Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den)

by Ivy, Alexandra

  Santos flicked a black gaze toward the cottage. It belonged to him. Just one of a dozen hideaways he possessed outside of London.

  “Any trouble?” he demanded.

  Hawksley grimaced. “That depends on what you consider trouble.”

  A dark brow arched in amusement. “Miss Dawson?”

  “She is not precisely what I expected.”

  “Does that please or disappoint you?”

  Awry smile twisted his lips. “She makes my head ache.”

  “Ah . . . She pleases you, then.”

  Hawksley gave a short laugh. Only Santos could consider a woman who made his head ache as pleasing. No doubt he thought being shot at by Excise men a nice means to round out the evening.

  “Did you discover Jimmy?”

  There was a brief nod of the dark head. “Yes, he is still hidden just beyond Westerham.”

  “It will not take him long to realize the carriage is never going to arrive,” Hawksley murmured. “Did you cover our tracks?” He glanced up to meet a steady black gaze. “Ah, of course you did, forgive me. Where is Dillon?”

  “He will keep watch on the cottage. You need not fear any unexpected visitors.”

  “And what of you?”

  A faint smile touched the dark eyes. “I have some business in the area. I will not be far away.”

  Hawksley did not inquire into the nature of the man’s business. He was fairly certain he did not want to know. Instead he turned back toward the cottage, not surprised to discover Miss Dawson standing with her nose pressed to the window.

  At least she had not attempted to escape up the chimney.

  “I do not know how long this might take. I sense Miss Dawson will not make this simple.”

  “Women rarely do,” Santos murmured, stepping to his side. He seemed to still as a lingering slant of sunlight suddenly fell across the woman’s silver cloud of hair and delicate features. “Mãe de Deus, is that her?”

  Hawksley discovered a frown forming on his forehead.

  “Yes.”

  “Ah . . . anjo magnifico. Perhaps my business is not so pressing after all.”

  The frown deepened. “Do not even consider it, old friend. For the moment she is mine.”

  A knowing gaze slashed in his direction. “And when you have your information?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  An expression that Hawksley did not care for settled on the too-handsome features.

  “Yes . . . it does.”

  With one last glance toward the window, Santos moved to swing himself atop his horse, barely hitting the saddle before he was reeling his mount around and charging toward the trees.

  Hawksley watched his departure before striding back toward the cottage and the woman waiting within.

  No, not the woman.

  His woman.

  At least for the moment.

  Clara was in a decided quandary.

  As a rule, she had discovered that her logical approach to life kept most troubles at bay. She did not impulsively leap into decisions or allow her heart to lead her into foolishness. Indeed, her days were carefully planned, with few opportunities for surprises to occur.

  Most maidens would no doubt find her existence tedious.

  There might even be a few occasions when she found her existence tedious.

  But her current situation did not lend itself to her usual sensible approach. Kidnappings rarely did.

  And certainly her kidnapper defied any sort of logic.

  How was she to reason with a man who utterly aggravated her one moment and the next made her heart leap with shivering excitement?

  No closer to an answer, Clara turned from the window. Her captor was returning, and his expression was once again set in those grim lines.

  More aggravation and less heart leaping, she acknowledged with a faint sigh.

  As if to prove her point, the gentleman entered the cottage and shut the door with far more force than necessary. Walking across the floor, he stood before her with his arms crossed and his gaze narrowed.

  She crossed her own arms and met his gaze squarely. “Who was that?” she demanded, referring to the dark, rather frighteningly beautiful stranger. “Is he an accomplice of yours? Does he know I am being kept here against my will?”

  “You ask a great number of questions,” he retorted.

  Clara shrugged. “So I have been told.”

  “Well, from now on I shall be the one asking the questions.”

  “That does not seem entirely fair,” she protested.

  “I rarely play fair.” He took another step closer. “You might as well have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

  Clara glanced over her shoulder at the small bench directly behind her. Then her head swiveled back to discover the impossibly blue eyes watching her closely.

  “You want me to sit there?”

  His brows drew together. “Is there a problem?”

  “I am not convinced the bench is entirely clean.”

  He regarded her for a long moment, as if not certain he had truly heard her correctly. Then, glancing toward the heavens, he reached into his pocket to remove a handkerchief.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, moving to dust the bench with a bristling impatience. “Now are you satisfied?”

  “Actually I believe you missed a place just—”

  Strong arms grasped her shoulders and pressed her downward. “Sit.”

  Clara pursed her lips. There had been dust. And now it was no doubt staining her best carriage gown.

  “You need not growl at me,” she said.

  Again his eyes lifted to the heavens. “How old are you?”

  “Six-and-twenty. Why?”

  “I was just curious as to how you lived to such a great age without being throttled.”

  “More luck than skill, I expect.”

  His gaze shot back to her countenance, then without warning he gave a short, reluctant laugh. Clearly he found her brilliant ability to annoy others a source of amusement.

  Ah well, at least the grim features had softened and the air of danger crackling about him lessened to a muted tingle.

  He was once again the handsome ruffian who made odd things flutter within her.

  “Enough,” he murmured. “You possess information I need.”

  Clara sighed. He was certainly persistent. Like a fly that refused to be shooed away.

  “I cannot imagine what it might be. Not unless you possess an interest in mathematics or riddles.”

  He shifted back on his heels and peered down the long length of his nose.

  “What is your relationship to Lord Doulton?”

  This was the information he desired? “Lord Doulton?”

  “Do not pretend you do not know of him.”

  She stiffened. She did not care for his tone. It sounded decidedly accusing.

  “Of course I know of him,” she said tartly. “My governess insisted I learn all the names of the titled families as well as their tedious heirs, although I could never comprehend why. It is not as if I shall ever have need to move among society.”

  “What is his connection to you?”

  “There is none. He is not related to me, nor have we ever met.”

  The thin nose flared. “You are lying.”

  Clara surged to her feet, an angry heat flushing her cheeks. Why . . . the . . . the . . . She was too angry to conjure an appropriate insult. He had just branded her a liar. Her. Miss Clara Dawson, who never lied.

  If her father had not insisted that good manners were essential no matter what the situation, she would have stomped on his toes.

  “I do not lie, sir,” she gritted. “Why should I?”

  His eyes narrowed. “That is what I intend to discover.”

  “There is nothing for you to discover.”

  “There has to be something.”

  Clara forced herself to suck in a deep breath. His tenacity was becoming less a source of annoyance and more a source
of downright harassment.

  “Why? Why do you presume I have something to do with this Lord Doulton?”

  There was a silent beat before he stabbed her with a glittering gaze.

  “Because he wants you dead.”

  Clara’s heart stopped beating and then an odd buzzing entered her ears.

  “What did you say?”

  “He has hired a gang of ruffians led by a very nasty bloke named Jimmy Blade to ambush your carriage and murder you. There must be some reason why.”

  Clara swayed in shock.

  Dead? Someone wanted her dead?

  No. It was not possible. She opened her mouth to protest but no sound came out. Instead a wave of darkness slammed into her. She thought her knees might have buckled, but it was impossible to determine. The darkness had taken hold and she thankfully knew no more.

  Hawksley muttered his way through his favorite list of curses as he snatched up the unconscious Miss Dawson and carried her to the loft. It was a long list, but he went through it twice more as he carefully tucked his captive on the mattress tossed on the floor and covered her with his caped coat.

  He did not want to miss one.

  Returning down the narrow flight of stairs, he tore his way through the cupboards, shifting aside the inevitable bottles of brandy until he at last discovered the small flask of whiskey. Taking several long pulls, he waited for the fiery spirit to settle his rattled composure before collecting a glass of water and returning to the loft.

  Damn and blast.

  The woman had scared the hell out of him when she had so abruptly fainted. It had occurred so quickly he had barely managed to take a step forward before she had toppled backward, banging her head on the bench before crumpling onto the floor.

  Just for a moment he had been terrified the blow to her head had killed her. Although there was no blood, she had been shockingly pale as she lay in a motionless heap. Dropping onto the floor beside her, he had nearly swooned himself when he felt the steady pulse.

  It was then he had gathered her in his arms and taken her to the loft.

  And began swearing at his stupidity.

  Setting aside the water, Hawksley settled himself on the edge of the mattress and studied the woman lying beneath the blanket.

  Darkness had nearly enveloped the cottage, but there was still enough light to make out the delicate features and the dark fringe of lashes that rested against her pale cheeks. Instinctively he reached out to brush a silver curl behind her ear.

  Damn, but she looked so fragile. And far too innocent to be involved with a scurrilous creature like Lord Doulton.

  Whatever the reason the blackguard desired this woman dead, Hawksley was finding it increasingly difficult to believe she had been intimately involved in his brother’s death.

  She might be aggravating to a near-historic degree and far too outspoken for a proper lady, but she was incapable of deception. He was certain of that.

  How he could be so certain was a matter he did not bother to ponder.

  Keeping his vigil at her side, Hawksley was at last forced to go in search of a candle as the darkness filled the loft. He had just set it on a low stool when Miss Dawson gave a moan and her lashes slowly fluttered open.

  Returning to the mattress he hovered over her, his hand pressing against her shoulder when she attempted to lever herself upright.

  “No, do not move,” he commanded softly.

  Baffled green eyes clung to his countenance, as if attempting to determine why she might be lying on her back in a darkened loft.

  “What happened?” she at last demanded.

  “You fainted.”

  Her brows snapped together. “I told you, I never faint.”

  “Then you must be an extraordinary actress,” he retorted in wry tones. “I have seen any number of women swoon on cue, but you are the first to roll your eyes back and thump your head upon a bench.”

  Her hand lifted to gingerly touch the lump that no doubt was still aching.

  “Ah. That would explain the pain in my head.”

  Hawksley resisted the urge to smile. He was beginning to expect the unexpected with this woman.

  “You collapsed too quickly for me to prevent your plunge to the floor. On the next occasion you might at least offer some small signal. That way I can be properly prepared to avert disaster.”

  “I have no intention of fainting again.” Her lips thinned in disapproval. “I would not have done so in the first place had you not made that absurd claim.”

  His amusement died a swift death. “Kitten, there is nothing absurd about it.”

  “It must be,” she insisted. “Why would anyone desire to kill me? I live alone in a small village with no relatives, little money, and few friends. The only things I possess of value are my father’s books, and they are not worth more than a few pounds.”

  “Lord Doulton must possess some reason.”

  “There can be no reason. He does not even know me.”

  “Then how do you explain the fact that Lord Doulton not only knew your name as well as where you live, but he also knew the precise day you would be traveling to London?”

  She bit her bottom lip, her brow creased. “I cannot say, although my trip was no secret. I would suppose most of my neighbors knew of my travel plans.”

  He considered the possibilities for a moment. Could Lord Doulton have some association to the village? Some nefarious dealings there that this woman might be jeopardizing?

  Possible, but he was not going to leap to conclusions.

  “Did you write to tell anyone in London of your arrival?”

  “I . . .” Surprisingly, her words trailed away as a hint of a blush touched her cheeks.

  Hawksley discovered his curiosity fully roused. “What?”

  “I did send a message to Mr. Chesterfield, but I cannot be certain he received my note.”

  “Chesterfield? He is a relative?”

  “No . . . he is . . . an acquaintance.”

  Hawksley shifted on the mattress, planting a hand on each side of her shoulders. He did not care for the notion that this woman was traveling to London to visit some male acquaintance. And he certainly did not care for the notion that this male acquaintance might be the reason Miss Dawson was hoarding her first kiss.

  “You were slipping off to London to meet a gentleman? Really, Miss Dawson. That is hardly the behavior of a proper lady.”

  She tightened her lips, although he could sense a lingering embarrassment she attempted to keep hidden.

  “I was concerned for him.”

  “Why?”

  “I really do not feel it is any of your business.”

  Hawksley smiled. Ah, she had no notion.

  “At the moment, everything about you is my business.”

  “You cannot force me to tell you.”

  Her words echoed through the empty cottage. Rather audacious for a woman being held captive by a strange gentleman far from any hope of rescue.

  Of course, he was beginning to suspect that Miss Dawson made a habit of audacity.

  He lowered his head until their noses were nearly touching. “I may not be capable of forcing you, but I can certainly keep you in this bed until you do so.”

  She unwittingly licked her lips, although he did not believe it was from fear. Or even from intimidation.

  Not when her eyes had darkened to that intriguing shade of emerald.

  “You cannot keep me here,” she breathed. “My reputation will be ruined.”

  Her reputation was not precisely what was on his mind at the moment.

  “Then tell me what I wish to know.”

  “I have nothing to tell.”

  Turning his head, he allowed his lips to softly stroke the tender skin just below her ear. She sucked in a rasping breath, but she made no move to push him away.

  “Why were you going to visit Mr. Chesterfield?” he demanded. “Did you hope for him to become your lover?”

  He felt her stiffen ben
eath him. “Certainly not. Our relationship was not of that sort.”

  A hot rush of satisfaction flared through him. Ridiculous, but what was a gentleman caught in throes of lust to do?

  “What sort of relationship was it, then?”

  “We knew each other on an . . . an intellectual level.”

  Hawksley pulled back to regard her with a lift of his brows. “On a what?”

  “An intellectual level.”

  “And what precisely would that be?”

  Perhaps sensing his stirring amusement, she gave a small sniff. “We have corresponded with one another but we have never actually met in person.”

  “Never so much as exchanged a glance? Hellfire. I must say that this Mr. Chesterfield must possess a golden quill to lure a proper young lady from her home to join him in London,” he murmured. “Did he bewitch you with love poems and promises of happily ever after?”

  Her expression became decidedly huffy.

  “If you must know, he sent me mathematical equations.”

  “Math . . .”

  Hawksley could not help himself. Tilting back his head, he laughed with startled enjoyment.

  Chapter Four

  Clara was not surprised by her kidnapper’s amusement. Although naïve, she was not a fool. She knew that most gentlemen did not seek out ladies for their intelligence, or for their sensible nature. How could she not know?

  They wanted women they desired. Women who charmed them and played those mysterious games she had never been capable of learning.

  Still, she did not entirely appreciate his boorish reaction. So, she was not the sort of female to attract gentlemen. So, night after night she found herself sitting at home rather than being invited to the numerous entertainments held about the village. At least Mr. Chesterfield appreciated her unique qualities.

  There was no need to mock.

  Glaring into the beautiful features that could make a woman’s heart forget to beat, Clara waited for him to gain control of his mirth.

  “Are you quite finished?” she at last demanded.

  The blue eyes continued to smolder in the flickering candlelight. “I must admit that I have never considered using mathematical equations to seduce a woman.”