Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den)

by Ivy, Alexandra

  Clara was not about to reveal that the equations were only the beginning. That they formed the basis of a secret code that when properly calculated spelled out a poem. The beast might choke himself laughing at her.

  Perhaps not entirely a bad thing.

  “Mr. Chesterfield was not attempting to seduce me,” she bit out, shifting on the mattress. She was not at all certain how clean it might be. A worrisome thought. Perhaps even more worrisome than the large gentleman who was hovering over her like a hawk circling for a kill. “We simply possess a shared interest.”

  “Kitten, you are either astonishingly gullible or the best liar I have ever encountered,” he taunted softly.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You might consider an intellectual relationship the stuff of dreams, but I assure you any red-blooded male is interested in something a bit more . . .” His gaze deliberately lowered to her lips. “Tangible.”

  Oh my.

  A hot flash seared through her before Clara was sternly squelching it.

  “I will not discuss this with you, sir.”

  The blue gaze reluctantly returned to her flashing eyes. “You would prefer we do sums?”

  “I would prefer you tell me what is occurring. First you kidnap me, and then you announce that some gentleman I have never encountered desires me dead. I believe I am due some explanation.”

  He considered her demands for a brief moment. “Perhaps, but I have yet to decide if I trust you.”

  Trust her? Trust her? Well, that took some bloody nerve.

  “If anyone is untrustworthy it is you, sir.”

  He lifted a brow at her tart tone. “Now, my dear, is that any way to speak to the gentleman who saved you from a nasty ambush?”

  “I have only your word to prove I was in any danger in the first place. And since you are a kidnapper and a ruffian, it is only logical to assume that I am the more honest person.”

  He shrugged. “But I am larger.”

  “Larger? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It ensures that I am the one who gets to decide who is to be trusted and who is not.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “It does not have to.”

  Her lips thinned. “Barbarian.”

  “Not entirely.” Shifting back, her captor slid his arms beneath her and gently lifted her to a sitting position. Then, reaching to one side, he produced a glass of water and held it to her lips. Clara’s throat was too parched for her to dwell overmuch on whether the glass had been recently washed or if the water was fresh from the well, and taking a large gulp, she closed her eyes in relief. “Better?” he murmured.

  “Yes.”

  He pressed the half-empty glass into her hand and reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear.

  “Let us start from the beginning,” he said, ignoring her heavy sigh. “You claim you have no knowledge of Lord Doulton.”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “And you were traveling to London to meet with a Mr. Chesterfield, whom you only know through correspondence.”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  His gaze skimmed her pale features. “Your family did not object to such a scandalous journey?”

  Drinking down the last of the water, Clara set aside the glass with a small click.

  “There is nothing scandalous in my traveling to London. Besides which, I have no family. I am a lady of independence who is perfectly capable of making decisions for myself.”

  He seemed oddly displeased with her confession. Obviously he did not consider the notion that if she did possess a mythical relative, he might very well discover himself gazing down the barrel of a loaded pistol.

  “You have no guardian? No one to protect you?”

  “I have no need for protection.” Her brows drew together as he gave a short, humorless laugh. “What?”

  “For God’s sake, if any woman is in need of protection, it is you,” he growled. “Not only is a gang of thugs currently attempting to do away with you, but you are being held hostage in a bed with a dangerous ruffian.”

  She blinked at his fierce tone. “Are you dangerous?”

  With an exasperated shake of his head, he allowed his features to soften. “That depends on what sort of danger you mean. I do not intend to slit your throat or dump you in the nearest well.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  The blue eyes darkened in what was becoming a familiar manner. “Now that is a most intriguing question.”

  Distracted by a pair of green eyes and kissable lips, Hawksley nearly missed the faint sound from below. Tensing, he reached behind his back to withdraw the pistol he had shoved in the waistband of his breeches.

  Beside him Miss Dawson abruptly scooted away, clearly not having heard the soft scrape of the door opening.

  “What are you doing?”

  Leaning close, he whispered directly in her ear. “Remain here and do not make a sound.”

  He waited for her slow nod before lifting himself off the mattress and inching his way down the narrow stairs. Careful to keep low and to remain in the thicker shadows, Hawksley reached the lower floor and leaned against the wall. He had no intention of moving until his eyes managed to adjust to the darkness.

  Several moments passed before a figure slid through a slanting ray of moonlight, and his tension eased. Straightening, he stepped away from the wall.

  “Dillon.”

  Little was visible beyond a squat, blocky body. Had there been light, however, he would have seen a pug face crisscrossed with knife scars and a squashed nose that had been broken more than once. He had hired Dillon as his manservant shortly after arriving in London, more for his ability to watch his back than for any talent as valet.

  Thank God, since no sane gentleman would allow the brute near his throat with a razor.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  “Jimmy just left the road,” the servant warned in a raspy voice.

  Hawksley gave a slow nod. He had expected as much. Jimmy Blade would not easily allow a small fortune to slip through his fingers. Especially not when it would mean returning to Lord Doulton and confessing he had failed.

  “Is he coming in this direction?”

  “I’d say there is the likelihood that he’ll eventually stumble across this place.”

  Hawksley shoved the pistol back into his pants. “Take Brutus and hide him in the woods.”

  “What of you?”

  “We will wait in the tunnels. Signal when it is safe to come out.”

  “The wench may not be so pleased with your plans.”

  Hawksley gave a dismissive shrug. “The wench would not be pleased if I got down and kissed her feet, but she will do as she is told.”

  There was a moment of silence, warning Hawksley that his friend was battling a surge of amusement.

  “Or?”

  Hawksley’s lips twitched as the image of seducing Miss Dawson to his will rose to mind.

  “There are any number of possibilities I am considering,” he at last murmured.

  Dillon gave a short laugh. “Just make sure those possibilities are done quietly.”

  “I will be as silent as a mouse.”

  “And her?”

  Hawksley smiled. “Now that I cannot promise.”

  Turning on his heel, he made his way back up the stairs. He was careful to ensure that Miss Dawson was not poised to knock him upside the head or tumble him backward before stepping into the loft. He would never be fool enough to underestimate his competent angel.

  Finding her waiting upon the mattress, Hawksley moved forward. With one smooth motion he had scooped her into his arms. He paused only long enough to wrap his caped coat about her and pinch out the candle before returning to the stairs.

  “Sir, what are you about?” Miss Dawson squeaked, obviously not quite as pleased as she should be at finding herself in his arms. “Put me down at once.”

&nb
sp; He pressed her closer, not at all prepared to risk allowing her to walk down the steps on her own. She had taken a sharp blow to her head. He had no intention of having her take another tumble. Not while she was in his care.

  “Halt your squirming, kitten,” he commanded.

  “Or?” she tartly demanded.

  “Or I shall toss you out the door for Jimmy Blade to find,” he chided, carefully negotiating the stairs. Thankfully, without breaking either of their necks.

  “He is here?”

  “He soon will be.”

  “For goodness’ sake, why did you not simply say so? I have no desire to have my throat slit. There was no need to manhandle me.”

  Crossing the short hall into the kitchen, he smiled at her exasperated tone.

  “Perhaps I simply desired to manhandle you,” he murmured.

  His blunt honesty momentarily stilled her tongue. A rare occurrence, and one he was certain would not last for long.

  It didn’t.

  As he located the hidden latch that swung the china cupboard forward and stepped onto the narrow stairs that led downward, her lips were already parting.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded.

  “The cellar.”

  Hawksley made certain the cupboard was firmly back in place before continuing down to the narrow tunnel below. Only then did he slide Miss Dawson to her feet.

  “This does not feel to be a cellar,” she whispered in the thick darkness. “I believe it is a tunnel.”

  “Perhaps.”

  She pondered the knowledge a moment before drawing in a sharp breath. “Good heavens, you are a smuggler.”

  His lips twitched at her shocked tones. “Not guilty.”

  “Then why do you have a hidden door and tunnel in your cottage?”

  “It is not my cottage.”

  “Oh.”

  He smothered a chuckle. “Disappointed, kitten?”

  “Well, at the very least you are in collaboration with a smuggler.”

  Hawksley could hardly argue with her accusation. His friends included smugglers, spies, thieves, and gamblers. Most of whom possessed greater honor and higher morals than so-called noblemen.

  “Actually, Santos prefers to think of himself as a purveyor of rare objects.”

  “Rare objects such as brandy and French silk?”

  “Those might be included.”

  “Good heavens, do you possess no appreciation for the law?”

  Hawksley felt his muscles tighten. An instinctive reaction to his still-raw anger.

  After the death of his brother he had naively turned to the authorities. He had presumed they would be anxious to hang those responsible for the death of a viscount.

  What greater crime was there in all of England?

  And, indeed, they had been anxious to arrest the culprits. Only they had possessed little concern whether the culprits they arrested were actually guilty or not.

  He discovered that guilt and poverty were irrevocably linked in the minds of most gentlemen of power. The less money in your pocket, the more guilty you became. And if you happened to be foolish enough to be a foreigner in the bargain, you might as well place the noose about your own neck.

  It had taken Hawksley less than a fortnight to wash his hands of the lot of them.

  “I make my own laws, kitten,” he said in harsh tones. “A fact you would do well to recall.”

  Miss Dawson abruptly stiffened, no doubt sensing she had touched a raw nerve.

  Hawksley discovered himself regretting his sharp retort and instinctively began to offer an apology, only to hastily snap his lips shut when he realized he was being ridiculous.

  Dammit. This woman was his captive, was she not? A mere piece in the puzzle of his brother’s murder. Beyond that, she was annoying as the devil.

  But that protective urge that she seemed to stir in him refused to be denied.

  Almost as if to prove the point, she shivered, and Hawksley instinctively reached out to ensure the coat was tucked about her.

  “Are you cold?” he demanded.

  “No, I am quite warm.”

  “I felt you tremble.”

  “I was just thinking of some stranger wishing me dead. It is not a pleasant thing to consider.”

  His hands lingered, pulling her close to him. “No one is going to harm you, that I promise.”

  She shifted in his arms, as if attempting to peer at him through the thick blackness.

  “That is rather an odd promise considering that you are the gentleman currently holding me hostage,” she said dryly.

  He chuckled softly. “If you will recall, I am also the gentleman who saved your life.”

  “There is that, I suppose.” There was a moment of silence. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you rescue me?”

  Hawksley took a moment to consider his response. It would be easy to blithely assure her that he would never allow a young maiden to fall into the hands of a ruffian such as Jimmy Blade. It was, after all, no less than the truth. No gentleman with the least conscience would turn his back on a cold-blooded murder.

  But Miss Dawson was not stupid. Far from it. She would not believe for a moment his motives were completely altruistic.

  Not when he had promptly carried her off to this isolated cottage.

  “Because I thought you had some connection to Lord Doulton and I desired information from you.”

  As was her way, she accepted his less than chivalrous admission with remarkable calm.

  “You have yet to tell me what information it is you desire.”

  His fingers absently toyed with a silky curl. “Yes, I know.”

  “Perhaps I could be of some assistance if you would confide in me. I do not mean to boast, but I am rather renowned for solving problems.”

  Hawksley hastily choked back a startled laugh. “Is that so? And what sorts of problems would you be renowned for solving?”

  He felt her give a small shrug. “Oh, all sorts. Just last week the squire’s wife requested that I discover the location of the brooch she had misplaced.”

  Caught somewhere between amusement and astonishment, Hawksly cleared his throat. What other woman in all of England would be offering to assist the man who had callously kidnapped her?

  “Ah, a dire problem, indeed,” he murmured.

  “Do not sneer,” she retorted, bristling in swift offense. “It was a rather tangled investigation.”

  “Allow me to guess. The upstairs maid slipped it into her pocket?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then it fell behind cushions of the sofa?”

  “No, indeed. All of the family rooms had been searched quite thoroughly, as well as the grounds.”

  “Then where was it?”

  “In the pantry, just as I had suspected.”

  Hawksley discovered himself reluctantly intrigued. “The pantry? Why the devil would you suspect it would be there?”

  “Because it is well known that the doctor has put Millicent on a diet to help cure her gout.”

  Hawksley had always considered himself a rather shrewd gentleman. Perhaps more than merely shrewd. But not even he was capable of following her obscure reasoning.

  “What does that have to do with a brooch?”

  “Well, I could not help but notice that while Millicent was quite contentious in avoiding sweets and richer foods when in company, she still had not lost the weight that must have been expected by such a rigid diet. Indeed, she was quite obviously gaining.”

  “And?”

  “And it occurred to me that she must be sneaking into the pantry to enjoy those treats being denied her,” she concluded, not quite able to hide the note of pride in her voice. “It was, of course, a place no one would think to search for a missing brooch.”

  Hawksley smiled at her undoubted skill. Gads, if Bow Street possessed such intelligence, then his brother’s murder would have been solved months ago.

  “No one except
you.”

  “I merely used logic,” she murmured, although it was obvious that she was pleased with his admiration. “It is an approach I have found quite effective in solving most problems.”

  “Clever, indeed, but—” Hawksley abruptly cut short his words as he heard a faint sound from above. Someone had entered the cottage. Pulling Miss Dawson close, he whispered directly in her ear. “We are no longer alone.”

  She gave a nod of her head, her hand reaching up to clutch at his lapel. Hawksley covered her fingers with his own, rather surprised to discover how cold they felt.

  Damnation. She maintained such an air of implacable calm that he continually underestimated just how frightened she must be.

  He tugged her even closer, laying his cheek upon the top of her head. He would get her away from this cottage, he abruptly swore. He would not allow Lord Doulton to harm a silken hair upon her head.

  Hearing sounds from behind the cupboard, Hawksley placed a finger upon Miss Dawson’s lips in silent warning before removing his pistol and cautiously creeping up the stairs. He had no true fear that the villains would manage to discover the hidden door, but he desired to know what their plans might be.

  If they sought to lay another trap he needed to know the details.

  Pressing his ear to the wall, Hawksley closed his thoughts to all but the muffled voices that echoed through the heavy wood. At first he heard nothing more than the usual curses and barks of command as Jimmy ordered his men to make a thorough search of the cottage. Then, as it became obvious nothing was to be found, there came a growing rumble of complaints from the gang of cutthroats.

  It was obvious the men were beginning to suspect that Jimmy had led them upon a fool’s errand and were none too pleased with the notion of continuing the search in the damp night air.

  Especially not when the cottage offered a roof over their head and a nice stash of brandy.

  Hawksley gritted his teeth, sensing the inevitable even before Jimmy disgustedly agreed that there was little hope of finding Miss Dawson at such an hour.

  Replacing his pistol, he silently moved back down the stairs and placed his arm about his companion’s stiffly held shoulders. Keeping his other hand upon the wall to guide himself, he cautiously led her farther down the tunnel before coming to a halt.

  “I fear that this shall not be so simple as I had hoped,” he whispered softly.