Defiant Captive

by Christina Skye

  "Now, damn it! I won't tell ye again."

  Reluctantly, Hawke released his pockmarked enemy, who sprang to his feet and lurched out of reach.

  "Tie him up and let's be off, damn it, before the tide turns!"

  Without warning Hawke threw himself forward and knocked the pockmarked man to the ground.

  The lanky man closer to Alexandra cursed furiously and braced himself to fire.

  An instant later, her shot sent his pistol flying from his hand. He turned swiftly, surprise and fear darkening his thin face. Then he bolted for the cliffs above the beach, his stocky companion only a few steps behind him.

  Grim faced, Hawke struggled to his knees. His forehead was furrowed with pain as he wobbled onto his feet, and a faint patch of red darkened the side of his white shirt.

  Slowly, he stumbled down the hill, one arm pressed to his ribs. Only pride held him upright. His face was pallid and set as he wavered through the door and knocked it closed with his boot. Awkwardly, he fumbled with the bolt, which dropped home just as he collapsed onto the straw.

  At last he looked up at Alexandra, his mouth drawn in a hard line. "You have a steady hand, Miss Maitland, and although I don't much relish the thought, it seems I owe you my life. What I don't understand is why you helped me." His eyes were unreadable in the semidarkness.

  "Nothing more than self-preservation, I assure you. With you gone my own chances for survival would be slim indeed. But don't let it go to your head, Your Grace," she added bitterly, her hands on her hips. "Murdering you would give me the profoundest pleasure."

  "Then I must find another source of pleasure to distract you." Hawke's attempt at a smile suddenly twisted into a grimace.

  "What do we do now?"

  "First, you give me the gun." Beside her Hawke waited, his hand outstretched and trembling slightly.

  Alexandra looked down at the finely balanced weapon and felt a keen reluctance to part with it, for all that it was unloaded. Suddenly, she saw that the dark stain now covered the entire side of Hawke's shirt and half of his chest. "You're bleeding like a pig!" she gasped.

  "Crude but correct, I'm afraid. But never mind about me — I'll hold. Give me the gun. Those two will soon be back, and this time they'll bring company. They've probably got a boat waiting directly below on the beach. When they return, we must be ready."

  "When? Not if?"

  "They'll be back — you can count on it. Telford will have promised them a fat purse this time. He must be growing desperate."

  "Why don't we find help?" Alexandra demanded impatiently.

  "Damn it, woman, we have no choice! The nearest village is five miles hence, and without horses we'd never make it." His eyes darkened. "In time, that is."

  He was right, she realized. In his condition he could not go far. Alexandra now understood that the next few hours would decide her captor's fate as well as her own. He might very well bleed to death before her eyes, in fact.

  More blood, one more death — after so many.

  Reluctantly, she handed over the pistol.

  His brow creased with pain, Hawke bent and clumsily reloaded. "You are a lucky woman, it seems. You may soon find yourself rid of me forever," he said grimly. Then, the loading done, he sat back to wait. Careful to keep the pistol balanced on his lap, he extended his left hand and explored the wound at his side.

  "If you fell asleep, I could take the gun and leave you here alone," she said defiantly.

  For an instant Hawke's fingers stilled at their probing. "You could. But will you?" His face was very pale, drawn with lines of pain.

  "I don't honestly know."

  "In that case" — Hawke fought down a groan when his fingers found the ragged edge of the wound — "it's a chance I'll have to take."

  Just then, something brushed softly against the planks outside the door. Hawke stiffened and raised his pistol toward the sound.

  Swaying slightly, he fought the searing waves of pain that lashed his side. His fingers tightened against the silver-mounted butt.

  There was a whisper of movement near the ground, and a shrill squeak exploded from the far side of the door.

  "Your Grace! Are you in there?" It was Jeffers's voice, harsh with anxiety.

  "Thank God!" Alexandra breathed.

  A moment later, with a jerky groan, Hawke collapsed insensible upon the straw.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  "Damn it, man, must you drag us over every stone between here and Hawkeswish?"

  "I beg your pardon, Your Grace," Hawke's grizzled groom answered stiffly, "but I'm not in the habit of conveying my passengers in farm vehicles."

  They had commandeered the clumsy old wagon from a farmer near Alfriston, and it was an unpleasant mode of transport at best. At every rut and incline the old wooden wheels grated protestingly and shook Hawke until his teeth rattled.

  "Then make allowance for the cursed bumps!" Stifling a curse, Hawke fell back weakly against the straw heaped around him. "Forgive me, Jeffers," he announced a few moments later. "I know you're doing your bloody best."

  His eyes were bright and glassy when he looked across at Alexandra, seated beside him in the back of the wagon. "It seems you have me where you want me at last, Miss Maitland."

  "Not quite, but almost," she answered crisply. Her eyes took in the wide strip of cloth secured across his chest. He had lost a great deal of blood, and he was beginning to grow feverish. Despite all her anger at the man's insolence and treachery, Alexandra realized she did not want him to die.

  Not today anyway, she told herself grimly. Not unless it was her ball that lodged between his ribs.

  A moment later, Hawke's eyes fluttered closed and did not reopen. He had drifted into unconsciousness, which was just as well, she thought. With all the jolting, some of the straw slid away from his side. Alexandra soundlessly pushed it back into place. "How far to Hawkeswish?" she asked the groom seated before her.

  "Two hours, I reckon. Is His Grace —"

  "I'm afraid he's unconscious."

  "Hardy should be back with the doctor soon after we arrive. Has the bleeding stopped?"

  "I can't be certain." Alexandra frowned, wondering at the loyalty the duke had won from all his servants. Rajah was curled beside her, sleek and comfortable in the straw. She stroked his warm fur. "It was fortunate that you came when you did, even though those two ruffians got away."

  "I'd give a year's salary to get my hands on those bas—" Jeffers cleared his throat. "Thank the lord Rajah was with us. A good man, Hardy, but he lost track of you in the storm. If we'd arrived even an hour later—" With a smothered curse Jeffers broke off to steer the stolid work horses around a heavily eroded stretch of road.

  Beside Alexandra the little mongoose squeaked quietly and his tail arched with pleasure at her smooth caress.

  "The duke's a hard man," the old servant said gruffly. "But he's a fair one, too."

  Not with me, Alexandra longed to say, but it would not do to discuss such things with Hawke's servant. "This isn't the first time Telford has sent someone after him, I take it?"

  "No, by God. The villain will never stop until he has everything that belongs to the duke. And as for that woman, she's been behind her miserable brother every step of the way."

  Aware that he had probably said more than Hawke would like, Jeffers lapsed into a moody silence. Alexandra realized she would get no more out of him that day.

  The downs stretched before them, a green sea flowing all the way to the horizon. With a sigh Alexandra settled back to wait.

  For what, she was not exactly certain.

  * * * * *

  Contrary to the groom's expectation, they arrived to find the doctor waiting, flanked by a crowd of anxious servants. The duke was still unconscious, and his eyes barely flickered as four footmen carried him up the front steps under the doctor's stern eye.

  Seeing that everyone's attention was focused upon the wounded duke, Alexandra decided this was her chance to escape. She took seve
ral cautious steps backward, then rammed into a large, unyielding body.

  "The duke would be a mite disappointed to find you gone when he awoke, miss." It was the brawny footman, Hardy.

  "Let me go," she pleaded quietly. "It's better this way, believe me. If only you knew —"

  "I know enough to be certain His Grace would draw and quarter me if I let you leave now." He was not unfriendly, but his brown eyes held an unmistakable warning.

  Reluctantly, Alexandra turned back toward the house. It had been a pointless exercise anyway, since she couldn't leave before her father's name was cleared.

  Frowning, she watched the footmen carry the Duke of Hawkesworth's heavy, unmoving form up the stairs. Until their bargain was fulfilled, she knew she would remain Hawke's captive.

  * * * * *

  The London streets were crowded with afternoon strollers undeterred by lowering gray skies. A small figure with a half-melted Gunthers ice in hand skipped along busy Oxford Street while his old nurse struggled to keep pace.

  Unnoticed by the boy or his nurse, a carriage with shades drawn followed close behind, careful to maintain a discreet distance.

  Where was the silly brat headed now? the woman inside wondered. Her brow creased in irritation. They'd already dragged her back and forth across London, from the Botanical Gardens to Astley's Amphitheatre and then to Gunthers for ices. The whelp was still as fresh as ever, the woman thought, but Nurse was showing her threescore years and the two brawny footmen in attendance were slower on their feet than when they'd left Bedford Square that morning.

  Bloodred nails traced the barrel of the pistol in the woman's reticule. Trust her cursed husband to have the brat well guarded! But the net was growing tighter, and soon she would have everything she'd ever dreamed of — wealth beyond imagining and sweet, boundless freedom.

  Her long fingers stroked the lush curve of her breasts and her flat belly. Yes, she knew well how to enjoy all of it. Her body was still as lithe and smooth as the day she'd taken her first lover.

  Her dark aquamarine eyes glittering, she recalled her tutor's unexpected expertise with his hands and his delicious penchant for violence. Oh, she'd gone to her exalted husband a virgin, all right, but only in the strictest sense, for by that time she'd learned many techniques of pleasure that spared the membrane of maidenhood. Good God, what a fool Richard had been! the woman thought, smiling smugly as she recalled all the other men, all the other nights of savage, stolen pleasure.

  Across the street the boy who was her son slowed in response to his nurse's scolding.

  What was the old bitch about now? If they delayed much longer ...

  Isobel's beautiful eyes narrowed. Everything had been precisely calculated; James had seen to that. Her brother was indeed a master of detail. But not even he had counted on the last stop at Gunthers, nor the slow pace necessitated by the nurse's aging limbs.

  Chastised, the boy turned, and the little party resumed their progress up the street. One more block, Isobel thought exultantly. One more block, and her husband would never again stand in her way!

  On the far side of the street the young marquess lagged behind to study a granite gargoyle, whose repulsive features held endless fascination for a boy of five.

  It gave Isobel all the time she needed.

  "Robbie, my love, over here!"

  The boy whirled about, his features transfigured with joy and disbelief to hear that long-awaited voice. "Mama!" The word had scarcely left his mouth before he was bolting down the street, gargoyle, Gunthers, nurse, and home forgotten in one wild, convulsive heartbeat.

  "Master Robbie, what are you about now?" his nurse called urgently, motioning for the footmen to follow her impetuous charge.

  Too late, the nurse saw the door of a nearby coach swing open. A slim, red-haired beauty stepped out into the street, her arms outstretched. Robbie was nearly at the curb when a runaway hackney lurched from a narrow side street, pitching wildly. The angry hooves of the team thundered toward the boy, who froze with panic and watched helplessly as the horses knocked the beautiful woman to the ground.

  Isobel's shrill cry rent the air, echoed an instant later by her son's tortured scream. The hackney plunged to a halt. When, at long last, the horses quieted, a slim figure lay face-down upon the cobblestones, her bright hair flung out like a tangled halo around her slack features.

  White faced, the boy crumpled to the ground, his hands reaching vainly for his mother.

  * * * * *

  The long night passed. The Duke of Hawkesworth drifted in and out of consciousness for several hours, while everyone in the great house hung suspended, waiting for some sign of his rallying. The doctor was in constant attendance, but his stiff features gave little indication of his patient's condition.

  Two more days passed in equal tension. There was some improvement in the duke's condition, it seemed, but the doctor's optimism was guarded.

  On the following afternoon Alexandra walked to the window, lifted the edge of a curtain, and stared out over the rolling lawns of Hawkeswish. In the wake of the storm all was lushly green, and the sun sparkled against the wet grass, covering the blades with tiny diamonds.

  England, Alexandra told herself. The country was nothing like India. The smells were strange. The climate was different. The people, too, were different from those she had grown up with on the other side of the world, possessing none of the easy Indian acceptance of fate and their calm habit of procrastination.

  Her father had belonged to India more than he knew, Alexandra realized. The tales he had told her of England came more from his idealized memories of youth than from reality.

  Studying the piercing green of the lawn, Alexandra saw that she would have to change to suit this new place. She had been in England for only a few weeks, yet so far she had made a dismal mess of everything she had set her hand to. Yes, perhaps it was time to begin anew, to look at everything with fresh eyes.

  There was a chill in the air, and she turned to pull a fine cashmere shawl across the dress of lapis silk that Lily had laid out for her. She studied herself impartially in the cheval glass, relieved to see that the shawl covered the scandalously abbreviated neckline.

  What Alexandra did not see was that the rich colors of the shawl set off her hair and made her red-gold curls burn like living flame against her shoulders, or that the vivid lapis hue of the dress lent creaminess to her skin and made her eyes shine with blue-green fire.

  When Lily arrived to dress Alexandra's hair before dinner, there was a worried look on her plain round face. "I'm that worried, miss, I can tell you. Shadwell's been as quiet as the grave, and the doctor no better." The girl's fingers tightened abruptly on Alexandra's hair. "Oh, I do beg pardon, miss, but it's just that we're all so worried. I know I shouldn't be tellin' you this," she added impulsively, "but a footman arrived from London yesterday. In the middle of the night, mind you! He's been closeted with Davies all mornin' and then the doctor was called. It's all very strange. I only hope it isn't more bad luck for His Grace."

  "It's probably only business concerns requiring a prompt decision," Alexandra said soothingly. "I'm certain the duke will be recovered very soon."

  "I wish I could believe that," the worried maid said, shaking her head.

  When Alexandra stepped out into the corridor on her way down to dinner, she heard angry voices from the room next door. A moment later, the duke wobbled into the hall, only to find his way blocked by a bristling Shadwell.

  "Enough of this damned quacking!" Hawke said angrily. "The wound is on the mend, and the only danger I face now is going off my head with boredom. Out of my way, Shadwell!"

  He appeared much healthier than Alexandra had expected. His eyes had lost their glassiness, and most of his natural color was restored to his face. But there was a sharp tension in the set of his shoulders, and he seemed gripped by restlessness.

  "You are up, I see," Alexandra said blandly. "Your friend Telford will be delighted to hear it."

&nbs
p; "The Devil take Telford!" Hawke growled. "Give me your arm down the stairs."

  Alexandra's eyebrows rose.

  "Very well — please give me your arm, damn it!"

  Hawke swayed slightly, and Alexandra reluctantly did as he asked. "You are as impatient and unruly as a spoiled schoolboy, you know."

  "Far worse, I should think. Are you surprised to see me up and about?" he demanded, his dark eyes intent on her face.

  Alexandra was strangely discomfited by his scrutiny. "Not in the least. I was certain it would take a great deal more than one pistol ball to kill you."

  "Disappointed?"

  For all that she should have been, Alexandra was not. Of course, she would never admit as much to him. "That all depends on how you behave. Ask me again after dinner."

  Hawke continued to lean upon her arm as they made slow and halting progress down the steps and on to a comfortable sitting room in the south wing.

  Ignoring Alexandra's penetrating eyes, Hawke poured himself a drink; she refused his offer of a glass for herself. Then he stretched out tensely upon an elegant settee of rosewood and yellow silk.

  Alexandra ran her fingers along a fine old rosewood chest fitted out with brass fixtures in the Chinese style. Across the top of the gleaming wood was arranged a hodgepodge of painted miniatures set in gilt frames. She chose one at random and raised it for closer inspection.

  A young boy stood with a spotted spaniel at his feet. There was no mistaking the duke's glossy black hair, piercing eyes, and erect posture, even at the age of eight or nine. It was a charming composition, and yet to Alexandra's eye there was something stiff and unnatural about the picture.

  "My likeness, as you've so astutely guessed. My mother was inordinately fond of that one. Don't ask me why."

  "It's a good likeness." She hesitated.

  "And yet?"

  "And yet there's something odd about it. The formal pose, I imagine — it seems little suited to the setting."

  "We Sommertons were never much for informality. In fact, my father considered informality to be faintly disreputable — for a Sommerton, at least — and not far behind the twin evils of Whig heresy and the ranting of revolutionists." Hawke studied his empty glass thoughtfully. "No, informality was in no sense a part of my upbringing."