Secrets of Seduction (16 page)

Skye exhaled a soft sigh of contentment. To lie in his arms like this, to breathe in his scent, to absorb his warmth, was indescribable bliss.

“You are a most marvelous lover, Lord Hawkhurst,” she murmured.

“Lord Hawkhurst?” he repeated in a hoarse, wry voice at her formal address. “I think by now we are familiar enough that you can call me Hawk.”

“Very well … Hawk. Thank you for relieving my ache.”

“It was my pleasure—but you gave me little choice.”

“That was my intention … although it is actually very unlike me. I have never been this wanton. I am known as the
good
Wilde cousin.”

“I would never have guessed,” he said, sounding amused.

“It is true. But I am rather tired of being angelic.”

“
You
, angelic?” His tone was roughly edged with humor.

“Comparatively, yes.” She’d committed her own share of troublemaking, but nothing truly scandalous. And being good had gotten her nowhere in finding true love as her Wilde ancestors—and more recently, her cousins Ash and Jack—had done.

“It is time for me to live up to the Wilde name and reputation. I want to have a grand passion like the rest of my family.”

She hesitated, waiting for a response from Hawkhurst—Hawk, she amended. When none came, she added wistfully, “You could show me what real passion is like.”

“No, I could not.”

“Why not?”

“You know very well why not. A small thing called honor—not to mention the risk of scandal.”

“It isn’t fair that ladies cannot enjoy lovemaking the way men can.”

“Perhaps.” He sounded sympathetic but not enough to accede to her request.

“The damage is already done,” she contended. “We might as well continue what we began. Who better than you to educate me in the arts of lovemaking?”

When Hawk didn’t reply, she shifted her head to glance up at him. His eyes were still shut, and it didn’t appear as if that would change anytime soon.

“I want to know about lovemaking so I can have a fulfilling marriage with my future husband.”

Hawk pried one eye open. “You can ask your aunt for advice.”

“I already have. But at some point I need actual experience, not just theoretical guidance. Please, will you show me?”

“No.”

“Please?”

At her pleading tone, Hawk stifled an exasperated laugh. She was drawing a sensual pattern on his chest with a forefinger, gazing up at him with her wide, imploring blue eyes. Her persistence was unbelievable. And once again she had surprised him with her boldness, practically ravishing him and then asking him to teach her about lovemaking.

He shook his head mentally. No one had ever given him so much aggravation or put him on the defensive so easily as Skye Wilde. No one had ever tempted him as fiercely, either. It was all he could do to hold his own with her.

In fact, he had to admit his miscalculation just now. He’d had some thought of scaring her off with his aggressive embrace, but he should have known she wouldn’t scare easily. Nor would she back down once she’d set her sights on something.

At the moment she had her sights on overwhelming his good sense, not only with rational arguments but with the lure of her delectable body. And as usual with Skye, his feelings were a complex mix of amusement, exasperation, vexation, and desire.

Desire was strongest just now. She’d set him alight with her innocent eroticism—and that was
after
giving him the most peaceful night he could remember in years. And then the pleasure of waking up beside her this morning …

He’d awakened to find her close enough to kiss. He’d spent several quiet moments watching her, taking in her bright, sleep-tumbled hair, her lush lips that
were slightly parted as she breathed in slumber. She’d looked tousled and drowsy, and soft—and beautiful enough to make him ache.

He was still aching now, even after she’d temporarily relieved his painful, carnal hunger. He wanted to be inside her again in the most desperate way.

A bloody dangerous sentiment.

Yet another part of him was urging him to ignore the danger. Skye was offering herself to him fully. What red-blooded male could refuse?

Hawk shut his eyes, trying to bolster his fading willpower. He couldn’t give in, of course. Complying with her request to tutor her would only compound his problem—what to do with an enchanting siren who didn’t understand the word “no.”

He had to exert better control over his lust, Hawk reminded himself. He was determined to focus solely on finding her uncle’s lover and nothing more.

Repeating that silent declaration, Hawk eased away from her embrace, then rose and went to the washbasin to clean his seed off his hand.

He could feel her gaze on his body, studying his backside, though. For all her curiosity, Skye was inexperienced with nudity, and her examination made his loins hard all over again.

“Do you mean to dally in bed the rest of the morning?” he asked curtly over his shoulder. “I thought you didn’t wish to be late in meeting Macky.”

When Skye made a soft exclamation of agreement and climbed out of bed with alacrity, Hawk hid a smile.

His only chance in dealing with her was keeping
their relationship all business, but it would be damned hard.

Maybe impossible.

Particularly when she had the tactical skills of a Napoléon Bonaparte and the allure of a ravishing seductress all rolled into one.

Hawkhurst’s carriage made
good time driving to Castlecomer and by late morning reached the town square, which was surrounded by lime trees and elegant Georgian houses.

The Fox and Hound, where they were scheduled to meet with Macky at noon, was a quaint inn with mullioned windows. Hawk hired a private parlor, where they dined on a tasty shepherd’s pie for lunch. As Skye kept one eager eye out the window, their loquacious host treated them to a display of charming Irish wit as he related that the town had been partially burned some two decades ago but rebuilt by a wealthy, noble benefactress.

Hawk dismissed the innkeeper when Macky arrived a half hour later. After quaffing half a tankard of ale to quench his thirst, Macky reported on what he had learned to date.

“Your hunch about quizzing local proprietors paid off, m’lord. As you instructed, I fabricated a claim that my wife’s friend was coming to Ireland soon and
was eager for news of her long-lost relative, a genteel Englishwoman who settled somewhere in County Kilkenny some twenty-five years ago. I first made the rounds in Kilkenny and showed the miniature to every dressmaker and milliner I could find, with no results. But in Castlecomer, three different shop owners recognized the Widow Donnelly, who goes by the given name of Meg. I have little doubt it is the fugitive Lady Farnwell.”

“She is posing as a widow?”

“Yes. She has been living these many years past with a cousin, Bridget O’Brien, and her husband Shamus on a farm near the village of Clogh.”

“How far is Clogh from here?” Hawk asked.

“Not more than five miles. I scouted the O’Brien farm a short while ago but never approached, since I gathered you wished to make the first contact.”

“You did well, Macky.”

Skye felt her spirits soar at the welcome news. “Yes,
thank
you, Mr. Macky.”

According to Macky, Clogh was a thriving coalmining village but too small to boast an inn of its own, so Hawkhurst bespoke separate rooms at the Fox and Hound in Castlecomer before he and Skye set out north in his carriage once again, following Macky’s detailed directions.

Shortly after their departure, a drizzling rain began and slowed their progress over roads that were little more than rutted lanes. Although it was autumn, however, the countryside glowed a verdant green, and the farms they passed looked prosperous and well kept.

The O’Brien farm appeared larger than most, yet the main house was no manor but a pretty whitewashed
stone cottage with a thatched roof—a far cry from the wealthy estate where Rachel Farnwell had once reigned as baroness. Skye found herself wondering if Lady Farnwell—presumably now Mrs. Meg Donnelly—ever regretted exchanging her wealthy, aristocratic lifestyle for the quiet, remote existence of an English widow in hiding.

As Hawk’s crested carriage drew to a halt before the cottage, Skye felt a surge of nervous anticipation, knowing how crucial this initial meeting with the fugitive could be for her uncle Cornelius.

Hawkhurst seemed to understand her apprehension. “Would you like me to speak to the Widow Donnelly first?”

“No, I think it best if I explain who I am and then see how she responds.”

Skye took a deep breath, then allowed Hawk to help her down, into the rain, and escort her up the flagstone path to the front door.

Before they could knock, however, the door swung open abruptly. A gray-haired woman stood there, blocking their way, brandishing a pitchfork.

At the threat, Skye’s eyes widened, but Hawkhurst stepped forward, his body shielding her in an instinctive, protective gesture. “Mrs. O’Brien, I presume?” he said calmly.

“Who is it asking?” the woman demanded.

“I am the Earl of Hawkhurst, and this is Lady Skye Wilde, here to see Mrs. Donnelly. We mean her no harm. Pray, would you ask her if she will receive us?”

His polite manner soothed Bridget O’Brien’s defensiveness a small measure. Although still wary and suspicious, she gave a curt nod. “Wait here, the both of
you.” Stepping back, she slammed the door in their faces.

Hearing the latch being set to lock them out, Skye bit her lower lip.

“Don’t fret yet,” Hawk reassured her. “It is only to be expected that she would be cautious and defensive.”

His serenity calmed Skye somewhat as she peered up at him from beneath the brim of her dripping black bonnet. “You have conducted this sort of investigation many times before, haven’t you?”

“Yes, many times. And if you won’t pester me to reveal the particular circumstances, I might even tell you about one or two of my more interesting cases.”

His easy smile won a faint one from Skye. “I suppose we should be glad Mrs. O’Brien was waving a pitchfork and not a more lethal weapon.”

“Indeed,” Hawk agreed.

Skye was certain he could have handled any weapon with aplomb, though. She felt her tense muscles relax. It was curious how implicitly she trusted Hawk, how safe and protected he made her feel. The Guardians were aptly named, she decided.

Perhaps two more minutes passed before they heard the scrape of the latch again.

When the door slowly swung open, a slender, elegant, middle-aged lady stood in the entryway. Ample gray streaked her dark hair, and sadness lined her pale features, but her beauty was similar to her miniature portrait, leaving no doubt in Skye’s mind that this was Rachel Farnwell.

Lady Farnwell stared at them, drinking them in, her expression fearful yet hopeful all at once.

Taking a cue from Hawk, Skye flashed one of her gentlest smiles. “Mrs. Donnelly? I have so longed to meet you. My uncle is Lord Cornelius Wilde.”

The lady clearly recognized the name. Her gaze shifted furtively to search the carriage behind Skye. “Is Cornelius … here with you?”

“No, he has no notion you still exist. I did not want to raise his hopes until I was certain you were the woman he once loved.”

Her trembling hand rose to her throat. “Then you know what happened,” she breathed.

“We know some of it. Recently I found your letters to my uncle and couldn’t rest until Mrs. Nibbs shared what she could remember. Her memory is failing significantly, poor woman, but thanks to this gentleman, Lord Hawkhurst”—Skye glanced up at Hawk—“we were able to guess in general where you might have gone all those years ago. So we acted on our theory and traveled here to Ireland in hopes of finding you.”

Lady Farnwell’s gaze lingered on Hawk a moment, then returned to Skye. “Why … would you wish to find me?”

“Because I believe my uncle would want to know that you are safe and well.”

Her face crumpling, the baroness turned away and covered her eyes with her hands. Her body shuddered as she struggled to breathe. When long moments later, she turned back again to her unexpected guests, her eyes were wet with tears.

“Please … come in, Lady Skye, Lord Hawkhurst,” she bid in a shaken voice.

When they stepped into the cottage, Bridget O’Brien came forward, much less aggressively this time, and
took Skye’s wet cloak and bonnet and Hawk’s greatcoat and tall beaver hat.

“Where are my manners?” Lady Farnwell murmured weakly. She introduced her distant cousin, who was a Donnelly before marrying Shamus O’Brien, then added, “You must be chilled. May we make you some hot tea?”

“That would be very welcome,” Skye replied, not so much needing the warmth as wanting to allow the baroness time to compose herself.

While Mrs. O’Brien went to the kitchen to fetch tea, they were shown into a small parlor where a cheery fire burned, and took the seats offered. The baroness sank down upon a sofa beside Skye, looking slightly dazed. “What did Peggy Nibbs tell you?”

“That you were forced by circumstances to stage your own death and sought protection with relatives here in Ireland. It was because your husband was unimaginably cruel, was it not?”