Chapter Five
They traversed the tunnels in silence, Hawksley on alert and Miss Dawson lost in the Lord only knew what peculiar thoughts.
As they walked, Hawksley kept himself sharply aware of his surroundings.
The faint moisture in the air, the rustle of muslin skirts, the distant croak of a frog, and overall, the sweet hint of vanilla that clung to his companion’s skin.
It was a scent, he absently decided, that he preferred to the usual perfumes that women drenched upon themselves. It was not exotic or deliberately sensual. Instead it was enticingly fresh and without the artifice he disliked.
Perfectly suited to his angel.
Nearly a quarter of an hour later there was a subtle incline and Hawksley slowed their hesitant pace even further. He sensed they were nearing the end of the tunnel and he had no desire to abruptly charge out into the open.
Another five minutes and he came to a complete halt as he heard the unmistakable sound of rock striking against rock.
“What was that?” Miss Dawson demanded.
There were two more strikes, followed by silence. One strike then another.
Hawksley smiled. “Santos.”
“Why is he tapping on the wall?”
“So I do not lodge a bullet in his heart.”
“Oh.”
With a slight tug he had her moving forward again, and in next to no time they were pressing their way through the branches that hid the entrance to the tunnel.
As he had surmised, Santos was standing in the moonlight, his magnificent white stallion tied a short distance away.
“It seems your cottage has been invaded by a horde of unwelcome pests,” Hawksley murmured as he plucked a stray leaf from Miss Dawson’s tangled curls.
Santos noted the unwittingly possessive gesture with a mysterious smile, but keeping his thoughts to himself, he turned his head toward the distant cottage.
“Yes, and in the process have inconvenienced a most lovely lady.” His voice was smooth but edged with a lethal intent. “Clearly they need a lesson in manners. One I intend to deliver quite forcibly.”
Hawksley was in full approval of wiping out the scourge currently drinking themselves insensible, but first he had a more pressing concern.
“A word, Santos,” he murmured with a pointed glance toward the woman at his side who had pulled out a handkerchief to futilely brush at the dust on her gown.
Following his glance, Santos allowed his gaze to rest upon the curls shimmering like a silver halo in the moonlight.
“If you insist.”
Hawksley’s lips tightened. He discovered that he did not care for a gentleman regarding Miss Dawson with such open male speculation.
Especially not a man who had only to cast a lady one of his smoldering smiles to have her doing whatever he might bid.
“I do.”
A hint of amusement entered the dark eyes, but with a sweep of his hand he led Hawksley toward the nearby trees.
“What is it?”
“There is nothing more to be gained here.” Hawksley shoved his fingers through the long strands of his hair. He had not slept in nearly two days and he abruptly realized he was weary to the very bone. “I need to return to London.”
Santos considered his words a moment. “What of the woman?”
Well, that was the question, was it not, he ruefully conceded.
When he had first planned his brilliant kidnapping scheme, it had been with the certainty that the woman in the carriage was either a conspirator to murder or at the very least a hardened tart who made a living in blackmailing others.
Why else would she be involved with a gentleman such as Lord Doulton?
Now he discovered himself at a distinct loss.
“I am not yet entirely certain.” He sucked in a deep breath. “After the past few hours, she is no doubt anxious to be returned to the comfort of her home.”
“That notion does not appeal to you?”
Appeal to him? Hawksley swallowed a self-derisive laugh. If he were perfectly honest, he would admit that it was a notion he refused to even contemplate.
Why? Well, he was intelligent enough to come up with a dozen different reasons without examining any of them too closely.
“Not when I still do not know why Lord Doulton wishes her dead.” He furrowed his brow. “It may be he would be content to simply keep her out of London. On the other hand, there is nothing to keep him from sending Jimmy or another ruffian to her village to do away with her.”
“There is that,” Santos murmured.
“Beside which, she must have something that threatens Lord Doulton even if she does not know what it is. I mean to find what that something is.”
The dark eyes slowly narrowed. “You intend to take her to London?”
Hawksley shrugged. “I do not think I have a choice.”
The smuggler regarded him with an enigmatic expression for a long moment. “You could place her in my hands. I have many places to keep her hidden while you conduct your investigation.”
“No.” The refusal came swift and fierce.
Not surprisingly, Santos lifted his brows at the vehement refusal. “Why?”
“I desire to keep her with me.”
“You do not trust me?” Santos demanded with a hint of amusement.
“With a beautiful woman?” Hawksley gave a humorless laugh. “Only a fool would trust you. But it is more than that.” Shifting, Hawksley glanced toward the woman still dabbing at her skirts. In the moonlight she appeared even more ethereal. So tiny and fragile it was difficult to believe she was more than a creature of moon and mist. Thankfully, he was well aware her appearance was deceiving. Beyond her staunch courage, she possessed a near-brilliant ability to view the world about her with perfect logic. A talent that he could not deny was precisely what he was in need of at the moment. “As much as I hate to admit it, I am at a standstill in searching for Fredrick’s killer, and Miss Dawson possesses a most remarkable intelligence. I sense she might be of more assistance than I first hoped.”
Santos laughed softly at his words. “And you desire to bed her?”
Hawksley stiffened in annoyance before a rueful smile curved his lips. Only an utter idiot would mistake the manner with which he watched Miss Dawson. And Santos could never be taken for an idiot.
“Of course I desire to bed her. She is extraordinarily beautiful.” He offered a grimace. “Unfortunately, she is also a proper lady. I do not trifle with virgins.”
Their gazes met, each man judging the other, before Santos gave a slow nod of his head.
“She will be in danger in London.”
“I will protect her. Indeed, she will be safer with me than she would be if I simply cast her to her own devices. I am not quite certain how she has managed to survive for so long.”
“Your mind is set?”
“Yes.”
Santos gave a slow nod. “What do you desire from me?”
Hawksley considered for a moment. He knew without doubt he had only to say the word for this man to rid the cottage of every ruffian within. Santos was even more a ruthless bastard than Hawksley himself.
But common sense warned that the sudden death of the highwaymen, along with the disappearance of Miss Dawson, would alert Lord Doulton that his devious plot had been uncovered. He would become more vigilant than ever, and any hope of luring him into revealing his sins would be lost.
Far better for him to presume that Miss Dawson had innocently slipped through the ambush and leave it at that.
“If it is possible I would like to you to distract Jimmy,” he at last requested.
“Lay a false trail?”
“Precisely.”
Santos slowly smiled. “Actually, I can do better than that.”
Hawksley fully approved of that devious smile. It meant that his friend was considering something wickedly brilliant.
“What do you intend to do?”
Santos turned back toward the cottage. “I think I can convince the fools that Miss Dawson has met an untimely accident. Hired carriages are forever overturning; in truth, they are little better than a death trap. It will keep Lord Doulton from continuing his search for her and perhaps lull him into a false sense of comfort. In my experience, gentlemen who are overconfident tend to make mistakes.”
Hawksley gave a short laugh as he reached out to clap his companion on the back. “I am in your debt, my friend.”
Santos gave a lift of his brows as he swiveled to deliberately study the lovely angel now regarding them with a hint of impatience.
“Hmm. I shall think of some means of payment,” he murmured.
Hawksley shifted until he was nose to nose with his companion. “Not for all the gold in England.”
Santos gave a quick laugh before stepping back and offering a fluid bow. “Take care.”
He moved toward his waiting mount, but Hawksley had already turned to study the thick shadows about him. He had heard his servants approach several moments ago. They would be silently awaiting him to signal his intent.
“Dillon, bring Brutus,” he commanded as his gaze caught the square form standing beside a large bush.
“Aye.”
With a renewed burst of energy, Hawksley crossed back to join Miss Dawson. Allowing his gaze to sweep over her countenance, he noticed her expression was set in determinedly calm lines, but not even this formidable female was capable of disguising the weariness that darkened her eyes or the brittle tension that shimmered about her slender form.
Hawksley was forced to stifle a pang of regret. She should be nicely tucked in her cottage, far away from ruthless men such as Lord Doulton.
And himself.
The Miss Dawsons of the world were meant to be protected from evil, not hoisted into a cesspit of murder and treachery.
Unfortunately, he could think of no means to return her to her innocent country existence. Not until he managed to rid London of Lord Doulton.
With her determined insistence to appear unshakable, she briskly tucked her handkerchief back into the sleeve of her gown.
“What are we to do now?” she demanded.
Hawksley carefully hid his smile. If nothing else, he had discovered her temper could be remarkably prickly when she felt she was being patronized.
“We are off to London.”
“Oh.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “We are not taking a carriage, are we?”
“Certainly not,” he assured her, not having forgotten her distaste for the sickening sway of a carriage.
Just for a moment she appeared relieved. Then, as she glanced over his shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps, her gaze widened.
“No. Absolutely not.”
Hawksley gave a low chuckle. Turning, he vaulted in the saddle of the waiting Brutus. With the same ease he urged the large stallion forward, reaching down to sweep the reluctant Miss Dawson off her feet and across his legs. “Do not be frightened, kitten. Nothing will happen to you while you are in my arms.”
His assurances were met with a glare, but thankfully Miss Dawson preferred to keep her sharp words to herself. At least for the moment, he acknowledged wryly. He was not foolish enough to hope he wouldn’t be due for a nice trimming as soon as they reached London. For now, however, she tightly wrapped her arms about his waist and clung to him for dear life.
With a surge of satisfaction Hawksley gave a shift of the reins and charged into the darkness.
Astonishingly having fallen asleep as they had galloped down the narrow lanes, Clara awoke to discover herself lying upon a strange bed in a strange bedchamber.
She should no doubt have been terrified, she ruefully acknowledged. Proper ladies did not find themselves awakening in strange bedchambers. Indeed, they did not awaken in any bedchamber but their own.
Not even if they had been kidnapped by a handsome ruffian.
As it was, however, it was rather a predictable end to the peculiar day.
Scooting to a sitting position, Clara ran a hand through her tumbled curls. A brief glance about the chamber revealed a stark simplicity to the narrow bed and square armoire in the corner. The washstand did possess a lovely pitcher and matching bowl, and the curtains were freshly laundered, but there was no mistaking the lack of feminine influence.
The chamber was functional, nothing more. But it was clean, thank the Lord, and not nearly as shabby as the previous cottage.
A suitable setting for her captor.
Her captor.
Clara leaned against the pillows with a faint sigh. She knew she should not be here. Despite her reputation of being an eccentric, she had always been careful to avoid the least hint of scandal. Indeed, anyone acquainted with her would be deeply shocked by the mere notion that she might do anything that was not rigidly proper.
How else could a young lady live on her own without causing social censure?
Unfortunately, at the moment she knew that she was not particularly interested in her reputation. Oh, she could perhaps convince herself that it was not as if she had much choice in the matter. Her captor had not politely consulted with her on his decision to halt her carriage, or carry her off to the cottage, or even to take her to his home in London.
She had been utterly at his mercy and in no way responsible for her current position.
Clara was too honest, however, to simply blame fate and a wicked pirate.
Throughout the ordeal she had made few genuine attempts to flee her captor. Or even to plead for her release.
And if she were to closely examine her heart, she would admit that when she had briefly assumed her kidnapper might put her in a carriage and send her on her way, she had not felt relief.
Instead she had been struck with the most amazing sense of regret.
Admit it, Clara Dawson, she chided herself. For years you have harbored a renegade dream of being shaken out of your dull existence. And now that you have, you are not at all eager to return to your cottage and the tedious future awaiting you. Especially when that future did not include a certain fascinating, sinfully bewitching gentleman.
Besides which, she acknowledged, there was the small matter of some lunatic desiring her dead.
How could she possibly settle back into her usual routine when she was plagued with the constant fear of Jimmy Blade arriving upon her doorstep?
The distant sound of approaching footsteps had Clara hastily tugging the covers to her chin. She had not seen her captor since she had fallen asleep in his arms. Now she discovered her heart beating at an oddly swift pace.
A wasted effort on the part of her heart, she discovered, as the door was pushed open to reveal the short, square servant who had ridden to London with them the evening before.
Glancing toward the bed, the man set down the modest cases that Clara had last seen strapped to the back of her hired carriage.
“Awake, are you?” he said in abrupt, but not unkind tones.
Clara gave a slow nod. The man looked as if he was well acquainted with violence, but she sensed no danger. If anything, she was forced to concede that he was the sort of man one might desire to have about in times of trouble.
“Where am I?”
“Most call it the Hawk’s Nest. And I am Dillon.”
Hawk’s Nest? Unusual, but somehow perfectly suited to the raven-haired gentleman.
“We are in London?”
“Aye. I suppose you must be hungry?”
Clara offered a rueful smile. It had been hours since her last meal. She had been far too queasy during her journey to even contemplate food. And in truth, she found it difficult to eat anything that came from an unfamiliar kitchen.
Just another one of her many and varied eccentricities.
“Starving,” she admitted.
“Then have a wash and I will fix you a bite.”
Clara delicately cleared her throat. Hostage or not, she possessed the habit of situating her surroundings to suit herself. She had no intention of altering her routine.
“Actually, if you will wait for me to change my clothes I will cook my own breakfast, or luncheon, I suppose I should say,” she stated in firm tones.
A sudden frown marred the battered countenance. “I may not be a bloody French chef, but I shan’t poison you.”
Belatedly realizing she had managed to insult the poor man, Clara offered an apologetic smile.
“Oh, forgive me. I never meant to question your skills in the kitchen, Dillon,” she said in genuine regret. “It is just that I enjoy cooking, especially when I have need to consider a thorny problem. I find it soothes my nerves.”
Dillon continued to frown, but it was obvious he was pleased by her proper apology. Indeed, the pale eyes held a hint of amusement.
“Well, I would say you have your share of thorny problems.”
Clara gave a sudden laugh. “Indeed, I do.”
“The kitchen is downstairs at the back. Just give a call if you have need of anything.”
“Thank you, Dillon.”
With a brusque nod of his head the servant turned to leave the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Once alone Clara lost no time in scurrying from beneath the covers and giving herself a thorough wash. Later she would demand that a bathtub be carried to her room, she promised herself with a grimace. Until then she could only do her best to appear reasonably tidy.
In the minimum of time she had scrubbed herself rosy from head to toe and brushed her hair into a long braid that she tucked into a knot at the base of her neck. It did take a bit longer to open her cases and arrange her handful of belongings in the armoire before pulling on a sensible green gown. She did not know how Dillon had managed to retrieve her property, and she had no intention of inquiring. She was far too relieved to have on a clean gown to care.
At last prepared, she left the chamber and made her way down the narrow flight of stairs.
She paused for a moment upon the landing, considering a swift tour of her temporary abode only to give an unconscious shake of her head. Although the lack of prickling awareness assured her that her kidnapper was nowhere near, she was too hungry to indulge in any immediate prying.
First things first, she told herself briskly. First luncheon and then a spot of snooping.
Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was narrow and without more than the basic necessities. There was, however, a nicely stocked pantry, and rolling up her sleeves, Clara soon found herself happily distracted in the pleasure of kneading dough and slicing vegetables.
Two hours swiftly passed, and removing the apple tarts from the oven, Clara was in the process of determining whether her shepherd’s pie was in need of another few moments when a harsh voice suddenly rasped behind her.
“What the devil are you doing?”
With a startled squeak Clara spun about to glare into the dark, impossibly handsome countenance.
“Sir, you nearly made my heart fail,” she chastised, attempting to keep her gaze focused upon the glittering blue gaze. Not an easy task when she longed to fully appreciate the exotic beauty of his male features and the long raven hair that was pulled to a tail at the nape of his neck. Attired entirely in black with the diamond flashing with cold brilliance upon his ear, he appeared a dangerous, elegant predator. Even more unnerving was the smoldering power that seemed to overwhelm the cramped space. It was rather like being caged with a stalking panther, she inanely concluded. “Do not sneak up on me in such a fashion.”
Not at all put off by her scolding, her captor folded his arms over his chest.
“I asked you a question.”
She gave a pointed glance about the kitchen. “One I assumed needed no reply considering it is perfectly obvious what I am doing.”
“I did not bring you here to play servant. Where the hell . . . blazes is Dillon?”
Clara frowned, not quite certain why he appeared so irate. Of course, she often wondered why those about her seemed irate, she acknowledged with a faint sigh. She possessed a rare talent to annoy without even trying.
“I am not playing servant and I have no notion where Dillon is,” she retorted tartly. “Hopefully he is out purchasing proper beeswax so that he may polish the furniture, which does not seem to have had a good waxing for some time.”
He ignored her pointed comment with his usual arrogance. “If you were hungry, he would have made you something. In fact, I commanded him to do so.”
“He did offer, but I prefer to make my own meals. Cooking is a particular hobby of mine.”
“Hobby? Proper ladies do not consider cooking as a hobby.”
“This proper lady does.”
He continued to glare at her for a long moment until at last his lips began to twitch with that humor she found so disarming.
“Very well, Miss Dawson. I will have to admit I have never smelled anything so delicious coming from the hands of Dillon, although I will throttle you if you dare tell him I said so. He is rather proud of his dubious skills,” he murmured, stepping around her to pull open the oven door. “Ah, shepherd’s pie, my favorite. I hope you intend to share your efforts?”
Clara refused to acknowledge she might be pleased by his obvious flattery. Or to even consider the notion that she might have gone to such effort to impress this wicked pirate.
That would make her . . . well, nothing short of pathetic.
Instead she forced herself to meet the teasing gaze with a stern expression.
“I might be convinced.”
“Ah . . .” A worrisome smile curved his mouth as he straightened and moved toward her. Too late Clara recognized the dangerous glow in his eyes and hastily backed away. She did not halt until she had bumped into the wooden counter, but even then he continued forward until he was nearly pressed against her. Without warning his hands landed on the counter on either side of her hips, effectively trapping her. “What will it take, my kitten?” he husked softly, his gaze slowly sliding over her pale features. “I have several skills of my own. Many of which I would be quite happy to share with you.”
She clenched her hands together, staunchly battling the urge to reach up and test the hardness of his broad chest.
Oh, Clara, you are treading in waters that are far beyond your depth, she warned herself.
However innocent she might be, she could not pretend that the dark, fluttering excitement lodged in the pit of her stomach was anything but sensual awareness.
Unfortunately, she could not seem to stir up the proper sort of dismay for her traitorous reaction.
Wetting her lips, she did her best to ignore the tingling sensations and instead forced herself to concentrate upon more pressing matters.
“I desire to know your name,” she at last demanded.
A raven brow arched. “My name?”
“It is awkward enough to be trapped with a stranger without at least knowing his identity.”
There was a short pause, almost as if he was somehow reluctant to confess his name. Then with a twist of his lips, he gave a resigned shrug.
“Hawksley.”
She frowned, sensing that he was deliberately hiding something from her.
“Is that your true name?”
“Yes.” He shifted until his thighs brushed her own. A magical fire flickered through her blood. “Anything else?”
She swallowed heavily, astonished her skirts did not burst into flames.
“I wish to know why you are interested in Lord Doulton and why you have brought me to London.”
He narrowed his gaze as he blatantly shifted his attention to the uncertain line of her mouth.
“I will agree to reveal a portion of my interest in Lord Doulton,” he conceded slowly, “but only over a very large slice of shepherd’s pie.”
“I will not be fobbed off,” she warned, her voice strangely breathless.
“Or?”
“Or you shall not have one bite of the apple tarts.”
He gave a husky laugh as his dark head swooped down to gently nip at the lobe of her ear. “You do not play entirely fair, Miss Dawson, but I am too hungry to quibble. Allow me to change my coat and I will return.”
His lips stroked the line of her jaw before he was abruptly pulling away and striding from the kitchen.
Still leaning against the cabinet, Clara gasped for air.
Oh . . . my.
Until Hawksley had stormed into her life, she had always presumed that passion was one of those fussy emotions that she could never quite feel as she ought. After all, she had known gentlemen throughout the years. Perhaps not suitors, but friends and acquaintances.
Certainly none of them had managed to make her face flush and her body tremble.
But Hawksley . . .
Well, at least she now knew beyond a shred of doubt that she was more than capable of experiencing desire.
Whether that was a good or bad thing had yet to be decided.