Defiant Captive

by Christina Skye

  Some say the man was murdered; others swear he chose an opportune moment to flee with the funds Maitland had entrusted to him for his daughter's protection in the event of some calamity. In either case the results were very nearly the same, for Miss Maitland was left in virtual penury. Of relatives, I can trace none. Lord Maitland's father appears to have had some sort of falling out with his younger brother, which resulted in a total rupture between the two families. I have been able to find no further information about other relatives.

  The next part of the story is curious, indeed. Impossible though it may sound, the young lady seems to have dropped from the face of the earth. She stayed for several days with friends in Calcutta prior to taking passage on an East Indiaman bound for London, but she has not been seen since the ship's arrival. The captain recalls that Miss Maitland was not met at the docks. He tried to offer her assistance, but in the chaos of disembarkation she slipped away. I can find no further trace of her. Whether she is still in England or whether she has returned to some barren outpost in India, I am unable to say.

  Hawke looked up slowly. How ironic, he thought. Ever since the Vellore decision he'd felt a sense of uneasiness and a nagging suspicion that the board of control had made a mistake in its severe treatment of Lord Maitland. News from India had been slow in reaching London, and finally, Hawke had set his man of business upon the matter, for he wanted to find out what had become of the governor-general and his family in the wake of the board's decision.

  And then one night Alexandra Maitland had come running out of the fog right into his hands.

  Hawke's face was somber when he looked down and began once more to read.

  It may be of interest, furthermore, that mine was not the sole inquiry being made about the young lady. She numbers many friends in Madras and Calcutta, at every station, and these friends are greatly concerned about her present situation. There are also those in London who show an interest in her whereabouts — whether for idle curiosity or for more calculated purpose, I was unable to ascertain. It appears, in short, that Miss Maitland's history has evoked considerable sympathy among those who know of it.

  About your wife's particulars, I have only one new point of intelligence. Six weeks ago, someone answering the duchess's description was seen to board a ship in the West Indies bound for London. I have endeavored to verify this report with the ship's captain, but to no avail, for this poor man was soon after struck down with apoplexy.

  Of Telford, I can learn nothing new. He guards his tracks closely.

  Your Grace will not need me to reveal my suspicions. If the duchess has returned to England, can Telford be far behind? I fear that when news of the divorce bill becomes known, as it must very soon, the pair may be driven to recklessness. In the interim I am pleased that Your Grace has engaged the man I recommended. John Hardy may not perform exemplary service as a footman, but Your Grace will find nothing lacking in his protection of the household. He served bravely at Badajoz and can be counted upon in all matters.

  Keep him close. Telford will shortly be a desperate man.

  I remain,

  With the greatest respect,

  Your Grace's

  Most obliged and obedient servant,

  Bartholomew Dodd

  Hawke's mouth tightened grimly as he read the hastily scrawled postscript at the bottom of the last sheet, dated almost a week before.

  Your Grace will forgive my hasty addendum, but I have just learned of the terrible accident and your son's illness. I trust you will see the boy soon recovered.

  The magistrate has been here, as you directed, and has given me what particulars are available regarding your wife's accident. The hackney driver was drunk when apprehended and is presently in custody. I have questioned him in great detail, and his story seems to be exactly as he first related it.

  Perhaps of greatest import, the man has no familiarity with James Telford or anyone answering his description.

  I apologize if the following details give you unnecessary pain, but they must be mentioned. Because the victim's face and body were badly disfigured by the hooves of the team, the magistrate had some question about verifying her identity. When he understood your presence was required because of your son's illness, however, he was content to accept the verification of those witnesses to the accident, which included several of the household staff, who were quite able to attest that the woman was without a doubt your wife.

  Her body has been buried in accordance with your requests. Lest your son be given further pain, I shall endeavor to keep the matter from becoming public knowledge for as long as I can, but I fear it will not be very long.

  Regarding Telford, I shall continue my inquiries, but I think it safe to predict that his efforts will be hampered by this new and tragic development. As I receive further information, I shall, of course, keep you informed.

  Please accept my sincerest condolences. It is tragic that the whole affair should end this way. I await your direction.

  B.D.

  Slowly, Hawke looked up. All was quiet in his study; the only sound came from the soft whirring of the mechanics of an ormolu clock on the mantel.

  For long minutes he continued to hold his solicitor's letter, twisting the heavy vellum sheet between unfeeling fingers. Outside, carriages continued to clatter by in the street, and late-roaming vendors walked on, crying their wares in the night.

  Life continued in all its fierce, ceaseless rush. Only for the Duke of Hawkesworth had the world halted upon its axis.

  So it was truly over, he thought, strangely numb when faced with what he had dreamed of for so long.

  Isobel was dead. Telford was blocked. The old urgency was gone. No more would he feel the tortured restlessness that had always signaled her presence.

  And what now? Could he start anew and leave the distractions of London behind for a quieter life in the country? He had long considered doing just that, and Robbie was growing old enough to enjoy the outdoors — hunting, riding, and fishing. The boy belonged at Hawkeswish, Hawke knew.

  And what about Alexandra Maitland? a cynical voice asked. There was still the matter of their bargain. It would be difficult to reverse the decision about her father's case, Hawke knew. It would, in fact, require all of his considerable influence to persuade the other members of the board that Maitland might have been dealt with unfairly. Yes, he thought impassively, it would be very difficult — but not impossible.

  Then what? the voice persisted. Would he follow through with his threat and exact his payment? She had saved his life, after all; she had probably saved his son's life as well.

  How could he repay her with cruelty?

  And yet how could he let her go? She stirred his blood; she goaded him to fury and excruciating awareness of her latent sensuality. She was like a glowing ember that needed only a little kindling to explode into a passionate inferno.

  Even now, with his wound not yet healed, Hawke hungered for her slim legs to be wrapped around him, her body eager and frantic beneath him. His manhood swelled painfully at the thought.

  With a long graphic curse the duke tossed down his solicitor's letter and stood up to pace the room restlessly. The little ormolu clock on the mantel chimed nine times.

  What was she doing right now? he wondered. Was she as restless as he, haunted by memories of their fierce passion during the storm?

  Hawke's mouth tightened. By God, he hoped she was! If not, he'd do everything in his power to make her remember!

  Some impulse called him to the window. He drew back the brocade curtain and stared down into the street. At first he saw nothing but darkness; then, gradually, his eyes began to pick out solid forms. He thought he saw a sliver of black shift against the blurred outlines of the street, then disappear a moment later.

  Hawke's eyes narrowed. Finally, satisfied it had been nothing more than his imagination, he released the heavy curtain.

  His face was deeply lined as he poured himself a glass of brandy and dropped wearil
y into the tufted leather wing chair beside his desk. Again and again his thoughts returned to the brave woman upstairs who had been forced to endure so much tragedy in her young life.

  He did not yet know what he would do about Alexandra Maitland, but one thing was certain. He could not let her go. Not now.

  Perhaps not ever.

  * * * * *

  Rain rattled sharply at the sitting-room window. Alexandra shifted restlessly, trying to concentrate on Miss Austen's latest work. Finally, with an irritated sigh, she snapped the book shut and moved to the window, where she pulled back white damask curtains to study the rain-streaked street.

  Only those with no choice were out this evening, she saw: a bedraggled flower seller and several liveried footmen darting about on urgent errands. Across the street a thin man hunched his back against the driving rain and drew his hat lower above his face. Watching the wind lash his muddied brown cloak against his legs, Alexandra felt a moment of pity for the man. Just then, something made him look up at her window, and his expression of cold dislike made Alexandra forget all thoughts of sympathy.

  Still carrying her novel, she returned to the crimson settee, where half a dozen volumes borrowed at random from the duke's library lay untouched. Alexandra's slender fingers played restlessly with the long ribbons at the front of her emerald muslin gown. At last, with a frustrated sigh, she reopened Emma to the same page she had begun reading two hours earlier.

  "Am I disturbing you?"

  Alexandra jumped and dropped her book, then scolded herself to a semblance of calm.

  Hawke stood upon the threshold, magnificent in buff-colored breeches and a bottle-green jacket perfectly molded to his broad shoulders. He filled the doorway, his powerful presence reverberating through the very depths of her being. Just the sight of him was enough to set her blood pounding in the most infuriating fashion, and his silver-gray eyes glittered as if he could read her response.

  To compensate for her slip, Alexandra limited her answer to a cool nod, then retrieved the fallen volume, holding her fingers deliberately in her place.

  "Can the book be so fascinating?" Hawke asked mockingly.

  Alexandra drew herself up to her full height against the settee. "I take it you prefer a woman to be untutored, uneducated, and unthinking, Your Grace."

  Hawke moved to the empty chair beside her and seated himself with a fluid grace that set all Alexandra's senses jangling. Irritated, she kept her eyes to the floor — and so was treated to a leisurely display of hard muscles rippling beneath his form-fitting breeches.

  With a notable absence of haste Hawke stretched his booted legs comfortably before him until they just grazed her ankle. "Oh, not untutored, I think. At least, not in certain matters."

  Alexandra jerked her foot back, cursing the warm flood of color that stained her face. Furious but determined not to let him see how successfully he provoked her, she raised the book from her lap and opened it, staring blindly at the blurred page.

  There was a small cough as strong fingers lifted the book from her hand. Hawke turned the volume right-side-up, then raised the spine for a closer scrutiny. "Entirely fascinating, I quite agree. A Practical Essay on the Scientific Repair and Preservation of Roads," he read coolly, "by John McAdam. Does macadamization hold some special attraction for you, Miss Mayfield?"

  Alexandra could have screamed with frustration. "I was reading Miss Austen's latest work, if you must know, and mistook the books when you charged in here so rudely."

  "Charged? Rudely? It is, after all, my house. But tonight I refuse to be baited. Your book," he said lazily, tendering the slim leather volume. He held it flat on his open palm with his fingers curled around the edge, so that she would have to touch him to take it back.

  Alexandra hesitated, cursing herself for acting like a naive miss with jitters before her first ball. Her expression was icy as she slid her hand along his fingers and fairly jerked the volume from his grasp. In her haste she miscalculated, however, and the book dropped to the carpet with a faint slap.

  "You're very jumpy today."

  Alexandra did not deign to reply.

  "I trust you will not make such agitation a habit. It looks poorly of one who has charge of children." The duke leaned down to lift the forgotten volume from the floor, managing to brush her thigh as he did so.

  At his touch a spark leaped up Alexandra's leg, tightening muscles she had not even known she possessed. Her heart hammered, and she had a sudden memory of their savage lovemaking in the storm. She did not speak, certain that only a croak would have emerged at that moment.

  Hawke's eyes narrowed, and he raised a mocking eyebrow, missing nothing of her response. "I have accepted several invitations on your behalf," he said abruptly. "We go first to Astley's, three days hence. Robbie has already begun plaguing me with plans for all the places we're to visit. Then we're engaged for Lady Rockington's ball Saturday week." It was neither an invitation nor even a suggestion but a ducal command.

  Alexandra's eyes widened, flashing dangerously. "Do we indeed?" She snatched her book back from his hand.

  "We do. And tomorrow night to Vauxhall."

  This was too much for Alexandra. Her eyes snapped angrily, and her fingers twitched on the slim volume. "And you can go to blazes! As I recall, our — ungodly pact extended only to — to —"

  "To your compliance in my bed?" Hawke studied Alexandra's clenched hand with a meaningful glance. "I quite understand the temptation to throw the book, my dear, but you do better to restrain yourself. It does not do for a governess to be throwing books at her charges, you know."

  "What the devil are you talking about?"

  Hawke studied her lazily. "You said you planned to look for a position as a governess, did you not?"

  "You know quite well I did. But what —"

  "I am merely helping you go about it."

  Alexandra's mouth settled into a thin angry line. What sort of vile plan had he hatched now? "I'll not be flaunted as one of your light-skirts, I warn you. It's bad enough I must share your company in private!"

  "Just as I thought — all this talk about finding employment was a sham." Hawke looked down and brushed an invisible speck from his sleeve, hiding a smile of triumph.

  "Damn you! I do wish to find a situation, but I won't —"

  "Did you expect prospective employers to come in search of you then?"

  His tone was quite calm and reasonable, which only goaded Alexandra to greater fury since she had not, in fact, considered the matter very closely. Too much had happened since that morning not quite four weeks ago when she had gone looking for employment, only to be so curtly rejected.

  "The story I've set about," Hawke continued smoothly, "is that you're a relative of my wife. Your resemblance will certainly be remarked upon, so we might as well turn that to our advantage. With you but newly arrived from India, what could be more natural than that I show you about town?"

  "But I am not related to your wife!" Miss Austen's novel dropped forgotten to Alexandra's lap.

  "Isobel will not be here to contest the explanation," the duke said, suddenly grim.

  "Someone will. And anyway, it's a lie."

  "Is it?" Hawke countered coolly. "Do you know that for a fact?

  For myself, I rather think there must be some connection between the two of you to explain the startling resemblance. Will you have some sherry?" he asked impassively.

  His calm assumption of control over her life provoked Alexandra almost past enduring. She felt as if she were dangling from a string while he toyed with her unmercifully. "No, I do not care for sherry, you wretch! Nor do I wish to embark on this masquerade you propose. I won't become your plaything!"

  "Such cynicism, my dear! It's quite unbecoming in one so young. Or did you acquire some miraculous potion of youth from the fakirs in India?"

  "I am three and twenty," Alexandra replied frostily, "as you might have found out easily enough had you asked directly."

  Hawke nodded,
his lips pursed. "A very good age for a governess. You're certain that is the position you intend to seek?"

  "You know perfectly well it is, knave!"

  "I'm glad to hear it," he said blandly, "for if you mean to dangle after a rich husband, I fear you'll find it beyond even my considerable abilities to help you."

  Alexandra nearly choked. "Husband?" she exploded when she could once again speak. "What kind of tasteless joke is this?"

  "None at all, my dear. I am merely giving you a bit of practical advice, in case your sights are set too high. A position of governess should be within my capability to arrange — yes, even a very superior sort of governess, as long as we're careful to keep your background a secret. But if you mean to plague me to find you a husband, then I must tell you now it's out of the question."

  Seething with anger, Alexandra could barely manage to answer her arrogant interrogator. "I do not consider m-matrimony, you blackguard, be the man rich or poor! I seek only a position as governess in a decent family. Can't you get that through your witless head?"

  "Brava! I fancy that tone will stand you in good stead when you need to set your unruly charges in their place. But let us turn to more important matters. You'll need clothes, of course. I must send for Madame Gres. Then we must plan where to make your opening sortie."

  "What," Alexandra snapped, "in God's name are you talking about?"

  "I am speaking, my little fool, about finding you a position. I should have thought that was obvious by now. We shall have to bring you to the attention of those who are hiring. A word here, a nudge there, and I believe you might receive several offers."

  "I am not your little anything," Alexandra muttered, frowning. She did not trust him — not in the slightest. "Does this mean our bargain is off?" she demanded, not daring to hope he would free her so soon.

  Hawke's eyebrow quirked in mocking surprise. "Of course not. Unless you've decided to give up this quest to restore your father's honor."

  "Never!"

  "Then, Miss Mayfield, our bargain stands as well. Still, you must support yourself somehow after you leave my protection, and it is never too early to begin looking for a suitable position."