Chapter Two
It was not until she had hired the carriage and was well on her way to London that Miss Clara Dawson discovered she was not at all suited to long journeys.
The swaying carriage made her queasy and the relentless jolting made her head ache. Even worse, her unsettled stomach made it impossible for her to read or work upon her needlework or even count the blasted cows as they passed. She was a prisoner in the cramped confines with nothing to occupy her restless mind.
Who could have known?
Having lived in a small village for all her six-and-twenty years, she had always used her God-given feet to take her about. And the few times she had resorted to accepting a ride by a kindly neighbor, the distance had been short enough to avoid any hint of her weakness.
Besides which, it was not as if she were one of those timid, easily distressed creatures who was overset by every situation that might come her way. While she might barely stand five foot and weigh little more than a feather, she was a sturdy, sensible woman.
Most would say far too sensible. Or even annoyingly sensible, despite the fact she’d had no choice in the matter. When a woman was left on her own at the tender age of seventeen with a mere pittance and no family to speak of, she either learned to confront life squarely or she found herself begging in the streets.
Still, it was perhaps best that she had not realized just how great her discomfort would be, she acknowledged as another pain shot through her head. As much as she wished to ease the curiosity that had plagued her for the past fortnight, she sensed she would have been far less likely to leap into this carriage and head off so willy-nilly if she had known the nasty surprise awaiting her.
At least she had the comfort of knowing they were less than two hours from London, she told herself. And the small sherry she had enjoyed at the posting inn had helped to ease her heaving stomach. She was bound and determined to survive.
It was, after all, what she did best.
Chancing a brief glance out the window, she noted the sun was slanted toward dusk. It would be dark by the time she arrived at the hotel, but at least the weather was cooperating. After a week of endless rain, the sun had struggled through the clouds to chase away the gloom. She would not be forced to make her first appearance in London wet and bedraggled.
Queasy and weary was bad enough.
Leaning against the worn leather squabs, she resisted the urge to close her eyes. The swaying was horrid enough with her eyes open; with her eyes closed it was unbearable. She barely dared to blink.
They slowed as the plodding team approached a curve, then oddly she felt them being pulled to an abrupt halt.
Clara frowned. There was no toll gate along this road that she was aware of. And certainly there was no traffic to impede their progress.
Had something gone wrong with the carriage? They had hit enough bumps to rattle any number of vital things loose.
Not one to sit about and await problems to be smoothed away, Clara reached up to push open the hatch in the top of the carriage.
“Driver, why have we stopped?” she demanded.
There was a muffled curse from above. “Hold, miss.”
Clara’s frown deepened. “What is happening?”
“Trouble.”
Not at all satisfied with the vague response, Clara reached out to push open the door. If the driver had halted to have another drink from his flask, she would have his hide. Her hand, however, found nothing but empty air as the door was wrenched open without warning.
Nearly tumbling off her seat, Clara was forced to steady herself before she could glance up to regard the large form standing in the opening.
When she did her heart momentarily halted.
Even with his tall form cloaked in a caped driving coat and a hat covering his hair, there was no doubting the stranger was very large, and very, very male.
Precisely the sort of ruffian a woman did not desire to encounter on a lonely stretch of road.
Her mouth went dry and her blood rushed, but she refused to give in to panic. That would surely accomplish nothing. Instead she sternly forced herself to view the man with the logic she had learned from her father.
Breathing deeply, she first studied the coat that was frayed but clearly of good quality. Good enough quality to boast gold buttons and an exquisite tailoring that fit the muscular form to perfection. Not the sort of thing one would expect a highwayman to possess.
Her gaze lifted higher, taking note of the dashing diamond earring and then the hard-edged features of his countenance. He was handsome, she easily decided. By far the most handsome man she had ever encountered. But there was a grimness in his expression that halted him just short of beautiful.
At last she forced herself to meet his glittering gaze.
Her heart once again halted, only on this occasion she could not blame it on fear.
Sweet heavens, she had never seen such astonishing eyes. The blue was as rich as the finest velvet and rimmed in black, while the startling long lashes framed them with artistic perfection.
They were the sort of eyes that women would kill for, but there was nothing effeminate about them. Instead they shimmered with a cold intelligence that sent a small chill down her spine.
Clara gave a vague shake of her head at her ridiculous reaction.
If her inspection had told her nothing else, she did know for a certainty that this man was no mere highwayman.
From the top of his beaver hat to the tips of his polished Hessians, he spoke of noble breeding.
No doubt a bored aristocrat out on a lark, she told herself with a disgusted sigh. She had heard that many gentlemen who considered themselves Tulips enjoyed daring one another to the most outrageous antics. Including holding up carriages and demanding some sort of token for proof of their foolish courage.
Waiting for him to finish his survey of her slender form, Clara folded her hands neatly in her lap.
“Sir, may I inquire what this is about?”
“Get out of the carriage.”
Clara blinked. Not so much at the soft purr of his voice, although it was deliciously compelling, but more at his astonishing demand.
It was one thing to pinch a fan or even a kiss. It was quite another to haul her off to prove his daring.
“Get out of the carriage? Why should I?”
A raven brow flicked upward. “For the simple reason that I told you to do so.”
Clara decided his voice was not so nice after all. “I did hear you. Despite my advanced years, I am not deaf.”
He paused, as if caught off guard by her response. Not surprising. Clara had learned long ago that she tended to catch others off guard.
Not in a good way.
But in an aggravating, longing to gag her sort of way.
“If you heard me, then why are you still sitting there?” he growled.
“I am not about to be ordered about by a perfect stranger.”
His eyes narrowed and he slowly reached into the pocket of his coat to withdraw a pistol. With an ease that was not at all reassuring, he pointed it at her heart.
“Perhaps this will convince you?”
No doubt it should have, but Clara was busy noticing that the pistol was much like the rest of him. Sleek, lethal, and very expensive.
Just the sort of thing a dandy on a childish lark would carry.
“That is a very fine dueling pistol.” She leaned forward to inspect the detailed workmanship. “I notice it even possesses ivory inlay. No doubt you had it crafted at Manton’s?”
The faux highwayman gave a muffled cough. “Bloody hell, have you been drinking?”
“Of course not . . . Oh, that is not entirely true.” She gave an unconscious grimace. “I did have a small sherry at the posting inn. I possess a very sturdy constitution, but I have discovered that it does not care for long journeys. My stomach becomes very queasy.”
“I . . . see.” The eyes held a growing hint of bemusement. As if the man was not quite certain what to make of her. “You are not about to sick up, are you?”
Clara gave the matter serious contemplation before offering a shake of her head.
“No, I do not believe so. Not at the moment, in any event.”
“I cannot express the depth of my relief.” He took a step back. “Now, I am in something of a hurry, so I must insist that you step out of the carriage.”
“You still have not explained who you are or why you wish me to leave this carriage.”
“And I have no intention of doing so.” An edge had entered that honey voice as he gave a wave of the gun. “Get out or I will be forced to use this.”
Clara leaned farther back in her seat. She was not opposed to this man having a bit of fun, but she was tired of this dismal journey and not at all in the mood to play. Especially not if he wished to display her to his cronies like some sort of trophy.
“I do not believe you will pull the trigger.”
The slender fingers tightened on the pistol.
“What?”
“Well, if you truly wanted me dead you would have shot the moment you opened the door. I cannot imagine a cold-blooded murderer seeking to indulge in conversation. Which leads me to presume that you desire to keep me alive.”
“A desire that is waning with every passing moment,” he muttered.
A wry smile touched Clara’s lips. “Not surprising. I tend to have that effect on most people.”
Again there was that startled pause. “You are a most . . . unusual young woman.”
She flicked a pointed glance over his elegant attire. “And you are a most unusual highwayman.”
“One who does not possess time to wrangle with you. Forgive me, but you leave me no choice.”
“What do—” Clara’s words ended in a startled shriek as the stranger reached into the carriage and wrapped an arm about her waist. With surprising ease she discovered herself being hauled from the carriage and slung over the man’s shoulder. “Sir.”
He paid no heed to her protest, not even when she beat her fists upon the broad width of his back. Instead he calmly moved to a massive black stallion and smoothly vaulted into the saddle.
Real panic flared through Clara. Not so much at being kidnapped, since she still did not believe this man intended to harm her, but at the thought of riding over the man’s shoulder. Sweet heavens, she was guaranteed to be violently ill.
As if sensing her distress the stranger tugged her downward, settling her across the hardness of his thighs and clamping a firm arm about her waist.
Clara discovered her new position somewhat of an improvement. At least her head was not dangling downward and her stomach threatening a revolt. But she had to admit she was not entirely pleased with her awareness of the hard muscles that pressed into her legs.
It did not seem entirely respectable to be so conscious of the warm sensations that flushed through her body.
Barely given time to catch a glimpse of the two gentlemen who were seated on horses and pointing guns at her poor driver, she felt the horse taking off with a sharp leap. Clara bit her lip, ridiculously glad of the strong arm that kept her from tumbling onto the ground. She might be furious at being hauled off in such a manner, but falling from the huge beast seemed a somewhat worse fate just at the moment.
In silence they thundered down the narrow lane, and then without warning the man tugged on the reins and they were angling toward the shallow ditch before plunging straight into the trees.
Out of necessity the galloping nightmare was forced to slow its pace, and Clara took her first breath since being hoisted onto the horse.
She had not fallen and been trampled to death.
That had to be a good thing.
As her heart slowed to something approaching bearable, her simmering anger was allowed to resurface. Blast it all, what was this man doing? She was never going to get to London.
“I really must demand that you halt, sir,” she said in the sort of stern tones that frightened even the old squire in her village.
Casually reaching out, her captor knocked aside a twig that threatened to hit her legs.
“Eventually.”
“This is no longer a jest. You will find the law takes a very dim view of kidnapping young ladies.”
He bent his head so that his lips brushed her ear. “Then I must make certain that I am not caught.”
Clara suddenly realized that it was not only the hard muscles beneath her that could cause that peculiar heat to stir within her. The wide chest pressed against her back and the tickle of his soft breath seemed equally capable of accomplishing the same feat.
Perhaps sensing her distraction, he tightened his arm about her waist.
“You have not fainted, have you?”
Clara frowned at the insulting question. “I never faint.”
“You are being remarkably quiet.”
“I am thinking.”
“Gads. A most worrisome notion.”
“I could be screaming,” she reminded him in tart tones.
“True enough,” he agreed, his lips still touching her ear. “Why are you not?”
She turned her head to regard the thicket that surrounded them. In the gathering gloom little could be seen. Nothing beyond trees, brush, and emptiness.
Maybe an inquisitive grouse.
“There is no one about to hear me, and it would only annoy you. I do not believe you are a violent man, but it seems best not to overly provoke you.”
She felt his chest expand, as if he had abruptly caught his breath. Then the faintest hint of laughter whispered through the silent air.
“Do you know, I begin to suspect you are an utter lunatic.”
Clara stiffened as he unwittingly hit a sensitive nerve. Having been called odd, peculiar, and outright daft most of her life, she should perhaps be accustomed to such accusations.
She was not.
“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.”