Chapter Seven
Hawksley should no doubt have been shocked by the force of his emotions when he entered the room to find Clara practically in Santos’s arms.
He was not one of those ridiculous buffoons who allowed a woman to toy with his affection or play him for a fool. Indeed, more than one mistress had bemoaned his lack of proper sentimental feelings.
Oddly, however, he was not at all startled by the dark anger that could only be jealousy tensing his muscles. Nor by the urge to march across the room and knock the handsome Santos onto his arse.
From the moment this woman had dropped into his arms he had been plagued by a host of unfamiliar emotions. Why should tonight be any different?
With an effort, Hawksley squashed his more violent urges and conjured his nearly forgotten sense of humor. For all his sins, perhaps he deserved to be undone by a tiny angel who preferred mathematical equations to seduction.
Besides which, it had been his own daft notion to send Santos to his house. Whatever the gentleman’s danger to poor Miss Dawson’s heart, he would protect her with his very life.
Strolling forward, he watched as Santos stepped away from Miss Dawson with a lazy smile.
“Ah, Hawksley. I wish I could claim it is a pleasure to see you,” Santos drawled.
Hawksley smiled, but there was no doubting the warning in his expression. “Am I intruding, old friend?”
“If I say aye will you leave?”
Hawksley came to a halt directly in front of the smuggler. “Not even with a pistol held to my head.”
Santos chuckled. “Something that could be arranged.”
“I see that I shall have to be more specific when I request that you refrain from seducing my guests, Santos.”
“I have not seduced her.” The dark eyes slanted toward the frowning Clara. “Yet.”
Hawksley’s features hardened. He was well aware that Miss Dawson appeared a delectable morsel in that damnable sheer robe and silken curls tumbled about her shoulders. What male would not wish to devour her?
The sooner he rid himself of Santos, the better.
“Miss Dawson, will you excuse us a moment?” he murmured, his gaze never straying from his companion. “I wish to have a word with our guest.”
With a laugh Santos clapped his hand on Hawksley’s stiff shoulder. “I fear you shall have to save your dire threats for later, Hawksley. I have a pressing appointment that I dare not miss.” He captured Miss Dawson’s fingers and lifted them to his lips in a practiced motion. “Until later, meu anjo.”
“Santos,” Hawksley threatened as his friend swept toward the door, “we will finish this conversation.”
The smuggler offered a mocking bow. “I await your convenience with breathless anticipation, old friend.”
Hawksley smiled wryly as Santos vanished in the darkness. As much as it annoyed him to admit it, he possessed a liking for the audacious smuggler. They might come from differing social classes, but they were much alike.
Too much alike, that jealous voice in the back of his mind whispered. At least when it came to a taste for beautiful females.
Turning back to Miss Dawson, he reached out to stroke his hand over her soft curls.
“Santos is a dangerous rake, kitten, and one that will devour you if you do not have a care,” he murmured.
She regarded him with a hint of surprise. “Really, Hawksley, I am not so foolish as to have my head turned by his ridiculous flattery. ’Tis obvious his interest is more in aggravating you than in seducing me.”
As always, Hawksley discovered himself caught off guard by her utter lack of vanity. Was the woman demented?
“By all that is holy, have you never seen yourself in a looking glass, Miss Dawson?” he demanded in exasperation. “You are exquisite. There is not a man who would not wish to seduce you. Myself included.”
She abruptly stepped backward, her hands clutching the folds of her robes together.
“Please, Hawksley, do not tease. It is not at all kind. I am well aware that gentlemen do not find me appealing.”
“Not appealing?”
“One does not reach the great age of six-and-twenty without a suitor and not be aware she is lacking in the sort of attractions men prefer.”
Hawksley felt a flare of fury at the buffoons who had dared to treat her with such disregard. He did not doubt for a moment that she was worth a dozen of them.
“I have heard that every village must have its idiot; it seems that your particular village possesses an epidemic of them,” he growled in annoyance.
She considered a moment before giving a slow shake of her head. “No, ’tis the simple fact that I am . . . not like others.”
“Which is something to be admired.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “You sound like my father.”
“Obviously a wise man.” Of their own violation his hands curled about her shoulders, pulling her close enough for him to feel the enticing heat of her body. He gritted his teeth as his body readily responded. Unlike the fools she was accustomed to, Hawksley was painfully aware of just how desirable she was. “I am certain he must have told you that you are quite special.”
“Oh yes.” Blithely unaware of the tension sizzling in the air, she gave a faint shrug. “He assured me that being intelligent and unique was something to take pride in. Easy enough for him to claim. He enjoyed the life of a recluse.”
He scanned her pale features. “But you did not?”
She paused a long moment before heaving a sigh. “There is nothing pleasant in sitting in your room and listening to the distant sound of a party you were not invited to. Nor knowing the next morning that some hostess would appear to claim that your invitation must have been lost or overlooked.”
He flinched at the unexpected jolt of pain that clutched at his heart.
“I was right. You live in a village of idiots.”
“No, it was not their fault. Or at least, not entirely.”
His brows snapped together. “What the blazes do you mean?”
“You said yourself that I am an eccentric,” she reminded him simply. “I believe you even claimed me a lunatic. And you were not wrong.”
His hands tightened upon her. By gads, he had never intended to hurt her.
“Kitten . . .”
“You were right,” she overrode his soft protest, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight. “I have never managed to mix easily with others. I do not comprehend the jests that others find so amusing, or possess the talent to dazzle gentlemen with my wit. I even manage to annoy the servants who wait upon me.” She gave a faint sigh. “’Tis not that I have not tried to change. I practice before mirrors and even memorize precisely what I should say when at a party. Unfortunately, it never comes out right. I am like a dancer who is always one step out of beat.”
A voice of foreboding whispered in the back of Hawksley’s mind as he shifted his hands to frame her countenance.
Her words had been calmly spoken, her demeanor more of bewilderment than a plea for sympathy, but they managed to stir wounds long forgotten.
He knew what it was to feel unappreciated and unwanted. To struggle to please only to fail despite his best efforts.
It was a vulnerability within him that he kept sternly protected. Not even Fredrick had been allowed to see into his heart. His brother, like everyone, had believed in Hawksley’s magnificent air of wicked disdain.
For once, however, he ignored the prickling unease that warned of impending danger.
He would not pull away from this woman who had so readily laid her heart bare to him.
“Why should you desire to mix with such obvious dolts? You are better served without them,” he assured her gently.
A hint of sadness settled about her. “Perhaps, but I cannot deny that there are times I wish I were not quite so alone.”
Alone. His eyes slid closed. He was intimately familiar with the sensation.
Or he was as a rule.
Rather to his surprise he discovered that he did not feel alone at the moment.
Not with this woman held in his arms.
He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing in deeply of her feminine scent.
“You are not alone now, kitten, you are with me, and I assure you that I possess the good sense to appreciate your fine qualities.”
She slowly tilted back her head to regard him with wide eyes. No doubt at last sensing the awareness thick in the air.
“Hawksley . . .” she breathed.
A shudder wracked through him. He had warned himself a dozen times on his way back to the Hawk’s Nest that he must remember he was a gentleman. Holding a proper lady against her will was scandalous enough without adding her seduction to his sins.
But no amount of honor could halt the searing urge to know her touch, to feel her lips beneath his own.
“Clara . . . my sweet angel . . . I want to taste of you,” he husked, holding her gaze with smoldering need. “Will you allow me?”
She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips, the unwitting motion clenching the muscles of his thighs.
“Taste?”
“I want to kiss you.”
“Oh.” She gave his plea a moment of consideration. “Why?”
Despite his aching urgency Hawksley could not halt a small laugh. “Not everything has a reasonable explanation, Miss Dawson. Indeed, there are some things that should be left a mystery.”
She regarded him with a somber expression. “Such as kisses?”
“Such as kisses.” He stepped until her soft curves were pressed to his own. Still holding her face in his hands, he lowered his head until he was a breath from her lips. “Give me leave, kitten. I will not steal what should be offered freely.”
Her hesitation could not have lasted more than a heartbeat, but to Hawksley it seemed as if it were an eternity.
“Yes,” she at last whispered.
“Yes.”
With a groan he softly touched her lips, fiercely reminding himself she was an innocent. Certainly there was passion enough beneath her proper manner, but she had no experience with the darker desires. He must take care not to startle her with his hunger.
Unfortunately his silent lecture did nothing to prepare him for the satin sweetness of her mouth. Barely sweeping over her lips, he gasped as a flood of gut-wrenching pleasure surged through his body.
Holy hell. He had expected to enjoy her. A lot. The truth had simmered between them from their first glance.
But this . . . this was magic.
Sliding his fingers into her hair he tilted her head back, allowing himself to slowly savor the taste and feel of her. Over and over he kissed her, outlining her lips with the tip of his tongue and nuzzling the corner of her mouth.
In the darkness she gave a low moan, her body arching instinctively closer to the growing hardness of his own. His breath caught as her arms lifted to encircle his neck, and all too easily he allowed himself to forget the danger to be had in her ready capitulation.
Instead his caresses deepened.
Urging her lips apart, he teased her tongue with his and swept his hands gently down the curve of her neck. By gads, this must be heaven, he fuzzily acknowledged, feeling the softness of her warm skin beneath his fingers.
Heaven complete with his own angel.
The robe proved to be a meaningless barrier as he impatiently tugged it open to allow his hands greater freedom to explore her curves. He growled as he encountered the soft thrust of her breasts. They were as sweet and delicate as the rest of her. And utterly perfect.
He cupped them gently, allowing his thumbs to brush over the puckered nipples.
She murmured restlessly against his lips but made no move to pull away. Indeed, her arms tightened about his neck in obvious approval.
Bloody hell, he was on fire. His erection strained painfully against the tight breeches and his hands trembled as if he were an overeager youth rather than a man of sophistication.
More, he needed more. More, more, more.
The word drummed like a litany through his blood as he tore his lips from her mouth and branded an urgent path of kisses down her neck, his arms encircling her waist to raise her off the floor.
With swift strides he was across the room and lowering her onto the narrow sofa. For a breathless moment he simply regarded her with astonishment. In the moonlight her curls shimmered like priceless silver, her features the purest ivory. And most enticing of all were the emerald eyes that shimmered with an invitation as old as time.
Careful to keep from crushing her, he lowered himself on top of her body, giving a groan of satisfaction as his swollen muscles pressed into the curve of her hip.
“Perfect . . . You are so perfect . . .” he muttered, his mouth moving down the line of her collarbone and at last to the softness he craved.
“Hawksley . . .” she breathed in shock as his lips at last closed about the straining tip of her breast.
It was the sound of her voice that made him pause and allowed his niggling conscience to be heard over his pounding heart.
He had only meant to kiss her, it reminded him. Just a taste. Not to take the innocence that did not belong to him.
With a savage curse he battled to gain control of his biting lust. Not an easy task when he knew with a few swift movements he could have himself free of his breeches and thrust deep into her heat.
And it most certainly did not help matters to have her hands clinging to his shoulders as if she possessed not the slightest sense of self-preservation.
What woman with the least amount of wits would trust him to be the one to halt matters before they tumbled beyond control?
A woman utterly unfamiliar with her own passions, a voice reminded him in the back of his mind.
Damn and blast, it was no wonder chivalry had died out.
It was a ghastly business.
Sucking in deep, rasping breaths, Hawksley pressed himself onto his elbows, his body threatening open mutiny.
“Holy hell . . . This is where you are supposed to slap my face and tell me that I go too far, kitten,” he muttered in the thick silence.
Below him she blinked in confusion, as if she had been rudely interrupted from a particularly pleasant dream.
“But I do not wish to slap you. I very much enjoy your kisses.” She stilled, a sudden concern darkening her eyes. “Do I not please you?”
Not please him? A groan was wrenched from his throat. He was so hard he was damn well near to exploding and she asked if she did not please him?
“My God, if you knew precisely how much you please me, you would be locked in your rooms and hidden beneath your bed.”
Pleasantly floating within the warm sensations that shimmered through her body, Clara regarded the man poised above her with a hint of impatience.
Everything had been going along splendidly. At least as far as she had been concerned.
His kisses had been just as glorious as she had suspected they would be. Tender and yet demanding a response she was quite eager to offer.
And as for those hands . . .
Well, she had feared she might actually catch fire as they had so skillfully smoothed over her body.
She had wanted nothing more than for him to continue with his intoxicating seduction. It seemed somehow a crime to halt so abruptly.
“I do not understand, Hawksley,” she whispered. “If I please you, then what is the matter?”
His jaw locked as he took stock of her disappointed expression.
“Do you desire to be my mistress, Miss Dawson?”
She faltered at his blunt question.
“I . . .”
“A few moments more and I will be inside you and any claim to innocence you might possess will be lost forever,” he pressed with grim determination, obviously determined to make her realize that the cost of such pleasure was higher than any respectable lady should be willing to pay.
Unfortunately for him, Clara was not like any other lady. Instead her eyes widened in astonishment.
“You wish to make love to me?”
“Make love to you?” He gave a disbelieving blink, as if he wondered if she was jesting. “I wish to carry you upstairs and drown in your heat. I wish to take you over and over and listen to you scream in pleasure. In truth, if I had my way I would tie you to my bed so that you could never leave. Does that not shock you?”
She met his blazing gaze squarely, still not able to accept such a man could ever find her desirable. For so long she had convinced herself that she must be somehow repulsive to men. It was little wonder her notorious logic was decidedly absent.
“It should, of course,” she conceded ruefully.
“But . . . ?”
“But I discover I must be shameless as well as eccentric. I find your kisses far too thrilling for an innocent maiden.”
His eyes squeezed shut as if he were in actual pain. “Bloody hell, kitten, you shall surely be the death of me.” Sucking in a rasping breath, he fluidly pushed off her willing body and held out an imperious hand. “Come, it is time you were safely tucked in your bed.”
Allowing herself to be lifted to her feet, Clara absently tugged the belt about her robe tighter, her brow furrowed at his abrupt dismissal.
“But you have not yet told me of your meeting,” she reminded him. “Did you discover anything of value?”
“We shall discuss what I learned on the morrow,” he said, his voice strained.
“But I wish to—”
Her words ended in a squeak as he easily reached out to pluck her from the floor and lifted her until they were eye to eye. Only then did she become fully aware of the torment shimmering in the indigo gaze.
“Miss Dawson . . . Clara . . . I beg if you have any compassion for me at all, you will return to your chambers and lock your door.”
“Oh.” Her heart gave a tiny flutter. Perhaps it would be best to speak in the morning, she had to concede. At the moment her thoughts possessed the most disturbing tendency to stray in forbidden directions. Not surprising when pressed against a very handsome, very wicked pirate. “Very well.”