once.”
He pressed her closer, not at all prepared to risk allowing her to walk down the steps on her own. She had taken a sharp blow to her head. He had no intention of having her take another tumble. Not while she was in his care.
“Halt your squirming, kitten,” he commanded.
“Or?” she tartly demanded.
“Or I shall toss you out the door for Jimmy Blade to find,” he chided, carefully negotiating the stairs. Thankfully, without breaking either of their necks.
“He is here?”
“He soon will be.”
“For goodness’ sake, why did you not simply say so? I have no desire to have my throat slit. There was no need to manhandle me.”
Crossing the short hall into the kitchen, he smiled at her exasperated tone.
“Perhaps I simply desired to manhandle you,” he murmured.
His blunt honesty momentarily stilled her tongue. A rare occurrence, and one he was certain would not last for long.
It didn’t.
As he located the hidden latch that swung the china cupboard forward and stepped onto the narrow stairs that led downward, her lips were already parting.
“Where are we going?” she demanded.
“The cellar.”
Hawksley made certain the cupboard was firmly back in place before continuing down to the narrow tunnel below. Only then did he slide Miss Dawson to her feet.
“This does not feel to be a cellar,” she whispered in the thick darkness. “I believe it is a tunnel.”
“Perhaps.”
She pondered the knowledge a moment before drawing in a sharp breath. “Good heavens, you are a smuggler.”
His lips twitched at her shocked tones. “Not guilty.”
“Then why do you have a hidden door and tunnel in your cottage?”
“It is not my cottage.”
“Oh.”
He smothered a chuckle. “Disappointed, kitten?”
“Well, at the very least you are in collaboration with a smuggler.”
Hawksley could hardly argue with her accusation. His friends included smugglers, spies, thieves, and gamblers. Most of whom possessed greater honor and higher morals than so-called noblemen.
“Actually, Santos prefers to think of himself as a purveyor of rare objects.”
“Rare objects such as brandy and French silk?”
“Those might be included.”
“Good heavens, do you possess no appreciation for the law?”
Hawksley felt his muscles tighten. An instinctive reaction to his still-raw anger.
After the death of his brother he had naively turned to the authorities. He had presumed they would be anxious to hang those responsible for the death of a viscount.
What greater crime was there in all of England?
And, indeed, they had been anxious to arrest the culprits. Only they had possessed little concern whether the culprits they arrested were actually guilty or not.
He discovered that guilt and poverty were irrevocably linked in the minds of most gentlemen of power. The less money in your pocket, the more guilty you became. And if you happened to be foolish enough to be a foreigner in the bargain, you might as well place the noose about your own neck.
It had taken Hawksley less than a fortnight to wash his hands of the lot of them.
“I make my own laws, kitten,” he said in harsh tones. “A fact you would do well to recall.”
Miss Dawson abruptly stiffened, no doubt sensing she had touched a raw nerve.
Hawksley discovered himself regretting his sharp retort and instinctively began to offer an apology, only to hastily snap his lips shut when he realized he was being ridiculous.
Dammit. This woman was his captive, was she not? A mere piece in the puzzle of his brother’s murder. Beyond that, she was annoying as the devil.
But that protective urge that she seemed to stir in him refused to be denied.
Almost as if to prove the point, she shivered, and Hawksley instinctively reached out to ensure the coat was tucked about her.
“Are you cold?” he demanded.
“No, I am quite warm.”
“I felt you tremble.”
“I was just thinking of some stranger wishing me dead. It is not a pleasant thing to consider.”
His hands lingered, pulling her close to him. “No one is going to harm you, that I promise.”
She shifted in his arms, as if attempting to peer at him through the thick blackness.
“That is rather an odd promise considering that you are the gentleman currently holding me hostage,” she said dryly.
He chuckled softly. “If you will recall, I am also the gentleman who saved your life.”
“There is that, I suppose.” There was a moment of silence. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you rescue me?”
Hawksley took a moment to consider his response. It would be easy to blithely assure her that he would never allow a young maiden to fall into the hands of a ruffian such as Jimmy Blade. It was, after all, no less than the truth. No gentleman with the least conscience would turn his back on a cold-blooded murder.