I must not give in! Alexandra thought wildly. Not to this vile, arrogant devil. She might have been bested, but she would never surrender willingly. "You cannot force desire, you cur! All the wealth in the world cannot do that!"
The fingers at her shoulders tightened sharply. Then his tongue surged beneath the lace edge of her gown and freed the rest of her skin to his touch. "Shall we see about that, my dear? How much did Telford offer you — one hundred pounds? Two hundred?"
His lips suckled her tight bud, pulling fiercely until she felt a flash of lightning shoot out from the aching point of contact. "Nothing," she moaned. "I know no Telford."
She felt as much as heard his sharp laughter. "Three hundred, then — and all the pleasure your silken body can take." He did not wait for her answer, and his lips dipped again to their relentless torment.
Fire licked at the edges of her consciousness as she freed one hand from between them. She ran trembling fingers along the shelf at her back. "I don't want your money. And you can take your pleasure and —"
His head lifted, and Alexandra checked herself, afraid that he had discovered her hand was free. Then his full lips curved. "Liar! I can feel the answer in your heartbeat. You feel the fire just as I do." His eyes were cynical, for he did not doubt the outcome. "What is your answer, Miss Mayfield? Do you stay with my wife's brother, or do you throw in your lot with me?"
At that moment Alexandra's fingers closed upon a dust-covered rim of glass. She blinked, and hope surged through her. "My answer, Your Grace?" she repeated, her voice high and unsteady. "Why, that even hawks must sometimes sleep."
The man at her breast had barely raised a questioning brow when a heavy glass bottle crashed down upon his head. He studied her with a stunned look, and Alexandra panicked, afraid that she had not hit him hard enough. She should have known he would have a thicker skull than a normal human being!
And then, very slowly, he sank to his knees and pitched forward against the curve of her belly, where he collapsed with a ragged groan. For a moment Alexandra could not move. She'd done it! Nor had it been so very difficult, she thought exultantly.
The duke's full weight was upon her now, his head resting against her waist, his arms dangling uselessly around her shoulders.
Blaze and bother! What was she supposed to do with the big oaf now?
With a fierce effort she struggled to push away his dead weight. He was heavier than she had expected, and she was panting by the time she maneuvered him into the corner and propped him against the wall.
With a sigh of relief she stood back and wiped the fine haze of sweat from her brow. She felt a prickling on her chest where the brandy had dried to a sticky sheen. Carefully, she stepped over the wreckage of the wine cellars, wincing when her bare feet met fragments of glass.
The long shredded remains of her peignoir billowed out behind her as she ran through the vaulted room to the narrow stairway, and victory sang through her delirious mind like the fiery spirits he had forced upon her.
Her step was light as she sprang up the rough stone stairs and back down the corridor to the Great Hall. Then, at last, the massive oak door was before her.
Stifling a cry of happiness, she sprang forward, twisting the knob sharply. The door opened with a loud metallic squeak, and Alexandra threw caution to the winds. As she scuttled down the front steps through the globes of light cast from the large lanterns on each side of the door, her feet fairly flew in the still night.
The stables loomed up before her in the darkness, a single lantern burning at the open gate. Warily, she crept inside.
Shifting shadows played across the planks of the empty stalls. From somewhere to the rear came a snort, then an answering neigh. Carefully, she made her way across the straw toward the closest stall.
"Kin I help ye, Yer Grace?"
Alexandra jumped and spun about. A dark-haired groom was studying her with a puzzled look. Immediately, she drew herself to her full height and studied him haughtily. For once, she would use her cursed resemblance to the infernal duchess to her own advantage. "Get me my horse," she said curtly.
The servant's eyes flashed across her sheer peignoir for an instant, and then he looked away, his face flooding crimson. "Bluebell?" he asked nervously. "Don't know as I should — that is, the duke didn't say nothing about —"
Alexandra cut him off imperiously. "If you value your position here, you'll get the horse and be quick about it!"
"Yes, Yer Grace," the man mumbled, then lurched off toward the rear of the stables with Alexandra close behind. They stopped before an open stall, where a fine roan mare was contentedly chewing oats. Big brown eyes looked up at Alexandra with interest.
"Leave me," she said icily, desperate to be away, knowing Hawkesworth might appear at any moment.
The groom disappeared, and Alexandra moved closer, running a hand down the mare's silky back, crooning gently. The animal danced skittishly for a moment, then settled down, whistling happily through flaring nostrils as Alexandra stroked her soft neck.
Good, Alexandra told herself. Now all she needed was a bridle. On the far wall she saw a series of wooden pegs hung with bridles, crops, and blankets. Her fingers trembled as she chose a bit, and some instinct made her take down the riding crop that hung nearby before turning back to the docile mare.
"Steady, Bluebell," she whispered. "Let's take a little ride, shall we?"
Anxiously, she picked up a saddle and slung it over the horse. With quick fingers she tugged at the girth, tightening it to fit, feeling the loss of every precious minute.
"Going somewhere, Miss Mayfield? With my horse?"
Alexandra gasped when she heard the angry voice behind her. The animal was between them, her last chance at escape. With raw energy born of desperation, she pulled herself up into the saddle and drove the surprised Bluebell toward the black mouth of the stables, forcing the duke to step back as she passed.
"Not with my horse, damn you!" Hawke's hesitation was only momentary, and his long legs soon closed the gap. Disturbed by the threat in her master's voice, Bluebell slackened her pace. Hawke's fingers caught Alexandra's ankle and tore her from the horse.
"Now at least I shall know how to treat you — like the conniving trollop you are!" His hands circled her fragile wrists, and he jerked her against him, forcing her arms painfully behind her back. "I should have left a guard at your door. A few days without food and water would have made you a more amiable companion."
"Let me go, damn you!" Alexandra struggled vainly against the bite of his cold, iron fingers. "Are you afraid to use the word? 'Tis no companion I am, but your captive. Your prisoner!"
"Prison is such an unpleasant word, Miss Mayfield. Have you any notion of the unspeakable things that go on in a place like Newgate? Life with me, on the other hand, would have certain — compensations. But first—" He studied her appraisingly for a moment, then slung her up over his broad shoulder with appalling ease and stalked toward an empty stall.
"Damn your black heart, let me go!" Alexandra cried fiercely. Dear God, she had been so close to freedom!
"Not until it suits me to. We've some unfinished business, you and I, and now is as good a time as any to settle it."
"I'll get away!" Alexandra shouted as she arched her body and pummelled his back. "You'll never hold me! This is England, not some isolated caliphate in the Hindu Kush. There are laws against such barbarity!"
"On my lands you will find that I am law and rajah, my dear. No one will challenge any order I give. Only you have yet to accept that fact. But I mean to teach you now."
With a smooth ripple of his powerful muscles, Hawke flipped Alexandra forward and tossed her down into a bed of straw lining the freshly cleaned stall. From the floor she looked up at him, contempt, dismay, and fear playing across her features.
Hawke's lips were set in a thin white line. Slowly, he reached to the wall beside him and took down the leather strap that hung there.
Alexandra felt the last drop o
f blood drain from her face. "You wouldn't dare!" she whispered hoarsely.
"Oh, but I would, Alexandra. In fact, in your case it's a positive necessity. I'd be doing my fellow man a disservice if I let you roam about inflicting your willful ways upon an unsuspecting populace." As he spoke, Hawke brought the leather strap down sharply against his open palm.
With a little moan Alexandra jumped up and tried to scale the wooden planks of the stall, desperately searching for a toehold so she could climb out of his reach. But her weight fell suddenly onto her weak ankle, and she swayed and slid back down to the straw.
Then her fingers touched the smooth leather of the riding crop hidden in the folds of her skirt. Frozen, she waited as Hawke closed the distance between them. When he reached for her, she whipped the crop savagely across his face, watching in horrified fascination as a line of blood sprang from the wound.
With a snarl Hawke tore the crop from her trembling fingers, caught her waist, and flung her down in the straw. In the next instant he hauled Alexandra prone across his knees, and she fought his efforts to drag the full skirt of her nightdress above her head. But her flailing feet lashed out in vain.
"Let me go, blackguard!"
For a moment Hawke did not move. Her breasts were crushed against his thighs, and he could feel the firm crests at their center. Her straining hips were smooth and slender, the ivory skin silken to his touch. He went rigid as a savage burst of desire ripped through his groin at the sight of her nakedness.
In spite of everything he wanted her. He wanted to take her there in the straw, to turn her over and feel her long legs wrapped about his waist.
To make her shudder and pant with pleasure as he filled her. Again and again.
"You really are a cripple, aren't you!" she cried, the sound muffled by the straw at her face. "Do you blame that on her too?"
Hawke's face darkened with fury, his desire abruptly forgotten. A moment later, the last fragile vestiges of her gown ripped beneath his angry fingers.
White with shame and rage, Alexandra felt a cold draft play across her buttocks.
Thwack! Without warning the crop snapped down against her tender skin. She bit her lips sharply to keep from crying out, feeling hot tears splash over her cheeks. "Bastard!" she cried angrily, writhing against him. Dimly, she realized it was Hawke's hard hand and not a riding crop that set its burning brand upon her tender flesh.
Somehow this realization made the ignominy ten times worse.
"You'll soon learn to obey me, little hellcat!" Hawke growled.
"Never!" she screamed hoarsely, fighting the burning pain.
Thwack! Hawke delivered another stroke just below the first.
"You may go s-straight to hell, Your Grace!" she choked out.
Half blinded by tears of rage and pain, Alexandra struggled vainly against the iron grip that pinned her against his thighs. "Do you need this to make you feel like a man?" she cried. "You enjoy inflicting pain, don't you? Maybe that's why your wife bolted!"
Suddenly, the duke's thighs went rigid beneath her chest.
Alexandra flinched and tried to twist away from the next blow, but Hawkesworth ruthlessly held her where she was. Her choked sobs echoed in the sudden stillness as the seconds stretched out, but the blow never came.
"Who spoke to you of such things?" Hawke demanded harshly. "Telford?"
She was crying now, sobbing openly. "The Devil take you and your bloody brother-in-law! It doesn't require a monumental intellect to see that you're nothing but a shell of a man."
"Who?" Hawke repeated fiercely, all his suspicions aroused. He turned her across his rigid thighs until her tear-streaked face blazed up at him. "But we both know that only one man would twist the truth so," he growled. "And that's Telford, of course. But he's no match for me. I bested him once already, when I caught him selling secrets to the French, and he'll lose this round as well. Where will that leave you?" Hawke's fingers dug into Alexandra's forearms. "Here with me, that's where, and you'll soon find I'm very much a man, Alexandra — all bone and fire and hungry muscle."
Alexandra's laugh was half wild. "I'd like to grind those bones to dust!"
"That, my dear, might be a highly pleasurable experience, judging by the success of the last time I bedded you." His eyes glittered as they studied the dim streaks on her cheeks. "Perhaps even now you carry my child," he said, an odd tension in his voice.
Alexandra's face creased in ludicrous dismay as she grasped his meaning. Her wet lashes glistened against eyes as angry as the Channel in a spring storm. She was too furious to speak; she could have done no more than croak at that instant.
Unconsciously, her fingers stole to her slim waist and fanned out over the gentle hollow of her stomach. "Impossible!" she whispered.
"Not at all," the duke answered. "Unlikely perhaps, but hardly impossible."
She had never considered this. Right now she might be carrying a child — the Duke of Hawkesworth's child.
His bastard, rather.
"You'll get no bastard child from me, Your Bloody Grace!" she cried when she could once again speak.
A vein drummed at Hawke's temple, and his hand bit into her fingers. Suddenly, he gripped Alexandra's wrists and pulled her up until her face was only inches from his. "But perhaps that is precisely Telford's intention. Perhaps he means to use a child against me."
Alexandra's aquamarine eyes were huge with disbelief. "You think that — you believe—" she stammered, then continued in a ragged voice. "Know this then. If I do carry a child, the babe will be mine and mine alone. Neither you nor anyone else will ever take it from me to play your infernal games!"
She was telling the truth, Hawke realized, mesmerized by the sea-green fury of her eyes. "I hope you mean that," he said finally. "It will go hard with you if I find you've lied." His grip on her wrists loosened fractionally.
"Remember what I have said, as well. My child — if I carry a child — is mine alone, not your chattel!"
"Our child, Alexandra. Yours and mine." A strange light pierced the changeable silver depths of Hawkesworth's eyes, and his voice dropped to a murmur. "Man must fill woman, planting his seed deep so woman can hold and ripen. Two are needed to create a new life, you know."
"I'm not likely to forget that fact, Your Grace. No matter how hard I try," she added bitterly.
It was then that Alexandra realized Hawke's hands were no longer restraining her. Immediately, she struggled upright in his lap, her face fiery red as she tugged at her tattered garment. She tried to rise, but the flimsy cloth was caught between his thighs. "Release me, knave, so I can return to my cursed prison."
"To stay, or to plot your next escape?"
Alexandra's buttocks were burning. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to escape this relentless scrutiny and tend to the welts rising along her tender skin, but something in his challenge made her answer with angry bravado. "You can't keep me here by force. I'll never rest until I've found a way out!"
Hawke's eyes narrowed, and his mouth curled into a lazy smile. "Is it very uncomfortable?"
Would she ever be able to hide anything from this cursed man? Alexandra wondered. "Not nearly as uncomfortable as the slash upon your face, I hope."
Slowly, Hawke's fingers traced the fiery welt that ran from his temple to his chin.
Alexandra watched the silver fire playing in his eyes, a vein beating wildly at her neck.
"You might have been killed," he said roughly. "We're not so far from the chalk cliffs. In the dark you and Bluebell might have fallen to your deaths, with no one the wiser."
"That might have suited you very well."
"On the contrary. I have much better uses for you." His eyes glittering, Hawke freed the lacy fabric from beneath his thigh, and immediately Alexandra pulled away. With lazy grace he rose and extended his arm to her. "Now you will accompany me back to the house — before we give the servants anything more to gossip about."
"What choice have I?"
&nbs
p; "None at all." His hands circled her wrists, pulling her to her feet. " 'Tis a dangerous game, Alexandra, and you're far out of your depths. I don't know what Telford has promised you, but you'll find it a bad bargain. My offer is infinitely better."
Not for the first time, Alexandra felt as if she'd stumbled into a nightmare. "Offer bedamned! As always, you twist everything to suit your suspicious imagination! I want nothing to do with either of you, nor this infernal game you play."
Hawke's fingers tightened on her wrists. "Then tell me your real name."
"I — I've already told you." Even now, some instinct warned her against revealing her identity. "Alexandra Mayfield."
"Which leaves us precisely where we started," Hawke said flatly.
Chapter Sixteen
That night a footman stood guard outside Alexandra's room. She could see his tall shadow flickering beneath the door in the dim light of the hall lantern. The sight filled her with fury, and once again she cursed her fate as a pawn in a cold-blooded game between two madmen.
Finally she dozed. She slept fitfully and awoke more tired than when she had first closed her eyes. There was no sound from the adjoining room, and the pale light behind the armoire told her the sun had barely crossed the horizon.
She went to wash her face in the basin on the dressing table, eyeing her shredded, wine-stained nightgown with disgust.
The morning passed slowly. Lily brought a breakfast tray and returned later with an elegantly trimmed gown of sapphire muslin, presented with the duke's compliments.
Alexandra dressed slowly, and the long minutes began to grate upon her nerves. A footman brought a luncheon tray, and she ate mechanically. A housemaid came to change the linens.
Sometime later, she heard the sound of approaching horses. Looking through the crack behind the armoire, Alexandra saw the duke standing below on the drive hailing a pair of mounted riders. One man was rather tall and sallow faced; his companion was quite astonishingly beautiful, Alexandra noted, and gave every appearance of being fascinated by her host.
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