Defiant Captive

by Christina Skye

  Solid mahogany met rock-hard muscle, and a raw curse split the air. With punishing fingers the man wrenched the weapon from Alexandra's hand and tossed the cane to the cobbles at her feet without taking his eyes from her pale face. "Ever one with a trick, aren't you, my little love?"

  His eyes were cold and clear as the Himalayan snows by moonlight, Alexandra thought in growing panic. His angular face burned with implacable hatred, along with some other emotion she could not immediately recognize.

  "Come, Isobel, you commence to bore me. Or have you forgotten your skill at more effective forms of persuasion?" His voice thickened as his hand slid beneath Alexandra's hair, tightened against her neck, and forced her head closer. She fancied she saw her own frightened image reflected within his silver eyes as his face approached relentlessly.

  "Let us see what else may have changed between us, my faithless wanton wife!"

  Alexandra's protest was ruthlessly cut off as the tall man trapped her lips beneath his. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the unyielding mastery of his touch when his mouth claimed her. He took without asking, forcing and shaping her lips with demanding strokes. Alexandra caught a little cry in her throat as his teeth crushed down against her mouth, bruising her lips. Almost immediately, her captor relaxed his assault, gentling his touch and opening her lips with his tongue.

  In a daze Alexandra felt him invade her mouth, taking undreamed-of liberties. Exhausted and disoriented, she felt the ground begin to spin beneath her, and she swayed against him. Had he not anchored her waist with his strong arms, she would have fallen.

  "I see your memory is as acute as mine, my dear." A low mocking laugh thundered along the broad wall of his chest. "I assure you, I have not forgotten anything about you, though I've fought the memories these two years."

  His hands slid lower, kneading her hips as he molded her intimately against the length of his taut body. With an angry cry Alexandra tightened her fists against his chest and fought to push him away, but she was no match for his muscled breadth.

  His smile as he looked down at her was mocking. "But you were ever a reckless lover and knew precisely how to inflame me. How unfortunate that you were unable to confine your charms to your husband! It dampens a man's ardor when he knows how many other fellows have shared the same space, you know."

  "How dare you!" Alexandra gasped. She lashed out furiously at his face, but he merely captured her small fists within his hard grip. Her sense of helplessness fueled her anger. "Unhand me, I say! You compound your error, sir, and offend all propriety in this assault!"

  Her captor merely laughed hollowly. "A stirring performance, my dear! I applaud you. But it strains logic to hear you, of all people, speak of propriety. I would have accepted a great deal, you know," he added slowly. "But your last escapade at Vauxhall was beyond swallowing, even by me. It was quite a sight, I may tell you — dampened silk over rouged nipples. You nearly caused a riot. If you meant to provoke me by flaunting yourself as a Cyprian, you were certainly successful, although perhaps not precisely as you had planned." His voice hardened. "I think I would have beaten you that night — yes, beaten you and enjoyed every second of it. You were clever to run off with Granville when you did."

  Caught against his chest, Alexandra felt him shudder suddenly — whether at his memories or at the admission he had just made, she could not say. She only knew that his hands tightened brutally around her fists until she was fighting waves of pain. How could she make him see reason?

  Her captor seemed to slip into a haze of painful memories. "How long did it take for him to tire of your tricks? How many other 'protectors' have you known since he cast you off? Perhaps it would have been better if you had died, after all."

  The man's voice broke slightly, and Alexandra saw him struggle for control. Drawing a jerky breath, she sought words to convince him of the terrible error he made. When finally she found her voice, her words were slow and clear, as if she were speaking to a small child. "You must believe me, sir, when I tell you that I am not who you take me to be. I am newly arrived in London. I have never laid eyes on you until this moment. I am not your wife, though from what you describe, I can only think —"

  He cut her off impatiently. "You persist in this weak story then? Really, my dear, you disappoint me! How could there be two such as you on this earth? Two women with hair like a flame of red and gold, eyes such an odd shade of aquamarine. And skin" — his thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, where her pulse throbbed wildly — "skin that flows like silk beneath a man's hungry fingers ..." His words trailed off into a harsh laugh. "You may preen yourself, my dear. Your hair is even more beautiful than I remembered. You have heightened its color, I daresay. Your skill is consummate. I think your charms would test the resolution of a saint. But I must not let myself off so easily, for I chose to override my own scruples and reason to have you." Implacably, he drew her wrists behind her, his voice hardening. "That is why I mean to break your hold upon me once and for all. You were the poison, by God, and now you shall be the cure! I'll have my fill of you this night, and then I'll be free of you forever!"

  Alexandra studied the frozen determination in the man's eyes, the implacable set to his jaw. She felt the blood drain from her face then, for she saw there would be no reasoning with such a madman.

  "Quite," he announced with a low jeering laugh.

  Her mind reeling, she looked about for some avenue of escape. They were almost within the shadows at the corner of the square now, before an unlit townhouse. From the corner of her eyes she saw a shadow separate itself from the blackness beneath the steps and creep toward her. After an infinitesimal hesitation the figure drew closer and reached out stealthily in search of the gentleman's purse.

  Alexandra saw no more, for her strong captor pulled her against his hard body to claim her swollen lips once again. She knew she must act quickly or all would be lost. With a little sob she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down hard.

  Sparks of fury shot through his eyes as pain had its immediate effect. She released his lip, and he jerked away, cursing as he probed gingerly at his mouth. The next instant, he whirled about with a surprised look on his face.

  But he was too late. The young thief had already found the man's gold and was melting back into the fog.

  Quickly, Alexandra bent to retrieve her cane. She breathed a silent prayer and swung with all her might behind the man's knees as he looked after the retreating figure.

  Her aim was true. As she had hoped, her captor's legs buckled, allowing her to rip free of his grasp.

  "You little bitch!"

  She did not stop to wonder at the silence that followed his snarling epithet. Her heart pounding, she plunged across the square; only at the last moment did she see a team of prancing restless bays take the corner at a reckless pace.

  As she ran in stark panic across the team's path, the cries of the horses and the coachman's fluent curses rang in her ears. On past a noisy band of exquisites she ran, closing her mind to their lewd suggestions for a more intimate form of exercise. When they saw her limping gait, however, their calls died on their lips and they drew back in distaste.

  Alexandra did not notice that, for suddenly all her attention was centered on the darkness ahead where several small lanes led from the square.

  She caught a ragged breath and plunged toward the comforting darkness, fully expecting her pursuer to overtake her at any moment. Behind her, a man's voice cracked out a command, and the horses quieted. In the sudden stillness she heard the lilt of a woman's voice, followed by a muffled moan.

  And then she cast herself headlong into the welcome silence of the closest lane and let the darkness swallow her.

  Chapter Three

  Beneath his breath, Hawkesworth cursed long and fluently. First the guttersnipe had made off with his purse, and now Isobel was about to escape too. Hawkesworth watched in horror as her slim, cloaked figure darted unsteadily in front of a line of carriages rounding the squ
are, setting the spirited cattle plunging in her wake.

  By "God, she'd nearly been killed! She must be desperate. Hawkesworth's eyes narrowed upon his wife's retreating form, noting her uneven gait and the way she leaned against the cane clutched to her side.

  What new trick was this?

  "Your Grace, be careful!"

  The pale anxious face of Miss Felicity Wallingford, a Sussex acquaintance, appeared at the window of the coach beside him. Darting a last glance at the limping figure nearing the opposite end of the square, Hawkesworth called out a command to the harried coachman: "Take up the slack to the wheelers, man! I'll handle the leaders!"

  With low coaxing endearments Hawkesworth approached the nervous bays at the head of the team. His movements were slow and fluid, his voice rhythmic as he drew along the inside bay.

  Slowly, he raised his arm, grasped the harness, and slid a hand gently along the horse's sweating flanks. "Ho, my beauty. Steady on."

  As he crooned, the beast settled down to a skittish dance, and the coachman soon had the other animals in hand. Just then, Hawkesworth heard a moan from within the carriage, followed by a muffled thump.

  "Your Grace, I beg you —"

  A footman was already lowering the carriage steps when the duke was hailed by Lady Wallingford. Reluctantly Hawke drew closer, for to turn away now would have given grave insult. His lips curled when he saw Miss Wallingford lying prone against the seat, her plump mama fanning her anxiously with an ostrich plume. Although keenly conscious that he was losing precious minutes, Hawke had no choice but to climb inside.

  "You've no idea how glad we were to see you, Your Grace!" the old lady gushed, setting the remaining ostrich plumes twitching upon her head. One feather detached itself and drifted down toward the duke's nose, and he wondered if he might sneeze.

  A quick glance at the polished lacquer walls and the etched glass panes showed the duke that Wallingford spared no expense for his family's comfort. Better for him to tend to the safety of his wife and daughter, Hawkesworth thought sourly, than to trade stale stories with his cronies at White's.

  Hearing Miss Wallingford stir gently against the morocco seat, Hawkesworth set his face in a polite mask that revealed no sign of his impatience. "I am pleased to assist you, of course. But as your cattle are now quieted and Miss Wallingford appears to be coming around, I shall take myself off. You'll be wanting privacy to compose yourself, I should imagine."

  Just as he turned to beat a retreat, another feeble moan issued from the prone figure on the seat. Lady Wallingford cast him an anxious look, and Hawkesworth sighed and turned back. He was immediately rewarded with a gentle cry and a stirring of Miss Wallingford's limp figure.

  Anyone who had been privy to Miss Wallingford's alertness and keen scrutiny of the square only moments before would have been surprised by her present torpor. She was careful to conceal her sharp temper from any but the closest of family, however, so that the Duke of Hawkesworth found nothing odd in her behavior. And where the Duke of Hawkesworth was concerned, Miss Felicity Wallingford was never careless.

  "I beg your pardon, Your Grace," she murmured, struggling gracefully to sit up. "You must be thinking me a poor creature indeed. It was simply the sight of the horses plunging about you. I was certain you would be t-trampled as you tried to still them. And you so brave, I'm certain you had not a thought for your own s-safety." Felicity subsided weakly against the seat, as if the exertion had outdone her.

  After a quick, sidelong glance into the square, Hawkesworth leaned forward and assisted her upright. "I'm afraid you exaggerate my bravery, Miss Wallingford."

  "I vow I do not, nor do I know how we can thank you, Your Grace. But it is clear you are wishing to be off, so we must not detain you further. I fear I've lost my taste for company anyway, and Mama will probably wish to return home as well."

  Lady Wallingford studied her daughter blankly for a second, then broke into an energetic assent, her ostrich feathers fluttering dangerously.

  "There is no need to thank me, Miss Wallingford. I am merely happy that I was on hand to assist you. I beg you not to cry off Lady Sherringham's fete, however, for I am sure you'll soon feel more the thing. In my experience there is nothing like a ball to restore a lady's spirits."

  The merest hint of mockery in his drawl was enough to make Miss Wallingford blink suddenly. She fluttered her lashes again to reveal pale eyes glittering with unshed tears. "No, I have never been inordinately fond of balls and fetes. I confess that I find most social occasions deadly dull — with far too much simpering and empty gossip."

  The Duke of Hawkesworth's eyebrows rose in an ironic slant while his full lips curved into the ghost of a smile. "Your opinion makes you something of an original then, Miss Wallingford." He studied her pale face a moment, then glanced to the far end of the square, where he saw a slim shadow melt into the darkness of the nearest lane. "And now I must take my leave. Your coachman has matters well in hand." Almost as an afterthought he added, "My regards to Lady Sherringham."

  Without looking back Hawkesworth made for the carriage door and jumped smoothly to the street. Miss Wallingford bit back a sharp retort, her keen eyes following the duke until he was out of sight.

  "Mama, how can you contrive to be so utterly useless?" she snapped as soon as the Duke of Hawkesworth was out of hearing. Abruptly her gaze narrowed on his broad back. "Who could she be?"

  * * * * *

  Hawkesworth moved briskly but with apparent casualness toward the far end of the square. His silent approach went unnoticed by the laughing group of bucks with whom he had a scant acquaintance.

  As a boy, his strength and courage had earned him the nickname Hawke. As a man, he still moved silently, and he made a bad enemy. Perhaps that was why the boyhood name had stuck.

  On the Peninsula he'd taken down more than one man with his bare hands, sweeping out of the darkness in total silence. But after Isobel left him, he earned a new name — the Black Duke. His reckless indulgence in wine, women, and dueling soon became legendary.

  God help the man who mentioned his wife's name within his hearing!

  "Delightful bit of fluff, except for the limp, eh, Torrington?" he heard a pale young man titter to his stout companion.

  The other fellow, his ample girth encased in a waistcoat rife with puce flowers, shook his head and laughed coarsely. "Taste don't run to cripples, Applegate. Fellow has to draw the line somewhere, don't you know?"

  Hawke frowned. To a woman of his wife's vanity, a limp would be exquisite torture. If it were real, that is — not that Hawke believed it was for a moment. Too well, he knew Isobel was capable of anything — even of feigning a disfigurement — to get what she wanted.

  Whatever that might be.

  The lane where she had disappeared was before him now, its black mouth beckoning silently. Cold damp trails of fog slid past Hawkesworth's face. Damned hard to see anything, but that would work against her as well. So close — he couldn't lose her now.

  Suddenly, he wondered if it wouldn't be better to let her go, to put the whole affair behind him and arrange a divorce, as his friends counseled. God knew he had ample evidence for initiating a bill of divorcement in Parliament. The prime minister, Lord Liverpool, had even suggested it to him once — quite delicately, of course.

  He could begin anew and find a decent woman who would bear the large family he meant to have. Robbie was almost five now, and he needed siblings to bring warmth back into his life. A divorce would mean a scandal, of course, but Hawke would count a scandal a very small price to pay to be rid of Isobel.

  But the real obstacle was Robbie. The brave little fellow hid his pain well, but Hawke knew he missed his mother desperately.

  Isobel had always been clever about the boy, buying his affection with trifling favors and trinkets from her frequent trips to London. Even now, Robbie remembered only her ethereal beauty but was too young to understand her cruelty in leaving two years ago. Hawkesworth hadn't had the heart to tell the
boy the truth but said only that his mother had left to visit a sick relative and could not take him along.

  Hawke's heart twisted as he remembered his son's tear-stained face when he discovered his mother had gone away without saying good-bye. Every morning for months he had asked if his mama would return that day. Gradually, the questions had grown less frequent, but Hawkesworth knew well that his son had not forgotten. Rather, with the sensitivity of youth, the boy had noticed how his questions hurt his father, so he had stopped asking.

  After three months he had given up waiting for his mother's light step upon the stair. After six months he had retreated deep inside himself, leaving only a dim shadow of the gay child he once had been.

  Hawkesworth tensed, hearing a muffled noise in the darkness. Slowly the fog drifted past him, curling through the cold iron rails bordering the lane. Motionless, the duke waited, but no sound came from the corridor of blackness around him.

  A moment later, he began to inch forward, tracing his way along the metal bars. He cursed when his feet met a sprawling pile of vegetable peelings and garbage, and he narrowly avoided falling; a moment later he was assaulted by the stench of an open sewer.

  So much for the glamour of the great metropolis, Hawkesworth thought cynically, trailing his fingers along the cold iron rails at his side.

  Damn her for a conniving heartless bitch! he thought. And yet, when he had first seen Isobel, she had been exquisite, her hair aflame around a face dominated by strange compelling aquamarine eyes. She had spun a potent sensual web, and he — fool that he was — had allowed himself to believe in the magic. He had heard rumors of her irregular past, but he had persuaded himself they were merely the work of spiteful rivals.

  Marriage had dispelled the magic soon enough. Within weeks, Hawkesworth had seen ample evidence of Isobel's ruthlessness and venality. Soon she gave up even hiding her indiscretions.

  For three years Hawke had born the snickers of his contemporaries, even then holding on to hope, captive in the web of sensuality she wove. She had goaded him and betrayed him. And then, after pushing him to the very brink of madness, she'd abandoned him and their son.