Defiant Captive

by Christina Skye

  After four months at sea this was unparalleled luxury to Alexandra, who had shared a tiny compartment with three other women on the way out from Calcutta.

  With a little sigh she set the candle upon the dresser, tossed down her cane, and sank onto the bed. It seemed forever since she had rested. Wearily, she reached down to remove her half boot and massage her throbbing ankle.

  Blaze and bother! She needed to wash and remove her dusty gray kerseymere gown, but right now she was too weak to think of anything but sleep.

  On the dresser the lone candle began to gutter. She shivered as a cool current crossed her skin. With dreamlike immobility she watched the door to her closet quietly swing open.

  What she saw then swept all other worries from her mind. Her throbbing ankle, her father, and her financial woes — all were forgotten in an instant.

  "Really, Isobel," murmured the tall man who emerged from the closet, "did you think you could elude me so easily?"

  He was immaculate in black evening dress crowned with snowy linen. In the light of the candle Alexandra saw that his hair was thick and dark, the color of mahogany dried and seasoned after days in the harsh tropical sun. His silver-gray eyes were wintry-cold and glittering as he crossed toward the bed where she lay. He towered over her, filling the room with his broad shoulders, claiming all within it by the force of his presence.

  "No — it can't be!" Alexandra whispered. "How did you find me?"

  "It wasn't so difficult, for all the young guttersnipe knew his way about. The limp slowed you down." The man's eyes fell to the tangle of skirts where her ankle lay exposed. "How it must torture you to know your beauty is marred! Or is this simply another of your tricks? No, I see the scars are extensive. A hunting accident?" His tone was deliberate, taunting. "Strange — you were always a bruising rider."

  Fear washed over her. She was being stalked by a madman! How could she make him see reason? "You mean to persist in this villainy? I shall call the landlord then and have the magistrate sent for. This is not the Middle Ages, sir. Such wickedness will not go unnoticed!"

  "Tonight no one will notice anything I choose to do." A cold triumphant smile snaked across his mouth.

  Alexandra's fingers dug into the thin coverlet on the bed. "Stand away from me, blackguard! Have you no shred of honor or decency?"

  The man studied her dispassionately for a moment. "None at all. You have taken them from me too."

  "I'll scream," she said breathlessly. "I'll scream until the whole neighborhood is roused!"

  "Don't waste your breath, Isobel. Samuelson has been handsomely paid to ignore whatever he might see — or hear — this night."

  "I don't believe it!" Alexandra was crushed beneath a suffocating wave of fear. This could not be happening. It must be a nightmare! This was England, after all — not untamed India!

  "Go ahead and scream then," the man taunted. "You'll soon see the truth of what I say."

  The certainty of his eyes hit her like a blow. She would find no one to help her. He had seen to that, too.

  "Cur! Nay, hound of hell itself! Leave me alone, I tell you! I'll go nowhere with you — now or ever!"

  The man stood looking down at her, his strange hooded eyes unreadable against the candlelight from his back. "Quite affecting. You almost persuade me to reconsider, Isobel," he said meditatively. Then his voice hardened. "Almost — but not quite." He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and drew out a small brown bottle. "And now you will be so good as to drink this rather nasty concoction. I assure you, it will make what follows a great deal easier."

  Alexandra's eyes snapped as she looked at the vial, and she crossed her arms mutinously over her chest. "Drink it yourself and be damned!"

  Her captor smiled thinly. "As I appear to be damned already, and have been since the day we met, I shall leave the drinking to you. But I warn you, I'll force you to drink if I have to, and you would find that extremely unpleasant."

  "You wouldn't ..." Alexandra blinked at the merciless determination in his eyes, and her voice trailed off.

  "I see you begin to understand me, madam. That is good. Now, drink," he ordered implacably, holding out the vial.

  "I'll see you in hell first!"

  "That, my dear, is entirely likely. You will still do as I say, however!"

  Alexandra lashed out with her hand to dash the bottle to the floor, but her captor was quicker. He seized her wrist in midair and jerked her to her knees on the bed, wrenching her arm behind her and forcing her hard against his chest.

  "Drink it, damn you! No more tricks!" There was raw anger in his eyes now, and Alexandra tasted the sour bite of fear in her mouth. "Or would you like me to turn that young guttersnipe over to a magistrate? I could have him hung for stealing no more than sixpence, you know," the stranger added jeeringly. "Though it baffles me that you interest yourself in the boy's affairs. Hardly your style, Isobel."

  His fingers tightened suddenly, and Alexandra bit back a moan of pain. The ruthless set to his mouth told her she was cornered. She could not bear to think of what he might do to the boy.

  Cold glass touched her mouth. "No!" she cried angrily, but the man saw his chance and shoved the bottle between her lips and forced her to drain the bitter contents. The spirits burned a fiery path down Alexandra's throat, spurring a spasm of coughing. Finally, the bottle fell away from her lips.

  "Swallow it, my love," he said icily. "There's a good girl."

  "I shall never forgive you for this!"

  The man's eyes did not waver upon hers as the seconds ticked away between them. "In that we are even, my wife."

  "You — you'll pay for this! I promise you that."

  "I've paid already, Jezebel. More than you'll ever know."

  "We shall see about that!" Alexandra cried in a raw voice, struggling against his unyielding grip, but her efforts only brought her closer against the muscled breadth of his chest.

  With the hint of a smile, the stranger brought one knee to the bed and pulled her roughly between his thighs. "This time I will have you, Isobel — not once, but a hundred times. I'll teach you how it feels to crave something without pride or reason. I'll tame you, by God, and when I'm finished, you'll beg me to take you one more time!"

  In growing horror Alexandra heard his savage promise, but somehow his voice was hollow now, drifting to her as if from a great distance.

  Outside the window she noticed dim faces floating in the fog. First her smiling old ayah, then her sober father.

  Last was her pale mother, dead these fifteen years.

  Suddenly Alexandra remembered the little mongoose hidden in her wicker hamper, and she struggled to stand.

  "Rajah!" she called out in a desperate plea. "Please! Rajah—" But the words caught in her throat, and the room began to swirl about her in long, fading shades of gray and black.

  She was dimly aware of a lean face and strong arms gripping her waist. For an eternity she gazed into glittering silver eyes that froze her very soul.

  Then the darkness took her.

  * * * * *

  With a savage curse the Duke of Hawkesworth whipped his straining horses. The team was just about shot, but he meant to make Seaford by daybreak. Before him stretched the Coulsdon downlands, bleached and silent in the light of the full moon. With wild, reckless energy Hawkesworth shot the horses beneath a dense canopy of beech trees that lined the road, their smooth trunks gleaming silver in the moonlight.

  Rajah, she had called him before succumbing to the drug. Hawke cursed again. It had been a joke between them once, when she'd teased him for looking as aloof and ruthless as an Indian despot. Simply one more proof that her story was a lie.

  As if he needed another.

  And yet perhaps where this woman was concerned, he would always be vulnerable. The thought struck a chill into Hawkesworth, and he lashed his team once again.

  Behind the duke the groom grimaced and tightened his precarious hold upon the strap at the boot. His Grace was in a rare ta
king tonight and no mistake — not that Jeffers could blame him. She was a devil from hell, that one, and she would drive any man to recklessness.

  Still, it was not like the duke to take his anger out on his cattle. Nor on his servants, for that matter, which was one of the reasons Jeffers liked him so well, for all he could be a stern taskmaster.

  The road veered sharply east then, and Jeffers gasped as the well-sprung carriage tilted alarmingly. He held his tongue, however. He knew better than to comment when His Grace was in one of his black moods.

  With a sigh Jeffers tightened his grip on the boot and prayed that he would live to see the sunrise.

  Chapter Six

  A few hours later the sun slid from the gray ocean and cast a luminous net of silver toward the chalk cliffs of Seaford and Beachy Head. Along the coast to the east the Seven Sisters slept on, their great white bluffs veiled in clinging dawn mist.

  A single sloop bobbed in Seaford harbor, a sleek beauty whose stern bore the word Sylphe. Almost as soon as the sun appeared, a stout figure emerged from below deck and began briskly laying thick coils of rope in piles to be mended.

  It was not a task Captain Augustus Scott relished. He'd greatly have preferred to weigh anchor and set sail for the Azores or beat south across the Channel to Dieppe.

  With a frown the stocky seaman turned to survey the clouds piling up along the horizon. Fair weather turning nasty, he predicted, relying on the sure instincts of a man thirty years at sea. Aye, there'd be stiff offshore winds and a cold spell before morning.

  With a shrug the captain returned to his monotonous task. Without rope there could be no sailing, he knew full well.

  In the distance faint puffs of white began to smoke along the Sussex coast road from Brighton. It was a carriage traveling fast, the captain thought, his wide brow knitted for a moment. Unusual to have visitors to the sleepy hamlet of Seaford at such an early hour. The captain's nimble fingers continued to work the frayed coils, splicing in new rope to mend the broken sections, but every few minutes he raised his eyes to the northwest, watching the white clouds grow larger.

  Ten minutes later, a neat post chaise and four bowled up the deserted road toward Seaford's lone pier. The captain's brows twitched sharply when he recognized the Duke of Hawkesworth's coat of arms.

  How like His Grace to come tearing hell for leather to the coast after not visiting the Sylphe once in the past year. The man was reckless to a fault, the captain thought disapprovingly.

  Briskly tossing aside the frayed ends of rope, he strode across the deck and along toward the end of the pier. Aye, the Quality had their whims all right — but Captain Scott was paid well to accommodate those of the Duke of Hawkesworth.

  Even before the carriage had plunged to a halt, Jeffers jumped down from the boot and moved to quiet the cattle. The duke's face was lined and tired, but there was a reckless excitement to his step when he sprang down from the box and tossed the ribbons across to his groom, meeting Jeffers's anxious eye with a frown. "You need not stay long, Jeffers — only to unload. Then you may return to the inn we passed over the hill. Make the cattle — and yourself — comfortable."

  But long years in the duke's service had given Jeffers certain privileges. A question was written large on his face, although he dared not speak it aloud.

  "Don't be a mother hen, Jeffers!" Hawke snapped, frowning. "It suits you ill. And as for the question you're champing at the bit to ask — you may expect me when you see me, and not a bloody minute sooner!" With that hard utterance Hawkesworth turned, flung open the carriage door, and disappeared inside.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the coach's interior, the duke studied the limp form twisted uncomfortably on the morocco seat. Reddish-gold hair had escaped the woman's hood and lay in wild disarray around her unnaturally pale face. One hand was curled protectively around the top of the woolen throw that Hawkesworth had tossed over her the night before. Her other hand trailed limply across the edge of the seat.

  Hard to believe she was not the innocent she appeared, Hawke thought cynically. His eyes were hard as he knelt beside his wife and slid his hands beneath her hips and back, pulling her pliant form against his chest.

  Without warning the faint scent of jasmine assailed him, carried on the rising heat of her body. The woman moaned slightly and nestled closer against him, causing Hawke's breath to check sharply. He felt a sudden tightening in his groin and cursed the immediacy of his response. One more proof of her power over him! he thought angrily, fighting the old hunger.

  Stifling a curse, he clutched the woman in his arms and turned to make his way back outside. When he saw the captain on the pier waiting for him, Hawke was thankful that her motionless form covered his arousal.

  "An unexpected visit, as you see, Scott," he said curtly. "My wife is ill and must be taken below immediately. Jeffers will help you with our things, though we haven't many. After that you may see to provisions — one week's worth should do, I imagine. Jeffers will assist you. Then chart a course for" — his hesitation was only momentary — "for the Isle of Wight, I think."

  With that the duke strode past the impassive captain and over the wooden planks onto the lightly rocking sloop. At the top of the passageway he turned, and the look he shot the captain was shuttered and hard. "One last thing. My wife and I are not to be disturbed, Scott — not for any reason. Do you understand me?" The duke's voice was harsh with exhaustion and tension.

  The captain nodded expressionlessly, and a moment later Hawke's feet echoed down the passageway leading below. Captain Scott caught Jeffers's eye and raised an expressive brow; then he bent to help the groom unload a battered wicker hamper from the boot. In their concentration, neither man noticed the small figure dart from the carriage and hide behind a stack of barrels on the dock.

  Below deck the Duke of Hawkesworth stopped before the door at the end of the narrow passage. It was the only door on the vessel that could be locked, he knew. Smiling grimly, he pocketed the key and stepped inside.

  The cabin was smaller than he remembered. A narrow bed stood at one end of the room, flanked by a small wooden chest and a simple armchair. The cabin had served Hawke well enough on his sailing expeditions as a boy. Now he was going sailing again, the duke thought bitterly, but for a very different sort of prey.

  With cool deliberation the tall man kicked the door shut behind him and moved to deposit his sleeping wife onto the bed. He must have given her too much laudanum, Hawke thought, for she should have begun to waken by now. Her thick lashes fluttered like a bronze veil against the pallor of her face, and she turned and burrowed slightly into the pillow, as if searching for a comfort suddenly denied. Unaware of the alluring picture she made, the woman parted her lips and sighed gently.

  Looking at her now, Hawke found it hard to remember her contempt and her taunts — even harder to believe she had seduced one of the young grooms on his estate. Yet this was the woman who had regaled the bewildered servant with a mocking description of her husband's anatomy and skills as a lover!

  Yes, the duke thought coldly, the time had come for a reckoning. His plan was quite simple, really. He would bring her to the ragged edge of passion, stirring her blood until she was mad with wanting him and begging him to finish what he had started.

  Then he would leave her, humiliated and vulnerable — just as she had left him. And that was only the start of what he meant to do to her.

  A vein throbbing in his forehead, he studied the woman on the bed, savoring the confrontation to come. He'd had a great deal of experience in the two years since Isobel had left him — probably too much, the duke thought cynically, remembering only some of the bodies and even fewer of the faces.

  He had learned a great many things in the arms of those pouting flirts, bored wives, and energetic Cyprians. Perhaps the most important was that his endowments and abilities filled no other woman with disgust. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  Why was it, then, that Isobel's mocking laughter contin
ued to haunt him through the long nights?

  The boat rocked rhythmically as the wind fluttered the damask curtains over the open porthole. Dim light filtered over the hard, angular planes of Hawke's face. His eyes were like smoke when he shrugged out of his dust-spattered coat and crossed silently to the bed.

  For some reason, now that the moment of reckoning was at hand, he was curiously hesitant. His jaw flexed below the deeply etched lines of his face as he silently lifted his wife's hands free of the pillow. He did not trust himself to touch the curls of her rich hair, nor the pale curve of her cheek. Especially not the blushing swell of her lips, which rounded in protest when he lifted her against his chest.

  His large hands sought the tiny buttons at the back of her simple gray kerseymere gown, and he wondered once again why she wore so unattractive a garment — she who had always prided herself on being entirely in step with the latest Paris modes.

  With a faint rustle, her gown opened before his impatient fingers, and Hawke pulled the gray material lower to untie the ribbons of her chemise, sliding the tucked white linen away from her whiter skin. He feasted on the pale curve of her exposed shoulder, and then his eyes turned lower, where the full swell of her breasts was offered to him so sweetly. Her nipples taunted him, peach-colored, tightening in the cool damp air.

  She seemed somehow more delicate than the Isobel he had known, her skin more translucent, like poured silk traced with faint blue veins. Perhaps the years apart had changed her, just as they had changed him.

  Then Hawkesworth allowed himself no more time for thinking, for desire snaked through his loins again. He raised her hips to slide the gown and chemise from her languid body, his fingers quick and wary as if moving over hot metal. With hooded eyes he watched her hands clutch at the coverlet, twisting the wool between her fingers as her mouth moved to form restless, silent words.

  When she was totally revealed to him a moment later, Hawkesworth caught his breath at her perfection. By God, she was even more beautiful than he remembered, her waist slimmer and her tapering thighs crowned with auburn curls a shade darker than those that framed her face. He grimaced, cursing the desire that hardened his manhood.