Defiant Captive

by Christina Skye

  Dreamily, Alexandra wondered what it would be like to explore the darkened alcoves with a responsive companion. Someone with strong hands and ardent lips. Someone tall, with broad shoulders and speaking silver eyes —

  She snapped out of her reverie and found Hawke's hand lying rigid upon her arm. There was no warmth, no consideration in his touch, and that harsh realization struck her like a blow, so that she stumbled slightly upon an overturned flagstone.

  Immediately, Hawke pulled her flush to his body with an iron hand around her waist. "We've done enough walking for one night," he announced stonily. "It's time to find our box."

  He was not so graceless as to mention her limp directly, but he had come as close as possible, Alexandra thought.

  Damn you! she cried silently. Damn you for ruining this evening, which I was set on enjoying! Damn you for manipulating me, for goading me, for destroying my future!

  Most of all, damn you for fascinating me as no man ever has!

  Her hand froze upon the fragile mantelet at her throat, her eyes emerald pools in the half-light of a green lantern. Horrified, she studied Hawke's lean face and the angry frown that lined his forehead.

  It was true, Alexandra thought, sick with comprehension. He did fascinate her — at the same time that he repelled her. He had set his mark upon her that day by the high stream at Hawkeswish, just as he'd made her blood race with savage passion during the storm upon the cliffs. He had taught her ecstasy, and in so doing he had accomplished his threat.

  He had made her his woman.

  She could deny it to him, but to herself she could not.

  Choking back a sob, Alexandra curled her hands into fists and flailed blindly at his powerful fingers. "Go away!" she cried. "Haven't you hurt me enough already?"

  "Get a hold on yourself!" Hawke hissed. "I shall be delighted to release you once I'm sure you can walk." His fingers bit cruelly into her white shoulders.

  "You're hurting me, you brute! Let me go!"

  "Then stop fighting me. You can never win this game."

  "But neither can you," she sobbed. "Because I'll always fight you, don't you see? It matters not that you're stronger, richer, and more powerful. I'll always hate you, and I'll never give in!"

  Abruptly, Hawke's hands fell to his sides. He frowned to see the dusky shadows of his fingers on her shoulders. There would be bruises there tomorrow, he realized.

  A single tear glistened upon the pale curve of Alexandra's cheek. With rigid fingers Hawke brushed away the perfect silver drop. "I had no idea you hated me so much," he said, his eyes like smoke. He took a step away from her. "Since you find my company so distasteful, I shall ask Morland to attend you. No doubt you'll find him a more amiable companion." He made a slight mocking bow and then slipped off in search of his friend, haunted by the beauty of her pale, tormented face.

  Anger and pain warred in Alexandra's eyes as she watched Hawkesworth stride away. Suddenly, she'd had enough — enough of this manipulation, enough of being taunted, enough of being a pawn in this cruel game between two ruthless men.

  A gust of wind sent the lanterns swaying wildly, making shadows dance upon the path. But Alexandra barely noticed, her hand frozen at her throat as she watched Hawke's broad-shouldered form disappear down the walk. A cold trail of tears slipped down her cheeks, and she probed her tiny reticule for the scrap of cambric she carried there.

  A light step at her back told her Lord Morland had come. Embarrassed, Alexandra turned from the light and wiped her cheeks surreptitiously with the back of her hand.

  As if by magic, a folded square of white linen appeared before her blind eyes. "Thank you," she mumbled, keeping her back turned as she scrubbed her wet cheeks.

  "Have you ever noticed that handkerchiefs are never to be had when one needs them most?" Morland asked conversationally.

  Angry at her momentary weakness, Alexandra applied the cloth ruthlessly to her eyes, then sniffed defiantly and turned to face Lord Morland. "Invariably — which must make me grateful that you were on hand." She held out the cloth, a somewhat watery smile upon her face.

  "Keep it, keep it. The cloth acquits itself more nobly in your use than in mine." Morland turned to study the quiet path where Hawkesworth had vanished; his blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "He can be the worst sort of brute. I think the war did that to us. No excuse, of course, but there it is. The things we saw — the things we did to survive." He shook his head and turned back to Alexandra. "I'd go after the bloody fool and call him out if — if I didn't think that was the very last thing you'd wish me to do." His tone became gently inquisitive. "Am I correct, Miss Mayfield?"

  "I think, my lord, you see far more than most people see, and a great deal more than is comfortable."

  Morland smiled, but his eyes were deadly serious. "I'm afraid that the duchess is also to blame. You know about all that, of course."

  Alexandra carefully folded and refolded the scrap of white linen. "I know most of it — at least what Hawke has told me. I'm not really a relative of hers, you see," she confided. "He only set that story about to explain our resemblance."

  Morland whistled silently. "Good God, what's the Black Duke gone and done now? I've a feeling I won't like it by half!"

  Alexandra said nothing, her eyes bleak with sadness for a moment.

  "Tell me," Morland urged quietly.

  "What good would it do?" Alexandra's laugh was sharp with bitterness. "He's ruined me. There's nothing you or anyone else can do to change that."

  "By God, I'll see that the b—"

  "Don't get involved. He's — he's a man possessed." She put her hand on his sleeve in entreaty. "I wouldn't want your death on my conscience too." My father's death is enough, she thought.

  A shrill titter made her stiffen, and she turned to see a large party bearing down upon them, Hawkesworth at its head. The duke's silver eyes flickered across Alexandra's tear-stained face, hardening at the sight of her hand upon Morland's sleeve. Then the small woman walking beside Hawke said something that made him turn and smile down at her.

  After a tiny squeeze Morland took Alexandra's hand, set it within the crook of his arm, and pulled her briskly toward the advancing party. "Ah, Hawke, we were beginning to despair of finding you. I'd forgotten just how sprawling this place is."

  "Yes, a place easy to get lost in, but easy to be found in as well. Lord Liverpool, Lady Wallingford, Miss Wallingford, let me introduce Miss Alexandra Mayfield, a relative of my wife. This, of course, is Lord Morland, whom you must certainly know already."

  There was a small, awkward silence during which three pairs of shocked eyes studied Alexandra's face.

  Lord Liverpool was the first to speak. "Well, well. Should never have thought to see another so beautiful as the duchess. Deuced remarkable, in fact. But where have you been keeping yourself, Miss Mayfield?" The prime minister smiled conspiratorially at Hawke. "Duties keep me busy, but not so busy as that, I daresay!"

  "Miss Mayfield is only recently arrived from India, which is why you have not seen her about, Liverpool."

  The prime minister, an unprepossessing man with thinning white hair, studied Alexandra thoughtfully for a moment. "India, is it? Must seem frightfully strange to you here then. But never mind, I'm sure Hawke will take you in hand." Liverpool's keen eyes settled upon Hawke's shuttered face. "We've missed you these last months, Hawke. Glad to see you back and about. Have a few matters I'd like to discuss with you, in fact. Must get together again — soon."

  Hawke bowed formally.

  The short, rather plump woman beside Lord Liverpool pushed closer to stare at Alexandra nearsightedly. "Are you one of the Tunbridge Mayfields, my dear? Went to school with a Georgina Mayfield. Ages ago, of course — dear girl, never knew where she disappeared to." The peacock plume adorning Lady Wallingford's turban fluttered perilously.

  "Of course she is not, Mama," Hawkesworth's small dark-haired companion answered, chiding her parent brightly. "And she must think it the oddest question."
The younger Wallingford extended her hand to Alexandra. "You must count me as your friend in London, Miss Mayfield. If there is any service I can render, pray do not hesitate to ask. I'm sure everything here must seem quite — overwhelming after India."

  The younger woman's eyes sharpened for an instant, and Alexandra had the keen impression of being scrutinized like a specimen at the Botanical Gardens.

  "There are some differences, but not as many as I expected," Alexandra said coolly. "Everything is very elegant, of course, but we all must breathe the same air, as my father used to say."

  "Air?" Lady Wallingford repeated owlishly. "Surely it must be prodigiously warm over there in India. Why, dear Marjorie" — here she paused to nod energetically at that lady's husband — "was telling me just last night that humid night winds, especially the warm ones, destroy the complexion. She had it from no less than Prinny himself, who had it from the royal physician — Sudbury, I believe the man's name is."

  Alexandra could not resist a quick glance at Hawkesworth, whose lips tightened at the mention of the doctor's name.

  "When the night wind carries stinging insects, as it often did in India, then I must agree with you. As for the air itself, there are those who argue for its healthfulness."

  Lady Wallingford threw up a plump hand and nervously fanned her face with a peacock feather fan. "What a frightful thought! I hope you will not mention it to the dear prince. It would give him the most dreadful upset."

  Alexandra thought it very unlikely she would be conversing with so august a person as the prince regent, so she was quite willing to nod her assent.

  The party regrouped and moved forward toward a broader avenue leading to the supper rooms. Alexandra and Lord Morland fell into conversation with Lord Liverpool, while Hawkesworth and his partner moved slightly ahead. Morland's steady hand upon Alexandra's arm offered her sorely needed support.

  Just as they drew abreast of the large colonnaded pavilion where the orchestra was playing, Hawkesworth heard his name called loudly.

  "Hawkesworth! Glad to see you back, by Jove! Haven't met you this age! Now I've seen you, I mean to press you into service again, I warn you!" The tall speaker stopped, spying Lord Liverpool behind the duke. "So that wretch Liverpool's found you already, has he?"

  "Indeed I have, Canning. You'll have to rise early to beat me out, my good man." The white-haired prime minister smiled at this long-established but good-natured rivalry with George Canning, president of the Board of Control of the East India Company. "What does Hawkesworth want dabbling in Indian affairs, anyway? Boring bunch of nonsense — especially now that the cursed Vellore business is behind us. The real problems face us from the continent, man, even though Boney's routed at last." Here the prime minister stopped to pat the plump hand of his sister-in-law, Lady Wallingford, reassuringly. "But no more of this talk. Don't want to bore the ladies, you know."

  At the mention of Vellore, Alexandra had stiffened. Unconsciously, she dug her fingers into Morland's sleeve. A tiny choking sound emerged from her throat, and she took an unsteady step backward. Fortunately, the rest of the group were oblivious to her response, since George Canning had turned to introduce another man into their circle.

  "By God, you'll find someone here to dispute that, Liverpool. Sir Stanford Raffles has just been telling me all about Java, and how England's future lies in exactly that direction. Paints a powerful picture of the riches in the East — aye, just waiting for the first country farsighted enough to step in and take them."

  Lord Liverpool only laughed. "Sounds grand enough. But the actual doing of the thing may not be so easy. Have to discuss it over dinner sometime, Canning."

  Alexandra pulled away from Lord Morland's grip, her heart hammering in her chest. Well she knew Sir Thomas Stanford Raffles's grave intelligent face, for he had been a frequent visitor at Government House during his sojourns in Madras.

  He had been a simple Mr. Thomas Raffles then. It had been four years since he'd last seen Alexandra, but he would certainly recognize her.

  Oblivious to Morland's anxious look, Alexandra slipped farther away from the group. She stumbled blindly toward a stream of gay couples bound for the supper rooms and soon was lost in a sea of laughing, milling humanity.

  Somewhere in the darkened bowers a clock chimed the twelve strokes of midnight.

  Thick hedges along the walk muffled the sound of her flying feet. She slipped farther into the darkened heart of the gardens, her nervous fingers clutched the fragile mantelet tighter about her shoulders. For the first time she noticed that the statues were only cheap plaster and that thick layers of slime overlaid the stagnant pools.

  Muffled laughter from a nearby pavilion told her she was not alone, but she saw no one as she passed. Gradually, the walk curved, coming to an abrupt halt before a gazebo guarded by a haughty naked Adonis.

  Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by wrenching nausea so fierce it drove the breath from her lungs. In great black waves it crashed over her, sweeping away reason itself. Shuddering, Alexandra reached a weak hand to circle the base of the unsmiling Adonis.

  There, in the lee of a boxwood hedge, her forehead braced by the cold white plaster, she slid to the ground and was violently ill.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  "Foxed, eh?" A heavy figure lurched from the shadows before the gazebo. "Damned unpleasant to cast up one's accounts. Nothing else for it sometimes though." The hearty, slightly slurred voice echoed jarringly in Alexandra's ears as she fought down swelling waves of nausea. "What you need's a man's steady hand, m'dear."

  "Leave me, please. I — I need no help," she gasped unsteadily.

  She was still kneeling when his heated breath, reeking of spirits, played across her ear. "Nonsense. Wouldn't dream of leavin' you in such a state. 'Specially now as I see you're a damned prime article!" Hot, beefy fingers slid across her shrinking flesh. "Night air'll soon clear your head, m'love."

  Dimly, Alexandra felt a cool draft on her shoulders and realized he had dragged off her mantelet. "Let me go!" she cried desperately, twisting against his hot fingers.

  "Come, m'dear. Like a bit o' fight myself, but no need to carry it to excess." He leaned over her kneeling form and groped for her shoulders. "Here's a gold sovereign that says your body's willing and mine's damned able. Let's have a go in the dark then, eh? You'll see how generous I can be." Abruptly, his fingers yanked the velvet fabric from her shoulders and pinned her arms behind her, revealing the full upper curves of her breasts.

  Raw anger ripped through Alexandra, and she struggled to rise from her knees. For the first time the lantern light fell full on her features and those of her pursuer.

  She saw a man's face, fat and beefy, punctuated by two hard little eyes. Pig's eyes, Alexandra thought, sickened by the way they devoured her nakedness.

  "Stap me! Didn't recognize you, Isobel, m'love! Bloody good fortune, seein' you here like this. Damned glad that brother of yours ain't around though. Man's not good ton, if you don't mind me sayin' so, m'dear. A very bad sort. But forget about him, for we've better fish to fry." The hard little eyes tightened. "Don't try to tell me you've forgotten the last time we were here!"

  His beefy face swam before Alexandra's eyes, and his upper lip was hung with beads of sweat. With a groan, she twisted her shoulders, trying to wrest free, but her movements only inflamed her drunken swain.

  Laughing hoarsely, the man dropped to his knees and hooked his fingers in the fabric at her shoulders, then jerked her hard against his bloated stomach. "Come, filly, it's not like I don't know that teasin' body of yours already. Just thinkin' o' the last time makes me stiff as a damned pike, by God!"

  Alexandra shivered, feeling the obscene tumescence shove against her thighs. "Then you also know my husband is a very jealous man. He's close behind me even now," she lied desperately. "He'll carve you into a thousand tiny pieces if he catches you at this game."

  But her pursuer was too far gone to listen. "Rubbish! Time enough for a quick thrust or
two. Besides, Hawke'll never find us here." His eager fingers probed her chest, and he caught his breath sharply. "By God, but you've got a damned fine pair o' tits. Never saw any to compare."

  Alexandra recoiled, fighting his stubby, jabbing fingers, but her bout of sickness had left her very weak. Bile pressed against her throat, and she began to sway dizzily.

  The man beside her laughed and pinched her sensitive nipples, rolling them between rough greedy fingers. With a grunt he dropped his hand to force up her skirts.

  Sobbing, Alexandra lashed out with her sandal-shod foot and caught him soundly on the side of his knee as he squatted before her.

  "You little slut!" His open palm cracked against her cheek, sending her reeling against the plaster statue. "By God, if it's rough you want, it's rough you'll get!" Before she could regain her balance, the man lurched forward, his narrow pig's eyes hard and brittle. His fingers clawed her shoulder and wrenched the fabric of gown and shift brutally, leaving a jagged hole above her pale breasts.

  Panting breath thick with whiskey fumes bathed her face as he pried at the remaining strap of her shift. "Come, Isobel. You've the heart of a whore, or so you once bragged to me. Let's see you prove it." He was thrusting against her wildly now, inflamed with desire. "Should have been rougher with you last time, by God! Would have made even better sport."

  Caught up in his lust, he did not hear the quiet powerful footsteps upon the walk. Out of the night Hawke strode, an unrelenting sweep of black — sable hair, shadowed face, and darker garments. The only points of light came from his silver eyes and the shining folds of his neckcloth.

  Without warning Hawke's hard muscled arm shot beneath the man's fat chin and jerked him high into the air, lifting his bulk until his feet dangled helplessly above the ground and he choked.

  The sound of harsh, desperate gagging made Hawke remember other men who had choked as they died — men who had pounded across the dry Portuguese plains as if nothing or no one on earth could halt their forward rush.