Defiant Captive

by Christina Skye

  Probably admiring neighbors who'd heard the great sahib was once more in residence, she thought angrily.

  From the corridor came the sound of voices.

  "This looks like the room," came a man's burly country voice. "Reck'n the whole structure up to the parapet'll have to go. Be a damned nuisance to replace, I kin tell ye."

  Startled, Alexandra turned as a key twisted in the lock. The door opened on a footman, followed by two stocky laborers clad in heavy woolens.

  "Beg pardon, Your Grace, but these gentlemen" — the footman said the word with an audible sniff — "have come to repair the broken parapet. Perhaps you'd care to wait in His Grace's room."

  Alexandra turned and followed the footman into the duke's room, which was dominated by a huge bed hung with brown and gold tester and hangings. Just like the duke, she thought furiously — overblown and overwhelming.

  The room was large and airy, occupying the southwest corner of the house. One entire wall was lit by high mullioned windows that opened onto a sweeping view of the downs, and Alexandra fancied she could make out the glint of the Channel coast far in the distance.

  Mesmerized by the view, Alexandra barely heard the workmen commence their hammering. The footman closed the connecting door, and outside in the hall she heard Lily's quiet voice, followed by the muffled pad of feet down the corridor.

  Several minutes later, the connecting door opened. Assuming it was the footman, Alexandra did not immediately turn.

  "Beg pardon, Yer Grace."

  Alexandra turned to see one of the workmen standing on the threshold, wooden mallet in hand. "Do you require this room as well?" she asked in surprise.

  "No, Yer Grace," the man said. He took a step closer, then another. Suddenly brash, he scanned the low bodice of her sapphire gown, his narrow-set eyes tightening with interest.

  Something about his look made Alexandra shudder. "In that case I suggest you return to your work," she said coldly.

  " 'Tis my work that brings me here now. Aye, 'tis fer ye I've come. Yer Grace," he added, almost as an afterthought.

  Alexandra's eyebrows rose. "For me?"

  "Yer lookin' fer a way out of this pile, so I hear, and I've got it." His eyes flashed once again to the creamy swell of her chest.

  "Out? But how —"

  "No questions. We ain't got much time before that bleedin' footman returns." He crossed the floor quickly, taking her arm and pulling her toward the adjoining room, where a large wooden crate stood open, its heavy wooden lid supported by the second workman.

  "There's yer ticket out o' here," the man beside her said, pushing her toward the door.

  Alexandra's thoughts were whirling wildly. "But — who sent you?"

  "No bleedin' questions, I said!" The narrow-set eyes hardened. "Ye want to get out o' here or not?"

  "Yes, of course, but just tell me —"

  "Then shut up and get in. Ye'll have all the time ye want fer questions once we're away from here."

  Alexandra's spine prickled with uneasiness. She took a step back, noticing that the man's teeth were rotten and foul smelling. Then his hand clamped down hard upon her shoulder, and she felt the rigid outline of a pistol at her back.

  With a muffled curse the man thrust her toward the crate. At the threshold Alexandra lost her footing and swayed unsteadily.

  "Help me," she said weakly, raising her arm to clasp his shoulder for support.

  His black eyes widened speculatively as she fell against his chest. "Wouldn't I like to do just that, lovey. Give ye somethin' to remember me by, wouldn't I just!"

  Ruthlessly, he dragged her across the room. When Alexandra felt the crate at her back, she twisted furiously, knocking his pistol to the floor and kicking it back under the bed. But she had time for no more before thick hands picked her up and flung her into the dark wooden interior.

  With a choking cry Alexandra struggled to rise. An instant later, a dirty hand slammed over her mouth. Twisting wildly, she sank her teeth into the man's fingers.

  "Bloody bitch!" The man's palm crashed down on her cheek, throwing her back against the side of the crate. For a moment blackness closed over her and a strange high-pitched whine rang in her ears. "Get the gag!" A filthy cloth was crammed between her lips and jerked tightly around her neck. "Move again, and I'll hit ye hard enough to set ye sleepin' fer a week!"

  The man's leering face swam before her as she tried weakly to rise. The next moment his mallet crashed into her skull. The cold cruel smile continued to mock her, the last thing she saw before blackness exploded behind her eyes.

  * * * * *

  Sequestered in his study, Hawke pushed aside a pile of papers and spun the large globe beside his desk. Before him lay two envelopes sealed with the Hawkesworth crest. As he turned the globe thoughtfully, one forefinger touched the smooth wood. Finally the globe came to a rest, and the duke looked down and saw his finger upon the green spike of India.

  What was it about her? he wondered. Was the woman what she seemed, or was she part of Telford's cunning maneuvers?

  His letters would soon yield an answer and he would find out everything he needed to know about his beautiful captive — including her real name, for he didn't believe her story for a moment.

  A quiet tapping came at the door, and Davies entered. "Luncheon is served, Your Grace. I trust you will not be disturbed by the noise, for the stonemasons have come to repair the roof, as you ordered."

  Hawke spun the globe idly, strangely unwilling to let go of that small space in the middle of the Indian Ocean. "Masons?" he said absently. "I ordered no masons. When did they arrive?"

  "Not more than twenty minutes ago, Your Grace."

  An instant later, the duke's silver-gray eyes darkened and he leaped across the room toward the gun case. "How many were there?" he demanded sharply.

  "Two, Your Grace," Davies answered, totally bewildered. "But I thought —"

  "Go and get Hardy," the duke interrupted, taking down a pair of Swiss precision target pistols. "Then meet me on the third-floor landing of the servants' stair."

  * * * * *

  Alexandra felt a sickening pain at her temple, followed by a wild lurch of the floor beneath her feet. Something sharp and heavy banged against her shoulders. She tried to scream, but the cloth at her mouth prevented any sound from escaping her raw lips.

  Again and again the crate lurched, and each time, she was dropped with savage pain against the rough wooden slats. She tried to move, but her hands were bound behind her.

  I'm helpless, she thought furiously, trussed like a chicken for slaughter. She pounded the wall of the crate with her feet, but the muffled sound was lost in the deafening crash of the crate being dropped down the steps.

  Boots crunched upon rock, and she knew they had left the stairs and were now upon the drive.

  Where was the damned duke when she needed him?

  The crate tilted sharply. Wood splintered against wood, and suddenly she was jerked upright once more. A horse whinnied somewhere nearby.

  "Let's get out o' here!"

  With a sickening lurch they began to move down the drive. They were in some sort of wagon, Alexandra realized — a farm wagon, judging by the protesting creak of the heavy wooden wheels. The crate shook unpleasantly, the vibration piercing her very bones.

  The air closed in around her, dank and suffocating. Sweat broke out on her brow. She could feel the drops run down her cheeks, but she was powerless to wipe them away.

  "Spring 'em, man!"

  A whip cracked, and the wagon lurched crazily, rumbling across the gravel.

  Too late! Alexandra thought wildly, and felt a strange desire to laugh. What would the proud Hawke say when he discovered his precious hostage gone, stolen from under his nose?

  She tasted hot salty drops upon her lips and knew that they were tears.

  "Stop!" Running feet hammered across the drive, and a pistol exploded somewhere to her left.

  "Please!" she cried, the sound no more th
an a ragged whisper.

  Again a pistol thundered, closer this time.

  "Stop, or I'll put the next ball through your bloody heart!"

  Her own heart lurched as she heard the driver's graphic curse, and a moment later, the brake was thrown, wood grinding in protest against wood.

  Before they even came to a halt, she heard the sickening sound of flesh meeting flesh, followed by a dull, muffled thump. A heartbeat later, strong fingers hammered at the wood above her head.

  "If the woman's hurt, by God, I'll —"

  The crate sprang open. Suddenly, Alexandra was surrounded by light and space and clean, fresh air. Warm bronzed hands removed the cloth at her lips. At first she could not see; then her vision cleared, and she looked up into piercing silver eyes.

  Eyes that burned over her face and twisted body, as if to assure himself that she was alive and unharmed.

  Tormented eyes.

  Alexandra tried to speak, but she was racked with a dry spasm of coughing.

  "Don't talk," the Duke of Hawkesworth said, reaching down to cut the rope at her wrists. "Tie them up, Davies, and lock them in the ice house until the riding officers come. That should cool the bastards off."

  Strong fingers closed upon Alexandra's shoulders, and she felt herself lifted against a broad chest. Warm muscles shifted beneath her cheek, and she heard the muffled hammering of Hawke's heart. A tiny whimper escaped her gritted teeth.

  Without a word he strode across the drive and into the house, carrying her as easily as if she were a child. She felt weightless and mute, as if caught in that numb state between waking and sleep.

  Hawke kicked open the door to her room with his boot and deposited Alexandra into a chair.

  On his lap.

  His long fingers pushed the tangled curls from her face and traced the angry bruise along her cheekbone. "Here — drink this."

  A cold glass touched her numb lips, and something twisted inside her. Something that banished numbness and fear, making this coercion the final blow. "No!" she screamed, twisting away, then fighting in earnest, balling her hands into fists and striking wildly. "I'm sick to death of being ordered about, do you hear? Sick to death of being shut in, of having foul things forced down my throat!" Alexandra was shouting now and tears streamed down her face as she rained frenzied blows across his massive chest, his forearms, his shadowed face. "Most of all, I'm tired of being a pawn in this unspeakable game between you two madmen!"

  Again and again, she pummelled him while he sat motionless beneath her flying fists. He did not try to protect himself. Finally, the long frenzied outburst passed, and Alexandra's choking wrath subsided.

  Her tired, stinging fists slowed their wild flailing. Her heart pounded as she waited, expecting him to pin her hands behind her and force the drink down her throat at any moment.

  Surprisingly, he did not.

  "It was only meant to make you more comfortable." There was a curious tension in Hawke's voice. "You're safe now. I'll force nothing upon you." His voice cut into her whirling thoughts — soothing, coaxing.

  Listlessly, Alexandra let her hands fall to her lap. She turned and stared into smoky eyes alive with molten flecks of silver. Eyes almost tender, just now. His lips twisted, and she wondered suddenly how they would feel against her raw, swollen mouth.

  Hawke's head moved, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. To her infinite fury she felt something very much like a stab of disappointment when he did not.

  Dear God, was she losing her mind?

  Abruptly, strong hands lifted her from his lap and settled her back against the cushions of the chair.

  "I've got to see to those two. Stay here and rest," he ordered gruffly. "I'll send Lily up to stay with you until I return."

  But I don't want Lily.

  Alexandra's haunted eyes followed his broad back as he crossed the room, and she felt a moment of raw terror at his leaving.

  Never! she cried in silent rage. That way lies madness!

  "I don't want Lily," she rasped then. "I don't want you or this house or the safety you promise. I want only my freedom!"

  "I'm afraid that's not possible, Alexandra," Hawke said roughly. "Especially now that Telford knows you're here." He pointed to the window, which framed green rolling lawn and trees beyond. "There's probably someone out there watching us right now, awaiting Telford's next orders. Perhaps he even has a spy here in the house, recruited from among the staff. He's a desperate man, Alexandra, and he'll stop at nothing to destroy me. You must see that by now. I might release you, but he never would, and you'd soon be broken to his will, forged into an instrument of his revenge. Understand this — he would use you against me in any way he could, and his cruelty knows no bounds. Your only protection is to stay here with me."

  "No!" Alexandra cried, for she had begun to glimpse a greater peril, one more dangerous than cruelty at the hands of a stranger. "You can't watch me every second. Someday you'll blunder, and I'll be gone before you notice."

  "Then, my dear," her captor said flatly, "you are a greater fool than I could imagine."

  * * * * *

  Hawke was in a foul mood when he thundered down the stairs. By the time he finished interrogating the two ruffians in the ice house, his fury was white hot.

  As he had feared, the men had no idea who'd paid for their services. Once again, Telford had outmaneuvered him, cleverly concealing any connection with the kidnapping, careful to keep all communication through intermediaries.

  Hawke did not immediately return upstairs, feeling a curious reluctance to face the woman waiting there. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he still wondered if Alexandra had been in league with Telford all along and whether her abduction was part of their plan. Perhaps Telford had sent the two hirelings to bring her back without arousing the duke's suspicions. Perhaps the bastard had meant to bait a trap using Hawke's lovely captive.

  But Hawke did not really believe that. Not anymore. Alexandra's pain and fear had been too real, and the bruise on her cheek was genuine.

  And so at last the arrogant Duke of Hawkesworth was forced to face the fact that sheer coincidence had brought Alexandra Mayfield across his path. From the start she had been an innocent victim of the deadly game of cat and mouse between him and Telford.

  But now the contest was nearing its finish. Telford's funds must be growing low, driving him to take ever greater risks. Yet Hawke knew his old enemy, the man who had already tried twice to kill him, would never stop until he finally succeeded.

  Unless Hawke killed him first.

  * * * * *

  Alexandra was sitting in the wing chair when Lily knocked at the connecting door a few minutes later. The red-haired beauty frowned when she saw a swirl of green silk and white lace draped over the maid's arm.

  "His Grace explained about the misunderstanding," the girl began hesitantly. "Your resemblance to the duchess and all, I mean. Proper frightenin' to think two strangers could look so much alike. He said as how you'd be joinin' him at table and would be needin' these, Your — beg pardon, Miss Mayfield." As she spoke, Lily held up the shimmering length of bottle-green silk.

  Alexandra did not move, still stunned by her encounter with the coarse intruders. If Hawke had come a minute later ... if Davies had not alerted him to the unplanned visitors ...

  A tremor shook her, then she raised her chin defiantly. Damn the lot of them! It would take more than two ruffians to frighten her. And as for the Duke of Hawkesworth, Alexandra would show him that fear was foreign to her nature.

  Through the southern windows the sun flashed upon the gossamer tissue satin in Lily's hands. Thoughtfully, Alexandra reached for the dress, which settled as light as a butterfly's wing against her shoulders. The long sleeves were caught in tight tiers of emerald ribbon from the elbow to the wrist. The dress was stunning, Alexandra thought, but very decollete, caught in a low square neck that looked as if it would expose almost as much as it concealed. There was no question whose dress this wa
s.

  Alexandra stroked the delicate fabric thoughtfully. "Did the duchess often wear dresses so ...?"

  "Skimpy like? This is actually the best of the lot, if you'll pardon me. A bit tame, by her standards. You should o' seen—" The girl halted suddenly, catching her lip in her teeth. She'd be sacked for carrying gossip if she weren't careful.

  "Is there nothing else I might wear?"

  The girl snorted. "You'd like the others even less than this, believe me."

  Reluctantly, Alexandra reached for the chemise, a flimsy confection of white lawn trimmed with row upon row of lace. The low-tucked bodice fitted Alexandra tightly, forcing her bosom unnaturally high. With bated breath she slipped the emerald dress over her head, hearing the rich whisper of silk as it fell.

  The large cheval glass winked back at Alexandra, showing a woman of exquisite beauty, a woman made for a man's pleasure.

  She blushed at the expanse of creamy skin revealed by the low neck. An untoward movement might push her entirely from the dress, she thought in horror. Her brow furrowed, she bent to finger the lace at the bottom of the chemise.

  Soon a length of filmy white trim lay on the bed. Scarcely ten minutes later, thanks to Lily's dexterity with a needle, Alexandra's decolletage was discreetly covered by sheer lace. Lily also discovered a length of embroidered ribbon, which she skillfully wove through Alexandra's hair, hesitantly confiding that this was the first time she had dressed a lady's hair. Her fingers were nimble, however, and the resultant Grecian style suited Alexandra to perfection. The careful disorder of ringlets cascaded upon her shoulders like a warm fire against cool, creamy skin.

  "Oh, miss, you look ever so — so nice," the little maid confided impulsively, before stammering to a halt in confusion.

  "Do you think so, Lily?" Alexandra gave her a warm smile. "The lace has given me a great deal more confidence, I must say."

  "It's funny — you look the very picture of her, only ever so genteel like."