Defiant Captive

by Christina Skye

  "And I damned well found it, didn't I?"

  Hawke's eyes glittered like beaten silver in the moonlight. "You flaunt yourself in the streets and wonder that you're taken for Haymarket wares? By God, woman, you may count yourself lucky to find yourself with me and not some other sort of man."

  "You have insulted me, threatened me, and kidnapped me, Your Grace. You have drugged me and r-raped me," Alexandra cried, her voice rough with pain and anger. "Do you now try to tell me that I am to blame for your w-wretched behavior? I suppose you consider any unescorted woman fair game."

  Hawke reined in his fury, his silver eyes suddenly narrowing. "But stay," he murmured half to himself, reaching down to grasp her chin in iron fingers. "The likeness is remarkable and must have occasioned comment before this. Perhaps it was you who did the hunting, thinking to turn the resemblance to your advantage. It would be too great a coincidence otherwise."

  Alexandra recoiled from his hard grip. "On the contrary, I have no designs upon you. I don't even know you! My only wish is to leave this place and never to set eyes upon your vile face again."

  "I'm not sure I can allow that," the duke said slowly, an edge to his voice. "You see, I have yet to decide what I am to do with you."

  "Do with me?" Alexandra repeated furiously. "I'm not your chattel to be disposed of at a whim!"

  "Have a care, woman! I'm trying to meet you halfway in this damnable coil. Don't force your advantage."

  "Ad-advantage?" Alexandra repeated wildly, hysteria rising in her voice.

  "Get a hold on yourself, damn it! This is no time for the vapors."

  "Why not?" she cried wildly. "What better time than now?"

  Even as she spoke, Alexandra began to laugh — low, wrenching noises that came from the very edge of sanity.

  Hawke's long fingers dug into her shoulders. "Stop it!" he ordered hoarsely.

  "You're hurting me!" Alexandra blazed back, hate flashing from her stormy eyes. "Or do you enjoy inflicting pain?" she cried, oblivious to the way his jaw tensed at her words, oblivious to the deathly pallor that swept over his face.

  With a sob Alexandra began to rain wild, frenzied blows upon his arms and chest and neck. Her breath grew ragged, and her hands stung, but still she lashed out at him. Strangely, the man beside her did not move but accepted the full fury of her fists, watching her unblinking until the storm of pain and shame had burned itself out of her system.

  At last she fell away from him, sinking to her knees and covering her face with her hands. "Dear God, what will become of me?" she whispered brokenly. "I've nothing now — nothing left at all. Not even my pride." As she spoke, Alexandra rocked back and forth, shivering uncontrollably.

  Only then did Hawke move, rising without a sound to sweep her into his arms and draw his discarded coat around her shaking shoulders. "Hush," he whispered fiercely against the flaming tangle of her hair. The soft scent of jasmine filled his lungs, and the soft hills of her breasts pressed against his chest.

  Abruptly, he felt a sharp stirring in his loins, the fierce onslaught of returning desire. Like a damned randy beast! he thought, cursing himself soundly.

  "You're not alone," he said gruffly, his voice rough with desire. "I've brought this upon you, and I'll make it up to you." His lips brushed her warm fragrant curls, their touch so light that Alexandra did not feel it. The vow Hawke made then was for his own ears only.

  Somehow I must make it up, he told himself grimly.

  Straining against his strong hands, Alexandra clutched at the last tattered remnants of her pride. "No you won't! I'll take nothing from you, do you hear?" she cried, summoning up the angry fire that had carried her through too many tragedies in her short life. "There's nothing you could do anyway," she sobbed. "Even you, the great Duke of Hawkesworth, can never put this to rights! So just go away. Take yourself off to hell!"

  Hawke did not answer her. What could he say when every law of man and nature was on her side?

  His only response was a tightening of the hard mask his face had become.

  * * * * *

  He carried her up to the house, along the great carved stairway and into the bedroom which adjoined his, thankful that his staff had learned to make themselves scarce until summoned. The woman in his arms did not relax against him at all, although Hawke saw that she was near to breaking. When he settled her upon his wife's bed, she turned away immediately, keeping the tense line of her spine between them.

  "If it comforts you, Alexandra," he said, using her name for the first time, "you need not waste your curses. I am more than familiar with the torments of hell. We are old friends, in fact."

  "It does not comfort me," Alexandra answered, her voice no more than a hollow whisper. "My only comfort will be to see you hang." A shallow tremor shook her shoulders.

  Hawke stood up, muttering a curse. He studied the stiff set of her body for long minutes, then turned away. His mouth pressed in a thin line, he pushed the heavy armoire in front of the window, effectively blocking any further escape attempts by that route.

  Even then, Alexandra did not turn.

  In the hours that followed Hawke paced back and forth in his bedroom, listening to her muffled, inchoate sobs from the adjoining room. Once he went to her door, and his hand was on the knob before he could stop himself. At the small metallic click her choking sobs ceased.

  He would be the last thing she wanted now, Hawke realized, walking slowly back and sinking down into the chair that faced the connecting door.

  Sweet Jesus, who was she? Hawke wondered for the hundredth time. How had she come to be wandering the London streets alone? Had she no parents or brothers to protect her? Or was she a different sort of female entirely, a woman who found her employment in the darkened corners and narrow streets?

  Her innocence ruled that out, he conceded reluctantly. But why, then, had she been walking alone at night? No decent female did such a thing. As he thought back over the scene of their first meeting, Hawke's suspicions reawakened.

  Perhaps he'd been meant to discover her in the fog. Perhaps the whole episode had been carefully arranged by someone who knew precisely how to penetrate his defenses.

  Hawke's face darkened as he thought of the only two people who were capable of such calculated treachery.

  And if that was true, what was Alexandra's place in the scheme? Her pain and fear seemed real enough, but perhaps she was a very accomplished actress. Haymarket and Holborn were full of such women, after all — women who would feign any emotion for a price.

  The thought did not shock him as much as it should have, for the Duke of Hawkesworth had long since lost any shred of trust where women were concerned. Had his father's numerous infidelities not been enough to kill his idealism, then the flagrant behavior of his acquaintances among the ton certainly was.

  Five years ago, he had been the target of every matchmaking mama in the land. Dowagers and debutantes had watched him hopefully for the slightest sign of interest, but he had never been more than coolly correct.

  Even today, leg-shackled as he was, a bevy of females waited hopefully for news that his profligate wife had departed this earth. The debutantes were the worst, he thought grimly; some tittered and affected coy familiarity, while others merely smiled vapidly and lapsed into tongue-tied silence. One and all, Hawke had treated them equally — with politeness and total indifference.

  It had been Isobel's own indifference, in fact, that had first attracted him, even more than her beauty and confidence — he was, after all, well used to the company of beautiful and accomplished women. Probably Isobel had planned that as well. She was capable of anything, as Hawke had discovered in the three years they had lived beneath the same roof. Anything that amused her, anything that brought her pleasure.

  Anything, as he had finally learned, that caused pain to another.

  Hawke had learned his lessons in manipulation from a master. And after she left him, he'd continued his studies on his own.

  His flirtations h
ad been carefully reserved for widows and calculating wives in search of discreet amorous diversions — experienced women who understood the rules governing such affaires. He was a careless lover, bestowing expensive baubles on his temporary partners, but never did he offer the slightest sign of tenderness or affection. And if any of his partners showed signs of wishing to make a more lasting connection, Hawkesworth instantly gave her her conge.

  So how had it come about that after all his experience, he had been gulled into thinking the unknown woman in the adjoining room was his wife?

  Long into the night he pondered that question, his fists plunged deep in the pockets of his dressing gown while he paced the dark room.

  The only answer was that he had been meant to do precisely that. That the whole episode had been carefully planned from the very beginning, and that once again he was the dupe of his wife and her treacherous brother.

  Hawke's silver eyes narrowed as they studied the door to the adjoining room. The quiet sobs had subsided, he noted grimly. Probably this Alexandra was right now congratulating herself on a scene well played! Recalling his bitter sense of shame and self-hatred after discovering the evidence of her virginity, Hawke felt his anger begin to build. How she must have enjoyed that!

  Isobel and her brother were not the only ones who could lay traps, he decided, his eyes glittering like ice. The woman in the adjoining room would soon discover that two could play at such games.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Alexandra did not awaken for nearly twenty-four hours. When she finally stirred, the afternoon sun was slanting through heavy crimson curtains. Blinking, she tried to recall where she was.

  She stretched tentatively, wincing at the dull ache in her ankle and the strange tenderness between her thighs. Where a man had lain and forced his entrance ...

  And then anger and savage shame crashed over her.

  She who had overseen a household of one hundred servants, who had been treated as an equal by her father and admired by all who knew her! She who had known only respect from every man she had encountered in India.

  Violated savagely. Taken like a common dockside trollop.

  In cold fury she dragged the heavy coverlet away and sat up in bed. With a sense of disgust she saw faint traces of blood upon her thighs.

  Mistaken for another woman by a madman!

  Ruined! There was a deadly ring of finality about the word.

  Tears glazed Alexandra's eyes as she stood and walked toward the armoire that now blocked the window. Only a crack of glass showed behind the heavy piece of furniture, just enough space for her to make out the elms and oaks scattered against a lawn of piercing green. From the corner of her eye she saw a formal garden laid out with topiary trees and hedges carved in fantastic shapes. At one edge of the drive, set back from the road, was a stone structure that she judged to be the stables.

  Suddenly, Madras seemed a lifetime away.

  At that moment there came a gentle tapping at the door. Alexandra fled back to the bed and drew the coverlet protectively to her neck.

  "Leave me alone!" she cried, dashing hot tears from her eyes.

  The door opened a crack. "Beg pardon, Your Grace. 'Tis only me, Lily."

  To Alexandra's intense relief, her visitor was a young maid carrying soap and towels in one hand and a black lacquer box in the other. Behind her trailed two liveried footmen with a brass tub full of water.

  "His Grace said as how you'd be wishing for a bath, Your Grace," the wide-eyed girl said shyly, dropping a curtsey and then carrying her box to the bed.

  Sensual floral fragrances taunted Alexandra's senses as the girl opened the lacquered box to reveal an assortment of soaps and bath powders in colored-paper packets. "Mrs. Barrows, the housekeeper, makes 'em, Your Grace. Uses our own roses, she does. Jasmine, magnolia, and lily of the valley. Ever so nice, they smell. But you must know all about that, Your Grace." Suddenly, the girl blushed crimson, dropped a curtsey, and scrambled from the room.

  Which was just as well, seeing that Alexandra had neither the means nor the energy to explain that she was not the Duchess of Hawkesworth and that she had been kidnapped. The girl would certainly find that incredible, Alexandra thought grimly.

  No, it was easier to stare into the clear water and allow the swirling steam to scour her mind free of painful memories. With a curious, trancelike motion Alexandra lifted a pale yellow packet rich with the scent of lilies. Slowly she slit the paper and emptied its contents into the steaming water, dispersing the powder and crushed petals into a fine froth with her fingers, letting the fresh steam envelop her.

  With a sigh, she slipped the green ribbon from the paper packet and twisted it around her hair, gathering the red-gold strands high upon her head. A moment later, she stepped into the tub, armed with a little brush to scrub away the dirt ground into her feet.

  If only the other stains could be erased so easily! she thought bitterly as the water slid across her tired limbs, hot and soothing. She rested her neck against the rim of the tub and filled her lungs with perfumed mist.

  She had almost forgotten such comfort. The last time she had had a bath in anything approaching such luxury had been almost two years ago, at Government House.

  Remember who's providing it, she reminded herself.

  Her eyelids fluttered against her gently flushed cheeks. A tendril of burnished hair escaped from her hastily tied bow and coiled down across her shoulder into the gently steaming water.

  Somewhere down the hall she heard Lily speaking quietly with Mrs. Barrows. From the wall behind her came a scratching sound.

  Rodents at Hawkeswish? The thought gave her infinite pleasure. Perhaps there were creatures beyond even the grand seigneur's control.

  Farther down the hall, a door closed with a snap and footsteps padded along the corridor. With a deep sigh Alexandra blanked out the turmoil and confusion of the day before and let herself dream for a moment that she was back at Government House.

  She imagined the gentle click of the punkah wallah fanning thick, humid air rich with ginger. She almost expected to see her smiling ayah emerge through the door, laden with back brush, gauzy wrapper, teapot, and tantalizing gossip about who had lately been seen with whom, doing what.

  "Will you be needing anything else, Your Grace?"

  Alexandra's eyes flashed open. The shy maid had returned, mindful of her duty. "Only that you cease to address me as Your Grace."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "I am not Your Grace," Alexandra said furiously, sloshing water out of the tub onto the floor.

  "Then how shall I address you, Your Grace? I mean —"

  "Yes, what else would you have the girl call you?"

  Alexandra's eyes hardened when she saw the duke settle his broad shoulders against the doorframe. Immediately, she lurched lower, dashing a wall of water onto the carpeted floor. "Miss M—" she started to say, but something held her back. "Anything but Your Grace," she snapped, "for I'm not your infernal wife, as you well know!"

  "Leave us," Hawke ordered the startled maid.

  "Stay, Lily!" Alexandra countered desperately.

  For long moments the young girl stood poised between the two antagonists, her eyes wide and uncertain. Then the force of habit won out. "Yes, Y-your Grace," she stammered, dropping a curtsey to Hawkesworth and turning to flee the room.

  "The Devil fly away with you!" Alexandra snapped. "Do you always get what you want?"

  He did not move from the doorway. "Invariably. In everything that counts." There was a dangerous edge to his voice that disappeared as quickly as it had come. He inhaled slightly. "I see you chose lilies. Isobel wore a heavier fragrance, I'm sorry to say. The roses soon began to grow cloying."

  In her anger Alexandra had almost forgotten that she crouched before him naked in the bath. With a scowl she tightened her arms about her chest and slid to the bottom of the shallow tub. "I did not make the selection to please you. Now leave me alone."

  She was good, Hawke thought co
ldly. Very good. "And if I don't?"

  "I'll ring for Lily," she said. "For all your rakish ways I doubt you'd care for the staff to know what happened last night. Even your blackened reputation would suffer if your villainy became known. And such things have a way of getting about — perhaps even back to your son. Abduction and rape are such unpleasant words. I don't think you'd care for them to be used in connection with you."

  The expression in Hawkesworth's eyes hardened. "Could that possibly be a threat, my dear?" His voice was fine and sharp. "If so, then I will give you some advice. Never threaten me. You'll find that I make a very bad adversary, especially where the well-being of my son is concerned."

  Alexandra stiffened before the cold fury of his gaze. He'd make a bad enemy, would he? Well, he would find the same held true of her! she vowed silently, meeting his gaze with cool disdain. "As you see, I am terrified, Your Grace."

  "I see only that you have regained your spirit. A remarkable recovery, considering how bereft you were last night," Hawke said mockingly. "Or perhaps a fine performance. I also see that naked, you are every bit as delectable as I remembered, Miss — what is your name, anyway? In all the high drama last night, we never got around to introductions."

  Alexandra's eyes fairly crackled with anger. "None of your cursed business!"

  "Shall I come and shake it out of you? I will, you know."

  Alexandra felt his fury wash across her. "M-Mayfield," she lied. "When are you going to let me go?"

  Slowly, like a wolf stalking his prey, the duke crossed the room. "Odd, the name little suits you," he said silkily.

  Alexandra stiffened, feeling his finger touch an errant curl and pull it from the water, twisting and tucking it up into the knot at her crown.

  "As for when I mean to release you, the answer is not for a while yet."

  Furious, Alexandra lurched upright in the steaming water. "You bloody —"

  "Yes, Miss Mayfield," he said, "quite delectable."

  The sight of the duke's eyes running over the exposed curves of her breasts and the top of her knees sent Alexandra swirling back down in the tub. "Why not, you bloody bastard? Aren't you content with what you've done to me already?"