"Dinner is served, Your Grace."
The meal was long and unhurried. From pheasant, saddle of mutton, and ragout with truffles to feather-light souffles, Mrs. Barrows had outdone herself. At some point the dishes began to blur, and Alexandra had to concentrate to respond to the duke's questions. All the while, she did little more than toy with the sumptuous fare, for her appetite had deserted her.
Dessert was simple, in keeping with the duke's custom. There were strawberry meringues and pears steeped in red wine and offered with thick cream. Vaguely, Alexandra wondered how their cook obtained such things out of season.
And always there was an array of wine — Burgundy, hock, and claret. Later came sweet, rich dessert wines — brandy, port, and muscatel. The duke made no demur when Alexandra consumed several glasses. When his arrogant black brows rose in a questioning slant, the effect was only to spur Alexandra on in her determination to show she was not afraid — of him or of herself.
Oh, yes, I shall beat you at this game! Alexandra vowed. She had often taken wine and after-dinner liqueurs with her father, who enjoyed discussing government affairs with his keen-witted daughter.
But Alexandra forgot that she had eaten very little and that she had soon consumed more spirits than she had ever been allowed to consume before.
Across the lamplit table, Hawkesworth frowned. What was the chit about? She'd drained glass after glass, straight through the evening, in answer to his challenge. Did she really think she could remain impervious to so much alcohol?
His eyes narrowed when she smiled up at the liveried footman who was offering her a meringue. The poor man flushed, Hawke noted with grim amusement.
And who would not, faced with that glorious smile, that flawless skin? She was an exquisite flower and no man was safe from her charms, he thought. In her own way she was as dangerous as Isobel.
"And what did you do with the bear, Your Grace?" she demanded then, disturbing his musings.
"I took him to class with me, of course. He was at least the equal of any of the junior scholars. The don, unfortunately, did not see the matter in quite the same light, and I was sent down for the rest of term."
"I trust your father taught you the error of your ways."
"I do not care to remember it, Miss Mayfield, even now. But as he felt it was a useful occasion to begin educating me in estate matters, the affair had a satisfactory conclusion. And now I believe I've bored you with my stories long enough. Come, I have something to show you."
Alexandra was still smiling as she, too, rose from the table. Only somehow, her feet were not where they were supposed to be, and she swayed dizzily. Frowning, she accepted support from the footman behind her.
The duke was at her side in a moment, circling her waist and taking her arm.
"Bother!" she said. "It is too infuriating! Why must my ankle begin to plague me now."
Hawke studied her with concern. "Is the pain considerable?"
"No, it's the clumsiness I detest. But I thank you for your assistance." As she spoke, Alexandra tried to pull away from him. Her heart hammered wildly when he did not immediately release her. "I do not believe I asked for your assistance," she said coldly.
Hawke's fingers tightened.
"You, Miss Mayfield, are foxed," Hawke said softly.
"Don't be ridaculous!" she snapped. "You, sir, are a liar! As well as a black-hearted scoundrel. Now release me this instant!"
"So that you can crack my skull once again? Or perhaps this time you mean to destroy my dining room."
"How soon you revert to your true detestable self!"
"What else do you expect of a rogue?"
"Nothing! Indeed, I infinitely prefer you thus — callous and ill-bred — for it is then so much easier to treat you precisely as you deserve."
The servants had left, and now only the two of them remained in the candlelit room.
"And how is that, Alexandra?" Hawke asked softly.
"As a common criminal."
"Neck stretched before a cheering populace? You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you, little hellcat?"
"Blishfully."
"I can think of a better sort of bliss."
"Not while I live and breathe!" she spat. Realizing she was being drawn inexorably closer, Alexandra twisted and swung wildly at her captor's chest. But her vision was oddly blurred, and suddenly she saw two jeering faces before her instead of one.
Hawke caught her hands with ease and trapped them between their bodies. "You have only begun to live, sweet Alexandra. I could teach you things that would make you forget how to breathe."
"Let me go!" she said unsteadily, caught by the silver flame of his eyes, by the shadows that danced on the chiseled planes of his face.
Still he held her, unwilling to relinquish her. "But then whom would you spar with?"
"A point well taken. 'Twould be difficult to find anyone as odious as you."
"Are you always so blunt?"
"Are you always so frightened by honesty?" she countered. "Men often are, I've discovered. Honesty cost me a great many suitors in India, but I count myself well rid of them. They were interested only in my—" Suddenly her mouth twisted in annoyance. "Blaze and bedamned!"
"In what, my dear? Your enticing body? Your sweet fire?" Hawkesworth could not pull his eyes from her enchanting face. Unconsciously, his grip tightened upon her arm. "If not, they were fools!" he muttered, his voice low and smoky.
The silver glints in his eyes danced crazily, and Alexandra wondered if she had indeed had too much to drink. Her pulse seemed ragged and unsteady, she noted with detachment. "No more than you are!" she retorted, and suddenly forgot what they were arguing about.
"Perhaps I am." Abruptly, the tension of his hands relaxed and, he turned to push her gently toward the door. "Come, Alexandra, I have something to show you."
"More of your indecent prints? No, thank you."
Hawke studied her soberly. "A thing of great beauty, of beauty nearly equal to your own."
"I do not trust you, Your Grace."
"Hawke," he whispered. "Call me Hawke."
"A fitting name for such as you — lean and cruel. A predator."
The dark lock of hair was once more upon his brow, Alexandra noted. She wondered how it would feel against her fingers. There was something about his scent, too, she decided, her brow furrowing in concentration. What was it? Light, spicy soap and old leather. The crisp smell of good wool. The dusky sweetness of wine. Unconsciously, she inhaled again, filling her lungs with the distinctive smell.
"So serious, Miss Mayfield? Are you afraid that under the wine's influence your true feelings will emerge?"
"You would like to see me slash you to ribbons?"
A reluctant chuckle escaped his lips. "Vixen," he said softly.
"Where are you taking me?" Alexandra demanded, disturbed by the dark intimacy of his tone. He was guiding her through a long narrow corridor to a part of the house that she had never visited.
"See for yourself." Hawke pushed open a door and steered her across a dark courtyard.
In the darkness she could see nothing. A door creaked before her, and then a gust of warm, damp air ruffled her hair, carrying the rich scent of flowers.
A moment later, Alexandra caught her breath. She saw before her a high vault of glass lit with hundreds of candles. Everywhere around her was greenery — a mad profusion of trees and plants and flowers.
"The greenhouses," Hawkesworth explained. "We grow our own vegetables here, as well as flowers and trees, so that we have fresh provisions nearly year round. The lilies for your bath were grown here too." He led her down a row of trees to a long workbench covered with tubs of white lilies.
"How lovely!" Alexandra cried, bending down and inhaling their rich fragrance. Suddenly, she felt dizzy. When she straightened, Hawke was close behind her, his warmth penetrating her thin silk dress. Slowly, she turned, as if caught in a dream. Around her the candles began to sway and leap, hundreds becoming thousands.
Her throat was oddly dry. "What — what are you doing?"
"Something I've been wishing to do all evening," Hawke whispered, his voice low and urgent. Very carefully, he caught her flushed cheeks in his hands and smoothed their warmth with his thumbs.
Alexandra meant to fight him — indeed, her small hands curled into balls and rose to his chest. But once there they did not move, for somehow her being split, and suddenly she was two women — one proud and aloof, the other yearning for the touch of his mouth.
With infinite care he pulled her to him, pressing her against his muscled length, allowing her to feel his arousal. "God, how I want you!" he growled as his thumbs slid across her trembling mouth. "The taste of that sweet mouth on mine. The warm weight of your impudent breasts spilling into my hands."
Hawke's eyes glittered as he leaned close and slipped his warm lips over hers, brushing and kneading her mouth, letting her know his strength and his barely contained desire.
Blackguard! a dim voice warned. Slap him! But Alexandra paid no attention. Her thoughts were focused on the velvet texture of his mouth as he parted her lips and teased her with his tongue until she moaned slightly.
Suddenly, the world shifted upon its axis, and she would have fallen had Hawke not caught her in a hard grip.
"You've told me you're honest," he said. "If so, admit how you feel."
Alexandra's eyes were huge and luminous in the glow of the candles. When she spoke, her voice was no more than a whisper. "Foxed, actually." She licked her dry lips and saw his eyes flame at the unconscious seduction of the gesture. "That is, not foxed, precisely, but ... I fear I ate too little at dinner. Perhaps I should have something more —"
Slowly, Hawke traced the lush curve of her lip with the pad of his thumb. "Ask, and I'll make you forget your hunger."
The candles danced and spun overhead, and rich-scented air filled Alexandra's lungs. Flushed, dizzy, and strangely languid, she closed her eyes. "And if I do not ask?" she said unsteadily, afraid of his answer, afraid of herself.
"You have said I'm a scoundrel. A scoundrel would not hesitate to plunder such enticing sweetness."
Alexandra's breath caught in her throat. She was not even aware that her hands had slipped behind his neck to comb through the dark locks nestled against his collar.
A moment later, she was swept up into impatient arms and crushed against his chest. He cursed, stumbling over some hidden obstacle in the dark, and her lips curved with wanton pleasure at his reckless desire, knowing it was she who had provoked it.
The night was rich and sultry with the perfume of flowers as he carried her to the far end of the cavernous room. Through a wall of glass Alexandra glimpsed a silver crescent moon riding low on the horizon, casting a pale bar of light upon a wicker chaise surrounded by potted orange trees.
Carefully, Hawke slipped her onto the soft cushions and knelt before her, his eyes like silver fire in the moonlight.
Alexandra blinked dizzily. She felt his warm breath against her bodice, then a current of cool air.
"This is the second damned thing I've been wanting to do all evening," Hawke muttered, cutting the thread on the dress with his teeth and pulling the wisp of lace away from the low neckline.
The curve of her chest rose and fell erratically, pale silver in the moonlight.
"So beautiful," he said softly, and traced her silken skin until he found her nipples against the tight bodice and slipped beneath to free them. Then his lips fell where his hands had been, and she moaned as a fierce wave of pleasure broke over her.
"Stop, please!" she moaned. "You make me dizzy. I will surely faint!"
Hawke laughed and caught her closer, teasing a taut nipple with his teeth. His lips curved with pleasure when he felt her slip back against the chaise.
Impatiently, he stood and shrugged out of his coat. Fires were kept burning here even in spring to protect the sensitive plants, and he was too damned hot. Sweat stood out in little beads upon his forehead. With a curse, he swept the moisture away and tossed his coat down onto the floor.
"I'll make you faint, by God!"
She did not answer.
"Alexandra?"
She sighed raggedly. Her bronze lashes fluttered; then closed.
"Alexandra!" he repeated sharply.
This time there was no response whatsoever.
"Hell and damnation!" Hawkesworth muttered in quiet astonishment, unable to believe the evidence of his eyes.
The wine had done its job too well. His impudent captive had fallen asleep on him!
Chapter Eighteen
The tavern was small, smoke filled, and very noisy. In every corner hung the stench of unwashed bodies and cheap gin. A ruddy woman with powerful forearms moved through the room dispensing tankards to man, woman, and child alike, snatching her patrons' money, careful to bite even the smallest coin before stowing it away in the pocket of her filthy, voluminous gown.
"More ale, Rose!" a drunken voice rose above the din.
"Hold your water, Jocko!" she bellowed back, to the merriment of the raucous patrons at the surrounding tables.
Just now, her attention was focused upon the richly dressed gentleman who sat by himself near the stairway to the upper floor. She must go lightly there, thought Rose Watkins, for there was a great deal of money to be made from this one.
"A message for yer hand, milord." She held out a single folded piece of paper. When the man did not bestir himself, she laid the note before him upon the rough-hewn table.
His long tapering fingers lifted the ivory sheet and scanned the crude handwriting. A rough expletive escaped the man's lips. "The bungling bastards!" James Telford whispered hoarsely. He'd have to try something even riskier now. Something that would force him to ride to Sussex this very night. But first ...
The burly proprietress of the Lion frowned, seeing her dreams of profit going up in smoke. "Be wishin' anything else, Yer Lordship?" she asked quickly. "Anything at all, Rose Watkins can fetch it."
Cold, colorless eyes studied her for a moment, and in spite of all her years and experience and callousness, Rose Watkins shivered.
"I shall keep that in mind," he said, his soft voice in odd contrast to his sharp, expressionless eyes. "Perhaps you will tell me more about this man called Digger. In the meantime where is the girl?"
"Waitin' above, Yer Lordship, just as ye asked."
The man rose and carelessly tossed several gold guineas upon the greasy table. "See that we are not disturbed — for any reason."
Once again, the burly woman shivered, glad that she was too old and too blowsy for the flesh trade. Certainly not with this one.
The gentleman smoothed the crimson-silk folds of his waistcoat and slowly mounted the stairs. When he came to the room at the end of the hall, he turned the knob carefully, making no noise as he opened the door.
The shivering young thing inside did not immediately see him, but when she heard the light step, she spun about, thrusting a slim hand to her mouth.
The colorless eyes narrowed and ran down the girl's bony body, ill concealed beneath a grimy shift. Young enough, he thought. Skinny enough to be a boy. And terrified.
James Telford's spirits lifted fractionally.
The girl did not stir, for Rose Watkins had told her what would happen if she left this room before the rich gentlemen had finished with her. Even when the man reached into his pocket, she did not move. When she saw what he held in his hand, however, she began to whimper.
In a few short minutes her soft cries rose to shrill, terrified screams.
And then, miraculously, her prayers were answered. The door was thrown open to reveal the angry features of a beautiful angel.
"What's going on here?" the woman demanded, her blue-green eyes glittering as she took in the scene before her.
The man shrugged indifferently.
"But how unkind of you, James," the red-haired beauty named Isobel said silkily, closing the door and moving toward the bed. "You've begun without me.
"
* * * * *
Thunder rolling in the distance. Suffocating heat. Gunfire.
Alexandra bolted upright in bed, staring into darkness and dreams ...
Into the old Terror.
Her heart pounding, she heard a distant crash and waited for phosphorous fingers to slit the clouds a moment later. The Devil's fire, she thought wildly. It had come again — the roaring fury of the monsoons erupting across the Indian plain.
And just as it always did, one nightmare gave way to another; the distant peal of thunder dragged in its train grotesque visions of that night ten years before when Vellore had run red with English blood.
Rigid with fear, unable to move or even to cry out, she waited for the hammering thunder to call up pounding feet and harsh cries in the night.
Overhead the thunder rolled, cracking and roaring above the howl of the wind.
Paralyzed, she heard the dim cries of the house servants, the angry hiss of musket fire. Her eyes huge with fear, she saw plumes of smoke rising from the silent outbuildings.
And the blood, dear God, the blood everywhere, staining the white linen, splashed upon the white walls.
No! Vainly, she screamed in the dark silence of her mind, twisting before the ghostly shapes lit in each stroke of lightning.
The houseboy crumpled by the stairway, pristine in white muslin even as his neck was broken. The young soldier still grinning, fallen in the hall, a musket ball through his neck. The captain of the house guard motionless in the dust, a great crimson stain wetting the back of his coat.
The sickly smell of death everywhere.
She screamed and thrashed, shredding the covers that trapped her legs, fighting the invisible hands that caught her and dragged her inexorably down.
Overhead, the angry thunder raged on, plunging her into the terror of the uprising as if it had been yesterday. With each explosion her fear grew until it reached a savage crescendo, suffocating her, stripping her of pride, of sanity itself.
From the darkness nearby she heard a wild, unnatural keening, and the sound filled her with unreasoning panic.
Cold fingers ripped her skin. She cried out, fighting blindly in the darkness.
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