"Everything, I should imagine," Hawke said, his eyes burning insolently across her chest and down her thighs. "It would really be too unfair of me —"
"Make your wager, damn it!"
"Very well. You claim to have a great many skills, Miss Mayfield. Let us see which of us has the more useful ones — specifically, who can come up with breakfast first. Follow me — if you dare."
As Hawke had known she would, Alexandra did follow, turning Bluebell and plunging down the slope to a clear, rock-strewn stream. Hawke dismounted and tied Aladdin to a beech tree. His eyes were expectant as he turned toward Alexandra.
She did not wait for him but dismounted quickly by herself.
Hawke's eyebrows rose mockingly, and Alexandra felt her face redden, but she refused to be ruffled. "I believe you mentioned something about finding us breakfast, Your Grace."
"Follow me then, and prepare to swallow your words."
"Never! Prepare instead to swallow your pride, braggart!"
Hawke snorted as he made his way down the grassy slope, thick with long-stemmed water plants and leafy ferns. At the stream's edge he stopped to study the clear waters. A trio of swans swept gracefully down the crystal currents, their necks high and proud. When Alexandra came to stand beside him, he pointed to the exquisite white creatures. "You see before you the Hawkeswish swans, a royal bequest dating back to Elizabeth's time. We used to pay a tax on each one. A great deal of time and effort has been spent over the centuries separating the broods. Each owner has his own mark, so that his swans may not be taken up by others."
"And what is the Hawkeswish mark, Your Grace?"
"A small crescent moon on the right leg. You'll see for yourself at the swan-hooking ceremony."
"Swan-hooking ceremony?"
"When the creatures are caught with a staff and taken from the water for marking. An ancient ritual — and one I haven't seen for far too long," Hawke added, almost to himself.
"I fancy the swans don't enjoy it half as well as you do," Alexandra said soberly.
"If they are wise creatures, they realize where their protection lies. And now, Miss Mayfield, behold your breakfast." One long, tanned finger pointed out a moving shape in the clear depths of the swift-moving stream. A large fish darted from behind a rock and raced downstream.
"A fish, Your Grace?"
"Hawke," he corrected offhandedly, his eyes on another darting shadow. "And not just any fish, little cynic. A red-spotted trout — a fat, tasty Hawkeswish trout." Abruptly, Hawke began to unbutton his jacket. "They breed in these clear gravel beds, you know. They winter in deep waters higher upstream, then come down in summer to the shallow fords here at midlevel."
Alexandra watched in amazement as the exquisite duke began to shed his sartorial splendor. First his jacket and crop went flying, then his gleaming boots. "You're serious?" Her tone was sharp with disbelief.
Hawke merely chuckled and returned to his task. With slow, careful steps he entered the stream and worked his way gradually up against the current. A red-flecked oval tilted by the opposite bank, followed by another. Hawke waited, immobile. A dark cloud of minnows flashed past, then a slow-moving eel. Several seconds passed, and a larger fish darted down the center of the stream, its red-spotted body outlined sharply against the mottled gray bottom.
In a flash the duke's hand pierced the water and reappeared an instant later with the fat trout thrashing in midair. He gave a loud shout of triumph.
"You did it!" Alexandra's shock was obvious.
"Yes, by God. I haven't lost the touch! Old Havers would be proud."
"Havers?"
"The water bailiff of Hawkeswish. He knows everything worth knowing about these streams. About all the streams in Sussex, I'll warrant. Taught me as a lad to fish without benefit of a net or pole. Said it might come in useful sometime, and he was right."
Alexandra eyed the flapping shape in his hand with distaste. Fish, particularly when they were uncooked and wriggling, were far from her favorite creatures. "What do you mean to do with the thing now?"
"Cook it, of course. You shall skin it for me."
At Alexandra's croak Hawke hid his laughter no longer.
"You — you—" Alexandra sputtered.
"Arrogant blackguard?" Hawke suggested with mock politeness. "Come, admit you're bested, Miss Mayfield. You claim to be an honest creature. Now prove it."
Much to her dismay, Alexandra felt a tiny smile play about her lips. It was the sight of the usually exquisite duke that did it. He stood knee deep in water, his breeches wet, his cuffs soaked, and his hair disarrayed by the wind. He looked, in fact, like an entirely different person from the cold stranger who had accosted her on a foggy London street.
He's still a dangerous man, Alexandra reminded herself. Remember what he's done to you.
"And what devilish plans are you weaving now, little hellcat? The last time you had such a look, you fractured my skull with a bottle."
"Something you richly deserved. I'm merely thinking that this fish, like all your other dependents, has been trained to obey his master's every whim."
"And thus you reduce my triumph to nothing! You are hard, Miss Mayfield." His silver-gray eyes narrowed. "You make me wonder what it would take to teach you to obey my every whim."
Alexandra merely shrugged and looked down at the fish still flapping in Hawke's hands — anything to avoid the smoky depths of his eyes. "Very well. I concede that you have your uses. I shall make certain to look you up should I ever become lost beside a stream without food or fishing pole. You would be a great comfort in such a case."
The two horses tethered on the bank looked up from their grazing and sniffed the air, sensing a sudden tension. Aladdin neighed softly, questioningly.
"Oh, I would provide you with a great deal more than comfort, in such a case. You may be certain of that." Hawke looked down at the fish still twisting in his hands. Suddenly he stiffened. "Here!" he cried, at the same instant tossing his wriggling catch toward Alexandra.
By reflex, she reached for the object hurtling toward her and gasped when she touched its cold, wet scales. An instant later, she cast the trout back into the silver current, where it spun about and darted downstream.
Hawke raised a sable eyebrow. "You are cavalier with our breakfast, Miss Mayfield. I shall enjoy seeing you come up with another."
His lazy arrogance goaded Alexandra to fury. "With pleasure! After all, if you can manage it, how hard can it be?" Quickly, she sat down and slid off her half-boots, then hiked up her skirt to her ankles, studiously avoiding the duke's eyes. She made her way down to a large boulder jutting out over the stream and slowly lowered herself until she could trail a hand in the clear water.
From the sand and pebbles at the bottom of the stream, a carp rose to the surface in a cloud of bubbles but darted away before she could move a finger. Cautiously, she brought her other arm around the rock, inching forward until both shoulders were extended over the water.
She saw him then — black speckled and fat, cruising lazily within a cloud of minnows. She waited tensely, eyes narrowed, as the minnows brushed past, nibbling her fingers. The fat trout drifted only inches behind.
Suddenly, she thrust her hands down into the water, her eyes trained on the slow-moving shadow. Then she had him, cold and wriggling in her grasp.
She stood in triumph, displaying her catch to a stunned Hawke, delighting in his look of surprise. "What do you say now, braggart?"
His eyes narrowed. "I say bravo, Miss Mayfield — and I hope you know how to swim!"
A moment later, the surface of the water shattered as Alexandra swayed, then plunged into the freezing crystal currents.
Chapter Twenty
Alexandra gasped in shock as the frigid waters closed over her head. A moment later, her hands struck gravel, loosing a cloud of sand and water plants from the stream bed. Swiftly, she tucked her body and turned in a tight circle, then sputtered to the surface just as Hawke's large hand snaked around h
er waist. His laughter rang in her ears as he hoisted her from the stream.
She could feel his ribs heaving with laughter as he toppled her onto the fern-covered bank. Angrily, Alexandra tossed the sopping curls from her face. "Oh, to blazes with you!" she snapped, shivering slightly when the wind played down the narrow valley. "I had him in my hands. You saw it!"
"If only you hadn't decided to take a swim. Yes, you weren't half bad for a beginner," Hawke finally conceded. "But you'd better take off that jacket before you catch cold."
At Alexandra's mutinous look, Hawke held out his elegant brown coat. "This will do until yours dries." He looked up at the cloudless azure sky. "I shouldn't think it will take too long."
"My habit is sodden," she said stiffly. "I'd prefer to ride back now." Her aloof air was shattered abruptly by a sneeze.
"And sit a horse in those wet clothes for an hour? Out of the question!"
"Very well," she said through gritted teeth, reaching for his jacket. "You may take yourself off to the horses while I change."
"Isn't it rather late for such delicacy?"
"Then I'll go back to the house without you!" Abruptly, Alexandra's nose twitched in preparation for another sneeze.
"All right, damn it!" Hawke barked. "One of us must be sensible, or we'll be here all day arguing. My God, your teeth are chattering already." Smothering a curse, he turned and stalked up the bank to the horses.
When she was sure he'd gone, Alexandra began to work the tiny buttons of her jacket free, cursing the modiste who had invented the style of tightly fitted garments with dainty buttons. Of course, they hadn't been designed to swim in, she thought ruefully. When the buttons were finally freed, she darted a suspicious glance at the duke.
But Hawke was busily rummaging in his saddlebags, oblivious to her plight. Quickly, Alexandra wriggled out of her jacket and chemise and tossed Hawke's dark brown coat around her shoulders. With stiff fingers she worked the buttons closed, then slid her arms about her waist for warmth. The sun was warm on the bank, and she settled down onto a large flat rock, smoothing her skirts around her to dry.
His scent clung to the coat — the smell of horses, old leather, soap, hay, and some other elusive element. The primal man-smell made her wish she'd never taken the cursed thing. It might as well have been his arms around her, she thought, infuriated.
"All clear, I take it?" Hawke's voice, close to her ear, made her jump.
"Quite." To cover her nervousness Alexandra settled back against the rock and wrung out the wet fabric over her ankles.
"I've found you a towel. Turn onto your side so I can dry your hair with it." Alexandra did not move. Hawke opened his leather saddlebags and impatiently held up a wrinkled length of cloth. She sneezed once again. "Hurry up, damn it! Or do you fancy catching a contagion of the lungs? It will take us well over an hour to get back, you know!"
Alexandra eyed the cloth uncertainly. It smelled strongly of horses. She sneezed again, then reluctantly turned to her side.
Hawke's strong, hard hands gathered her hair and began to blot it with the towel. Hands firm and gentle. Hands that held their strength in check just now. Hands clearly experienced in such matters.
Alexandra stiffened.
"What's wrong now?"
"Nothing," she snapped.
His hands tightened around her hair for a moment, then resumed their brisk rubbing. "It disturbs you to think I've done this before — is that it?"
Alexandra snorted and tried to twist away, but he caught her damp bronze tresses and held her immobile. After a moment he spoke, his voice very low. "The other woman, in this case, was my mother. She had an inflammation of the joints, you see, a condition that rendered her acutely uncomfortable whenever it rained. It used to ease her pain to have a hot bath, and afterward she liked me to dry her hair like this. She suffered far more than she let any of us know, I believe."
"She sounds very brave," Alexandra said quietly.
"She was a rare woman. My father, on the other hand—" Abruptly, Hawke's voice changed. "Now that your hair is finished, let's see about the rest of you." Before she could frame a protest, he was kneeling and drying her feet. "You seem to favor the barefoot state, Miss Mayfield. Is it these boots you dislike, or footwear in general?"
"You must bring out the worst in me, Your Grace, for it's been years since I've gone barefoot."
"Then you ought to thank me. Don't your feet feel better now?"
Unconsciously, Alexandra arched her feet and stretched her toes. Immediately, Hawke's hands slid down over her sensitive soles, and her eyes closed at the sheer pleasure of his touch.
Suddenly, Alexandra remembered where she was — and with whom. She stiffened and tried to kick away from his grasp.
Hawke's fingers tightened. "Don't fight me, Alexandra, or I might come up with better ways to spend our time here."
Alexandra blinked at the dark command in that voice. Once again, his fingers moved, sending flames along her spine, making her remember other things he'd done with those large strong hands, other places he had stroked.
"How did it happen?"
"Happen?" she repeated unsteadily.
Hawke's fingers raised her skirt and traced the ragged scar that snaked around her ankle. "This."
"A-accident—" Alexandra swallowed, suddenly hoarse. The pressure of his hands sent her pulse racing. She coughed and began again. "A riding accident in the hill country. The cobras came out of nowhere, and Fury was down in an instant." She stopped then, shivering as the memories washed over her. She looked away from the deep silver of Hawke's eyes, twisting her habit restlessly. "I can still hear the sounds of his thrashing. Dear God, the dust and sweat! The smell of fear!" Suddenly, it was all there before her again. "Fury," she whispered.
Hawke's thumbs stroked her ankles in widening circles. "You were thrown?"
" 'Twas a pair of king cobras, their black bodies hidden in the dust. I didn't see until — until it was too late. Fury saw, though. He reared and trampled upon the hooded death, but not before their venom had found its mark."
Alexandra's eyes were hazy. She could suddenly hear the great horse's anguished thrashing. She could feel the angry sweat that frothed along his tortured body. Unconsciously, her voice took on a singsong lilt. "Yes, love, it will be over soon now. Rest, Fury. Dream of Simla and cool green fields."
A heavy tear slid from her eye. The movement seemed to rouse her and she blinked, covertly brushing her cheek.
"Is that part of the nightmare?"
"How do you know about that?" Alexandra demanded, her whole body tensing.
"Because you had one last night. You were still asleep, but you were screaming and fighting something — something that existed only in your mind."
"I don't care to talk about it," Alexandra said curtly. She realized that his fingers were climbing up her calves. She stiffened, but as she tried to twist away, Hawke's fingers tightened sharply.
"What —"
"Don't move." His voice was no more than a whisper, but its harsh command halted her protest. Her eyebrows climbed when he inched one hand from her leg and reached slowly for the saddlebags beside him on the grass.
Suddenly, from the ground near her head came a dry rustle, the very breath of evil. Alexandra shivered, and Hawkesworth's hand clamped cruelly against her ankle. The rustling grew louder, and she felt the cold whisper of wind against her neck. Her nerves began to scream.
Drawn by a terrible compulsion, she tried to twist her head over her shoulder. Immediately, Hawke's fingers cut deeper into her skin, and when she looked up, his face was a white mask. She kept her eyes on his face, too afraid to see the pale death that lurked just out of view in the grass.
She looked helplessly at Hawke, seeking the comforting reality of his broad shoulders and iron frame, seeking his silver eyes, which glinted just now with fear. She watched his fingers dip inside the leather saddlebags and emerge with a pearl-handled pistol.
From the corner of her eye A
lexandra saw a shadow part the tall grass. A draft hissed across her cheek, and she felt the cold kiss of death. Desperately, her eyes searched Hawke's face.
Don't move! his slate eyes commanded. Trust me this once. Slowly, his hand lifted; slowly, the cold metal barrel inched above her leg.
The pistol thundered, and at the same instant a shrill hiss exploded by her waist. Alexandra heard a muffled thump and then the wild slap of a twisting body. A moment later, the movement ceased, and all was quiet except for the gentle murmur of the stream.
Her eyes asked a silent question of Hawkesworth, who slowly straightened. For long moments Alexandra scoured his face, unable to move. She heard rather than saw his boot scrape the grass and turn something over.
Then the duke released his breath in a long, explosive burst. "Close, by God! Too close. A black viper's poison can—" He caught himself suddenly when her face blanched. Then Hawke noticed her hands were clenched so tightly that the joints were white.
"It's all over now," he said roughly. "This one will never stalk anything again." When she still did not move, Hawke tried again. "Look!" Carefully he lifted a black length of scaled muscle that flexed slightly in the rigor of death.
It was the worst thing he could have done.
Alexandra choked. "No! Not here! You have the great blacks here?" she mumbled hoarsely, her nostrils wide with terror. "I placated you at the shrine beneath the great banyan tree with mice and bright ghee! You've taken Fury from me! You've taken Rajah's firstborn! Leave me alone!"
With a curse Hawke sent the dead snake flying into the creek, then dropped on his knees beside her. "Stop it!" he commanded, his voice rough and caressing at the same time. " 'Twas no cobra but a Sussex black viper, and he is no more. You are safe, Alexandra," Hawke said gruffly, pulling her stiff body into the circle of his arms. "Safe, do you hear? Nothing will harm you. I swear it!"
His fingers slid around her back and urged her closer, seeking a softening in the rigid muscles that resisted him still. "Safe," he whispered into her damp curls. "Safe, by God," he breathed into the cool hollow beneath her jaw. "Do you hear me?"
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