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Authors: Alexandra Ivy

BOOK: Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den)
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“I am an eccentric, not a lunatic.”
“Is there a difference?”
She grimly turned her head to stab him with a condemning glare.
“It is bad enough you have kidnapped me for God knows what nefarious purpose. Is it also necessary to insult me?”
His eyes narrowed, as if he was belatedly realizing just how deeply he had offended her.
“Forgive me,” he said, his voice soft. “This is my first kidnapping, I fear. And you are not at all what I expected you to be.”
“What did you expect?”
“An older woman.” His gaze drifted slowly over her upturned countenance. “And one not near so lovely.”
A portion of her annoyance faded. Mostly out of shock.
Gentlemen, whether they were ruffians or not, never found her lovely.
Annoying, strange, and sometimes frightening, but never lovely.
“You think me lovely?”
“Shall I tell you how lovely?” His arm tightened about her waist as his head lowered until she could feel his lips lightly touch her neck. “Your hair shimmers like moonlight on water. Your eyes are the purest green I have ever seen. And your skin is so soft it makes me wish to explore you from head to toe.”
Clara decided she quite liked the small shivers that were racing down her spine. What was not to like? There was heat and tiny flutters of excitement and an undeniable urge to tilt her head so he could have better access to the curve of her throat.
She also decided that such sensations were no doubt quite dangerous.
She could almost feel her well-honed intelligence melting to mush.
A deliberate strategy on his part, no doubt.
“You are attempting to distract me,” she accused.
“I was,” he agreed without apology. His tongue reached out to touch the pulse beating at the base of her neck. His tongue! Clara barely resisted the urge to squirm, feeling his lips continue up her throat to stroke the curve of her cheek. “Now that I have begun, however, I am quite willing to continue if you feel so inclined.”
Clara swallowed. If she was perfectly honest with herself, she would have to admit she was not nearly as opposed to the thought of him continuing as she should be.
She had never before experienced such a sharp physical attraction. It clutched at the pit of her stomach and raced through her blood. A heady mixture.
Unfortunately, the gentleman creating the delicious sensations was not all suitable for a proper lady. Not even one who had been on the shelf for so long that she had grown more than a tad moldy.
“Certainly not,” she forced herself to say.
She felt his lips curve in a smile against her skin. “Why? It could be pleasurable for the both of us.”
“No doubt, but I will not have my first kiss given to me by a ruffian.”
“Your first . . . Bloody hell.” The gentleman gave a sudden cough as he abruptly straightened. Almost as if she had just told him she had the pox. “You must be jesting?”
“Why should I jest about such a thing?”
“Good God,” he muttered, “what sort of female are you?”
Turning her head, Clara offered a dark frown. Despite his undoubted skill to make her heart flutter, she found him more than a bit annoying.
“I happen to be a proper woman who does not allow—”
“Never mind,” he rudely interrupted, his attention focused over her head. “We have arrived.”
Hawksley had not given a lot of thought to his role as kidnapper.
After all, how difficult could it be?
He would send out his accomplices to locate Miss Dawson’s carriage while he waited in the trees to ambush it. Once he had captured the woman, he would carry her off to an isolated cottage. After that it would be a simple matter to learn her secrets.
A nice, straightforward plan that left little room for mistakes.
Unfortunately his nice, straightforward plan had not included Miss Dawson.
Angling his horse toward the crumbling stables, Hawksley shifted to study the pure line of his captive’s profile.
My God, she looked like an angel, he acknowledged with that shocking flare of awareness that had plagued him since first clapping eyes upon her.
This was not the hardened tart he had been expecting.
Far from it.
In the gathering dusk, her hair shimmered with a silver beauty. The sort of hair that made a man long to rip out the offending pins and allow it to flow over her shoulders.
And her eyes . . . so pure a green they reminded him of a mischievous kitten. One he suspected he would take great pleasure in making purr.
Strange, considering some of the most beautiful, most experienced women in all of London had not been capable of stirring even a vague interest lately.
Perhaps it was her body, he decided, allowing his gaze to slide down the slender form currently pressed against him.
For the most part his mistresses had been well curved in all the right places. The sort of women that made a man think of lust.
But for the first time in his thirty years, he realized that there was something rather enchanting in having such a slender female snuggled close to him. She felt fragile and as delicate as the finest crystal.
Or at least she did until she opened her mouth.
A rueful smile tugged at his lips as he rode into the dusty shadows of the stables and pulled his mount to a halt.
By the fires of hell, she was the most peculiar of females.
Not once had she revealed the fear or fury he had prepared himself to endure. Indeed, she had appeared little more than annoyed at being carted off by a stranger. Rather as if he was no more than a tedious interruption to her journey.
It was difficult to imagine that this practical, frighteningly sensible woman could have any nefarious dealings with Lord Doulton. Actually, it was damn well impossible.
But Biddles was never mistaken.
There had to be some reason for the nobleman to wish this woman dead.
And he intended to discover precisely what that reason was.
With a smooth motion he vaulted out of the saddle and reached up to tug Miss Dawson onto the ground next to him. Leading his restless horse into a nearby stall, he set about settling him for the night.
Out of the corner of his eye he kept a close watch on his captive. Not that she appeared ready to bolt. Instead she was taking a careful survey of her surroundings.
Sensible and practical.
And oddly kissable.
Strange.
“What is this place?” she at last demanded.
“Just a small cottage. It is barren and lacking in many amenities, but it is isolated enough so we can speak in private.”
The green gaze shifted to regard him with a frank speculation. “And that is all you desire from me? To speak in private?”
All he desired? Not bloody likely.
“Unless you change your mind about that first kiss.”
“I do not think so,” she retorted primly. He merely smiled, reaching for a brush. After a time she took a step closer. “That is a beautiful animal. What do you call him?”
“Brutus.”
“Brutus?”
“He attacks anyone foolish enough to turn their back on him.”
“Oh.”
Straightening, Hawksley shot his companion a warning glance. “If you attempt an escape, I would suggest you not try it upon this beast. He is ill-tempered and more likely to break your neck than take you to safety.”
With her odd habit she silently considered his words. “You intend to keep me here?”
“Only for a short time.”
“And then what?”
“That depends upon what you have to tell me.”
She once again fell silent as he spread out fresh hay. He did not even attempt to guess what might be passing through her mind.
Nothing that would be passing through an ordinary woman’s mind, he was certain.
“Do you know, when you first halted my carriage I assumed you were just a ridiculous dandy having a lark,” she murmured.
Hawksley gave a lift of his brows. “You did not consider the possibility that I might actually be a highwayman?”
The faintest hint of humor entered her beautiful eyes. “You do not have one possession, from that horse to your boots, which a highwayman could possibly afford. Indeed, the buttons on your coat alone could feed a family for a month.”
“They could all have been stolen,” he pointed out, just a tad annoyed by her sharp perception.
She should be shrinking in terror, not calmly assessing the worth of his property.
“Perhaps the clothing and even Brutus could have been stolen, although it is more likely they would have been hocked than kept.” She gave a shrug. “But not the ring.”
He glanced down at his hand. “Why not the ring?”
“From Oxford, is it not? Not the sort of jewelry to catch the eye of a thief. Not unless he happened to be one of the rare highwaymen who attended the school and possessed a sentimental nature.”
Hawksley’s lips twitched. Damn. The woman was downright freakish.
“I see. You have determined that I am no highwayman and no dandy on a lark, so what conclusion has that clever mind devised?”
She faced him with that calm poise he found so intriguing.
“There seem to be only two possibilities. Either you are a dangerous lunatic, or this has all been some horrid mistake.”
Chapter Three
He resisted the urge to laugh. In truth, her conclusions were not far from his own, Hawksley had to concede.
Oh, not so much that bit about the dangerous lunatic, although he had been accused more than once since his brother’s murder of becoming a ruthless bastard.
But maybe there had been a mistake made.
Or perhaps you simply hope there has been a mistake made
, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.
Perhaps you do not want this strange and fascinating angel to be involved in Fredrick’s death.
Startled by the ridiculous fancy, Hawksley sternly squashed the traitorous thought. Dammit all. This woman was here for one purpose and one purpose only.
And that was to discover what connection she had to Lord Doulton.
He folded his arms over his chest. “You are Miss Clara Dawson?”
She gave a startled blink. “I . . . Yes.”
“From Kent?”
“Yes.”
So. No mistake.
“Then you are indeed the woman I want.” He reached out a commanding hand. “Come along.”
Her lips thinned as she took a step back.
“No.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, now what?”
“I refuse to go anywhere with you until you tell me who you are and why I am here.”
Hawksley did not hesitate. With one motion he was moving forward and scooping her over his shoulder. Not a difficult task considering she was nearly tiny enough to slip into his pocket.
“Do you know, kitten, I begin to suspect you simply enjoy being in my arms,” he mocked as he carried her out of the stables and toward the cottage. “Why else would you continue to challenge me?”
A small hand smacked him in the center of his back. “Brute.”
“You have left me little choice.”
“Of course you have a choice,” she gritted. “You could do the honorable thing and return me to my carriage.”
Reaching the cottage, Hawksley pressed open the door and stepped inside. He cast a swift glance about the darkened interior, resisting the urge to grimace. While a poet might claim the aged timbers and uneven flagstones picturesque, he was quite certain the woman squirming in his arms would claim it shabby, damp, and not at all fit for a proper lady.
And she would not be wrong.
Although it was relatively clean, the only furniture was a rough table and chairs set by a large fireplace and a battered bench below the single window. There were no curtains, no pretty pottery or pictures hung upon the walls.
It looked precisely what it was. A convenient hideout for a notorious smuggler.
With an inward shrug, Hawksley slowly lowered his captive to her feet. He wasn’t here to entertain the lady or see to her comfort.
“There would be nothing honorable in allowing you to continue on to London,” he assured her, thinking of the murderous Jimmy still awaiting his prey.
She planted her hands on her hips to glare at him. It might have been more effective if the cloud of silver hair had not slipped from the tidy knot to float about her shoulders.
Holy hell.
“What on earth do you mean?”
Against his will his hand reached out to catch a strand of the silken silver in his fingers.
“It would be a sin against nature to have you harmed,” he murmured. “And I have need of you.”
“What need?”
He smiled wryly at her suspicious tone. “All in time.” Turning, he walked to peer out the small window. “First I must ensure we were not followed.”
“Who do you believe would follow us?” she demanded.
A swift glance revealed no angry cutthroats in the yard, but Hawksley kept his back turned as he carefully watched his prey in the reflection of the window. He had discovered that he could learn a great deal about others when they were unaware they were being observed.
“There are all sorts of nasty creatures roaming about,” he assured her.
Edging sideways, Miss Dawson kept a wary gaze on his back. “No, I believe you have someone specific in mind.”
“Why do you say that?”
A few more steps to the side. “People as a rule do not fear they are being followed unless they have reason to believe it might be so.”
Hawksley gave a short laugh. “Obviously you have never been to the stews.”
Her hand reached out to grasp the heavy candlestick from the mantle. “But you have?”
His lips twitched even as he took careful note of her courage. She was obviously not the sort of woman to hide in the corner and hope to be rescued.
Something he would do well to remember.
“Put it down, kitten, unless you desire to be tied to the bed,” he murmured, presuming there must be a bed somewhere in the loft. “Something I assure you would give me a great deal of pleasure.”
He saw her eyes widen as the candlestick was abruptly thumped back onto the mantle.
“How did you . . . Oh, of course. My reflection in the window. Blast. I should have taken that into consideration.”
Slowly turning, Hawksley flicked a glance over her tiny form. “Would you truly have hit me with that?”
“Would you truly have tied me to the bed?”
He smiled. “Touché.”
There was silence as they both measured one another, then the faint sound of hoofbeats had Hawksley spinning back toward the window. His hand instinctively reached into his pocket to grasp the pistol until the rider came into view. Only when he recognized the dark, swarthy gentleman with a long mane of pitch-black hair and hawkish nose did he relax.
Leaving the lethal weapon tucked in his pocket, Hawksley moved toward the door. Pulling it open, he paused to stab his captive with a warning glare.
“I will return in a moment. In the meantime do not even think of attempting to flee. If I have to chase after you, I shall be very displeased.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “You have already kidnapped me, hauled me about as if I were no more than a sack of flour, and are now holding me against my will in this filthy cottage. I do not give a fig if you are displeased.”
Hawksley was crossing the floor and wrapping his hands about her waist before he could halt his progress. Not that he particularly wanted to halt his progress, he realized as he easily hoisted her off the floor until they were nose to nose. He might as well accept that he would use any excuse, no matter how pathetic, to touch this woman.
“Let me put it this way, kitten. If I have to chase you, I will expect some sort of compensation for my efforts.” He gaze deliberately drifted to the soft lips.
Her eyes widened. “No. No kisses.”
“There are many pleasures beyond kisses,” he murmured, angling his head to gently nip at the lobe of her ear. Then for good measure he stroked his tongue down to the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. It was pleasant to know when his efforts were being properly appreciated.
Her head turned to allow him greater access before she abruptly decided she should be protesting his touch rather than encouraging it.
“What is that if not a kiss?” she breathed.
Slowly he angled her down his body until her feet touched the ground. He smiled deep into her eyes.
“A prelude.” Hawksley gave a tug on a silver curl. “Now behave yourself.”
He left the cottage before he could conjure yet another reason to snatch Miss Dawson off her feet and firmly closed the door behind him. Only then did he cross the yard to where Santos was leaping from a pure white stallion.
Hawksley knew little of this dark recluse known only as Santos. No one knew much. He was a pirate, a smuggler, and lethal when crossed. He moved through the underworld of London with smooth ease and was reputedly the son of an English duke and a Portuguese actress. No one was foolish enough to actually inquire if it was true. Certainly not Hawksley.
What he did know was that the man had proven to be an invaluable asset in his quest for revenge. And that he would trust him with his life, if not his valuables.
Santos flicked a black gaze toward the cottage. It belonged to him. Just one of a dozen hideaways he possessed outside of London.
“Any trouble?” he demanded.
Hawksley grimaced. “That depends on what you consider trouble.”
A dark brow arched in amusement. “Miss Dawson?”
“She is not precisely what I expected.”
“Does that please or disappoint you?”
Awry smile twisted his lips. “She makes my head ache.”
“Ah . . . She pleases you, then.”
Hawksley gave a short laugh. Only Santos could consider a woman who made his head ache as pleasing. No doubt he thought being shot at by Excise men a nice means to round out the evening.
“Did you discover Jimmy?”
There was a brief nod of the dark head. “Yes, he is still hidden just beyond Westerham.”
“It will not take him long to realize the carriage is never going to arrive,” Hawksley murmured. “Did you cover our tracks?” He glanced up to meet a steady black gaze. “Ah, of course you did, forgive me. Where is Dillon?”
“He will keep watch on the cottage. You need not fear any unexpected visitors.”
“And what of you?”
A faint smile touched the dark eyes. “I have some business in the area. I will not be far away.”
Hawksley did not inquire into the nature of the man’s business. He was fairly certain he did not want to know. Instead he turned back toward the cottage, not surprised to discover Miss Dawson standing with her nose pressed to the window.
At least she had not attempted to escape up the chimney.
“I do not know how long this might take. I sense Miss Dawson will not make this simple.”
“Women rarely do,” Santos murmured, stepping to his side. He seemed to still as a lingering slant of sunlight suddenly fell across the woman’s silver cloud of hair and delicate features. “
Mãe de Deus
, is that her?”
Hawksley discovered a frown forming on his forehead.
“Yes.”
“Ah . . .
anjo magnifico
. Perhaps my business is not so pressing after all.”
The frown deepened. “Do not even consider it, old friend. For the moment she is mine.”
A knowing gaze slashed in his direction. “And when you have your information?”
“That remains to be seen.”
An expression that Hawksley did not care for settled on the too-handsome features.
“Yes . . . it does.”
With one last glance toward the window, Santos moved to swing himself atop his horse, barely hitting the saddle before he was reeling his mount around and charging toward the trees.
Hawksley watched his departure before striding back toward the cottage and the woman waiting within.
No, not
the
woman.
His woman.
At least for the moment.
 
 
Clara was in a decided quandary.
As a rule, she had discovered that her logical approach to life kept most troubles at bay. She did not impulsively leap into decisions or allow her heart to lead her into foolishness. Indeed, her days were carefully planned, with few opportunities for surprises to occur.
Most maidens would no doubt find her existence tedious.
There might even be a few occasions when
she
found her existence tedious.
But her current situation did not lend itself to her usual sensible approach. Kidnappings rarely did.
And certainly her kidnapper defied any sort of logic.
How was she to reason with a man who utterly aggravated her one moment and the next made her heart leap with shivering excitement?
No closer to an answer, Clara turned from the window. Her captor was returning, and his expression was once again set in those grim lines.
More aggravation and less heart leaping, she acknowledged with a faint sigh.
As if to prove her point, the gentleman entered the cottage and shut the door with far more force than necessary. Walking across the floor, he stood before her with his arms crossed and his gaze narrowed.
She crossed her own arms and met his gaze squarely. “Who was that?” she demanded, referring to the dark, rather frighteningly beautiful stranger. “Is he an accomplice of yours? Does he know I am being kept here against my will?”
“You ask a great number of questions,” he retorted.
Clara shrugged. “So I have been told.”
“Well, from now on I shall be the one asking the questions.”
“That does not seem entirely fair,” she protested.
“I rarely play fair.” He took another step closer. “You might as well have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”
Clara glanced over her shoulder at the small bench directly behind her. Then her head swiveled back to discover the impossibly blue eyes watching her closely.
“You want me to sit there?”
His brows drew together. “Is there a problem?”
“I am not convinced the bench is entirely clean.”
He regarded her for a long moment, as if not certain he had truly heard her correctly. Then, glancing toward the heavens, he reached into his pocket to remove a handkerchief.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, moving to dust the bench with a bristling impatience. “Now are you satisfied?”
“Actually I believe you missed a place just—”
Strong arms grasped her shoulders and pressed her downward. “Sit.”
Clara pursed her lips. There had been dust. And now it was no doubt staining her best carriage gown.
“You need not growl at me,” she said.
Again his eyes lifted to the heavens. “How old are you?”
“Six-and-twenty. Why?”
“I was just curious as to how you lived to such a great age without being throttled.”
“More luck than skill, I expect.”
His gaze shot back to her countenance, then without warning he gave a short, reluctant laugh. Clearly he found her brilliant ability to annoy others a source of amusement.

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