“Was he a scholar?”
Hawksley blinked. God, she was uncanny. “Yes. A very devoted scholar.”
“Then he would have taken notice of such writing.”
He caught his breath. Bloody hell. He had been so occupied with the vowels and Lord Doulton’s signature that he never even taken note of the paper.
But then, who would?
No one but the peculiar Miss Dawson . . . and very possibly his brother.
“You think this important?”
She wrinkled her slender nose. “I think that anything out of the ordinary should be explained before dismissing it.”
He gave a slow nod of his head, reaching to take the vowels and tucking them back into his pocket. He might not possess Miss Dawson’s obvious brilliance, but he did have something she lacked. The dark, seedy connections to discover the sort of information he needed.
“You are right, of course.”
She tilted her head to one side. “What are you going to do?”
“I am going to meet with someone who can assist me in translating these scribblings.”
“You have to meet with someone?” She gave a lift of her brows. “Surely you must have studied Latin while attending school?”
His lips twitched at her goading. Minx. With a swift motion he had her pinned next to the wall. He did not want her to think he was somehow lacking.
At least not in matters of importance.
Besides which, he had forced himself to behave as a gentleman throughout lunch. Surely he deserved some reward for all that tediously proper conduct?
Twirling a curl about his finger, he smiled into her widened eyes.
“I was far too busy with more practical lessons to be troubled with such nonsense.”
She attempted to appear disapproving, but she could not disguise the leap of her pulse at the base of her throat.
“I can imagine.”
He chuckled, his lips softly brushing her forehead. “There is no need to imagine when I would be happy to demonstrate.”
Her hands abruptly clutched at his arms. “Hawksley.”
“I like the sound of my name upon your lips.”
“I . . . I thought you were leaving?”
“I could be convinced to stay,” he murmured huskily.
“Sir . . . ?” she breathed.
His lips trailed over her temple before he was sucking in a deep breath. Damn. He pulled back to regard her with a brooding intensity. My God, what was it about this woman? She seduced and disturbed him in a manner he was not entirely certain he cared for.
Well, there were some parts he cared for, he acknowledged as his body quickened.
Too much.
“You are right, I must go.” He forced himself to step back, his gaze lingering on the faint flush on her cheeks before sending her a stern frown. “One thing before I go.”
“What?”
“If I discover you have spent the afternoon doing dishes I shall be very displeased,” he warned. “You are not a servant here.”
She met his gaze squarely. “What am I?”
His smile twisted ruefully.
“Perhaps my salvation.” He ran a finger along the line of her jaw. “I shall return as soon as I am able.”
Despite the stern warning that she was not to be a servant, Clara could not thwart her instinctive need to set the small house to rights.
And why should she, she reassured herself, bustling through the rooms to polish the furniture and demand that Dillon have the carpets thoroughly beaten.
If she was expected to remain at the Hawk’s Nest, then she would have it suitable for a woman of fastidious taste.
Her burst of cleaning, however, did halt outside Hawksley’s private chambers. She might not know much of the devilishly handsome pirate, but she was certain he was not a man to take such an intrusion lightly.
Whatever his ready charm, Clara was perceptive enough to sense the nearly indiscernible distance he kept about himself. It was as if he harbored a secret deep within him that he refused to share with anyone.
Perhaps even with himself.
Dusk was falling when she was at last satisfied that the rooms had been properly scrubbed, polished, aired, and arranged in precise order.
Taking a tray of tea and sandwiches to her chambers, she requested that a bath be brought up and devoted herself to washing the lingering traces of the road from her body. It was only when she was in her sensible robe and brushing her hair by the fire in her room that she turned her thoughts to the troubles at hand.
She had not missed Hawksley’s deep, biting grief at the death of his brother, nor his fierce determination to lay blame for the murder at the feet of Lord Doulton. Such strong emotions rarely allowed for logical thought, she had discovered, but she could not wholly dismiss the notion that he might very well have something to his vague suspicions.
After all, the journal did suggest his brother had broken habits of a lifetime after meeting with Lord Doulton. And then there was the unexplainable fact that his lordship had commanded her own death.
Seemingly unconnected events, but enough to earn Lord Doulton a closer inspection.
If nothing else, she had a personal need to discover more of the wretched man. Until she learned why he would send a murderous fiend to ambush her, she would be forced to keep herself hidden away.
Not an entirely unpleasant task at the moment, she had to wryly concede, but one that could not continue for long.
Soon enough she would be expected back in her cottage. She could not risk having questions raised at her absence. Not when it might jeopardize her reputation.
Setting aside her brush, Clara restlessly raised herself to her feet. Although she was weary, she knew it would be some time before she would fall asleep.
She might as well find herself something to read, she decided. It would keep her occupied until Hawksley’s return.
Not bothering with a candle, she carried her tray back to the kitchen and tidied the dishes before heading to the small library she had discovered earlier in the day. Moving down the hall, she passed the small parlor, pausing as a faint tingle of awareness feathered over her skin.
Someone was in the darkened room. Of that she was certain.
Stepping over the threshold, she scanned the darkness until she noted the darker shadow near the bay window.
“Hawksley?” she questioned softly, only to stiffen in wariness as the shadow turned in her direction. “Who are you?”
There was a moment’s pause. “How did you know I was not Hawksley?” a rich, faintly accented voice demanded.
Unafraid, Clara took another step forward. She already suspected the identity of the intruder.
“You do not smell as he does.”
A startled chuckle echoed through the heavy silence. “I beg your pardon?”
“Hawksley does not wear sandalwood, nor does he smoke cheroots.”
“Ah, you are very observant, Miss Dawson,” the gentleman murmured.
“You were at the cottage.”
“Santos. At your service.”
He stepped into the slanting moonlight to perform an elegant bow. Clara was once again struck by his sheer beauty. It was not the powerful, smoldering attraction of Hawksley, but instead an aloof perfection that was more than a tad intimidating.
“The smuggler.”
A dark brow flicked upward at her unwitting words. “So some claim, although rarely to my face.”
Clara grimaced. “Forgive me, I did not intend to insult you.”
He shrugged. “It takes a great deal to insult me, anjo.”
“It is just that you do not look like a smuggler.”
“Hmm. I wonder if I should take that as a compliment?” A faint smile curved his lips. “I suppose my vanity must insist that I do.”
Clara swallowed a sigh. She should no doubt have herself muzzled.
“Are you searching for Hawksley?”
“No, I spoke with him earlier.”
“At Hellion’s Den.”
“Hellion’s Den?”
“A gambling establishment not far from here.”
“He is gambling?” She did not bother to hide her confusion. “I thought he was meeting with a scholar?”
Santos’ lips twitched. “If anyone can assist in acquiring obscure information, it is Biddles. He is rather a legend around London. Hawksley requested that I come here until he was finished.”
“I see.” Her brows drew together as she considered his smooth explanation. Then abruptly she stiffened in outrage. “Oh. Why, that . . . toad. He sent you here to ensure that I did not slip away.”
The man’s amusement only deepened at her accusation. “Actually, I believe he was more concerned with keeping you safe. This neighborhood is not the most suitable place for a young and innocent maiden.”
“Fah.” Her hands landed upon her hips. “Dillon is here, as well as two other servants who appear quite capable of dealing with a French invasion if need be, let alone any stray criminal who might be about. Why would he believe I would have need for more protection?”
He elegantly strolled forward, his hand reaching out to touch a still-damp curl that lay against her cheek.
“I would presume it was for the same reason he felt the need to threaten me with a very nasty retribution if I dared to offer you so much as a smile.”
“What?” She frowned. “But that is absurd.”
“My thought precisely. Gentlemen, however, are rarely reasonable when a beautiful woman is involved.”
Although admiration shimmered in his gaze, Clara was too accustomed to being thought an oddity to accept his interest could be genuine. No doubt he was simply playing one of those sophisticated games that always baffled her.
“I begin to believe that London gentlemen are either blind or daft,” she said dryly.
He gently twirled the curl about his finger. “I should say that we simply possess a more refined appreciation for the rare and unique.”
Oh my. Clara blinked in astonishment. The gentleman’s charm was lethal.
“Do you work for Hawksley?” she abruptly demanded.
His gaze narrowed, as if he disliked the implication he might answer to anyone.
“I work only for myself.”
“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose in an apologetic manner. “But you are assisting him in the search for his brother’s murderer?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe Lord Doulton is involved?”
She was pleased when he considered her question for a long moment. Clearly he was a man given to thought before action. His assistance would serve Hawksley well.
“I believe he has far more of a fortune than he should have. And that he would kill to keep his newfound wealth.”
She gave a slow nod, ignoring his lingering touch as her mind was consumed with the riddle of Lord Doulton.
“There are not a great many means of gaining a fortune, illegal or otherwise,” she murmured.
“True.”
She met his gaze squarely. “I suppose you would know if he were involved in criminal opportunities?”
His lips twitched, his countenance revealing he was not offended by her delicate question.
“He has no connection to any known smugglers, thieves, or counterfeiters.”
“Ah.” She absently nibbled her bottom lip as she shifted through various possibilities. “Blackmail?”
“A possibility.”
“Yes . . . It does not, however, explain murder,” she had to concede. “You would be far more likely to do whatever necessary to keep your victims alive. They can hardly pay your demands from the grave.” Abruptly Clara became aware of Santos’s soft laughter. “What is it?”
His fingers moved beneath her chin to tilt her face upward for his inspection.
“Hawksley warned me you were most unexpected.”
“Unexpected?” She rolled her eyes upward. “I would rather say he warned you I was completely mad. I have a tendency to become rather fixated when I am working upon a riddle.”
He leaned closer, his eyes smoldering in the moonlight. “A most charming tendency.”
There was the sound of a footfall near the door, and a dangerously soft male voice sliced through the room.
“A step closer, Santos, and I shall have you drawn and quartered.”
Chapter Seven
Hawksley should no doubt have been shocked by the force of his emotions when he entered the room to find Clara practically in Santos’s arms.
He was not one of those ridiculous buffoons who allowed a woman to toy with his affection or play him for a fool. Indeed, more than one mistress had bemoaned his lack of proper sentimental feelings.
Oddly, however, he was not at all startled by the dark anger that could only be jealousy tensing his muscles. Nor by the urge to march across the room and knock the handsome Santos onto his arse.
From the moment this woman had dropped into his arms he had been plagued by a host of unfamiliar emotions. Why should tonight be any different?
With an effort, Hawksley squashed his more violent urges and conjured his nearly forgotten sense of humor. For all his sins, perhaps he deserved to be undone by a tiny angel who preferred mathematical equations to seduction.
Besides which, it had been his own daft notion to send Santos to his house. Whatever the gentleman’s danger to poor Miss Dawson’s heart, he would protect her with his very life.
Strolling forward, he watched as Santos stepped away from Miss Dawson with a lazy smile.
“Ah, Hawksley. I wish I could claim it is a pleasure to see you,” Santos drawled.
Hawksley smiled, but there was no doubting the warning in his expression. “Am I intruding, old friend?”
“If I say aye will you leave?”
Hawksley came to a halt directly in front of the smuggler. “Not even with a pistol held to my head.”
Santos chuckled. “Something that could be arranged.”
“I see that I shall have to be more specific when I request that you refrain from seducing my guests, Santos.”
“I have not seduced her.” The dark eyes slanted toward the frowning Clara. “Yet.”
Hawksley’s features hardened. He was well aware that Miss Dawson appeared a delectable morsel in that damnable sheer robe and silken curls tumbled about her shoulders. What male would not wish to devour her?
The sooner he rid himself of Santos, the better.
“Miss Dawson, will you excuse us a moment?” he murmured, his gaze never straying from his companion. “I wish to have a word with our guest.”
With a laugh Santos clapped his hand on Hawksley’s stiff shoulder. “I fear you shall have to save your dire threats for later, Hawksley. I have a pressing appointment that I dare not miss.” He captured Miss Dawson’s fingers and lifted them to his lips in a practiced motion. “Until later, meu anjo.”
“Santos,” Hawksley threatened as his friend swept toward the door, “we will finish this conversation.”
The smuggler offered a mocking bow. “I await your convenience with breathless anticipation, old friend.”
Hawksley smiled wryly as Santos vanished in the darkness. As much as it annoyed him to admit it, he possessed a liking for the audacious smuggler. They might come from differing social classes, but they were much alike.
Too much alike, that jealous voice in the back of his mind whispered. At least when it came to a taste for beautiful females.
Turning back to Miss Dawson, he reached out to stroke his hand over her soft curls.
“Santos is a dangerous rake, kitten, and one that will devour you if you do not have a care,” he murmured.
She regarded him with a hint of surprise. “Really, Hawksley, I am not so foolish as to have my head turned by his ridiculous flattery. ’Tis obvious his interest is more in aggravating you than in seducing me.”
&nbs
p; As always, Hawksley discovered himself caught off guard by her utter lack of vanity. Was the woman demented?
“By all that is holy, have you never seen yourself in a looking glass, Miss Dawson?” he demanded in exasperation. “You are exquisite. There is not a man who would not wish to seduce you. Myself included.”
She abruptly stepped backward, her hands clutching the folds of her robes together.
“Please, Hawksley, do not tease. It is not at all kind. I am well aware that gentlemen do not find me appealing.”
“Not appealing?”
“One does not reach the great age of six-and-twenty without a suitor and not be aware she is lacking in the sort of attractions men prefer.”
Hawksley felt a flare of fury at the buffoons who had dared to treat her with such disregard. He did not doubt for a moment that she was worth a dozen of them.
“I have heard that every village must have its idiot; it seems that your particular village possesses an epidemic of them,” he growled in annoyance.
She considered a moment before giving a slow shake of her head. “No, ’tis the simple fact that I am . . . not like others.”
“Which is something to be admired.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “You sound like my father.”
“Obviously a wise man.” Of their own violation his hands curled about her shoulders, pulling her close enough for him to feel the enticing heat of her body. He gritted his teeth as his body readily responded. Unlike the fools she was accustomed to, Hawksley was painfully aware of just how desirable she was. “I am certain he must have told you that you are quite special.”
“Oh yes.” Blithely unaware of the tension sizzling in the air, she gave a faint shrug. “He assured me that being intelligent and unique was something to take pride in. Easy enough for him to claim. He enjoyed the life of a recluse.”
He scanned her pale features. “But you did not?”
She paused a long moment before heaving a sigh. “There is nothing pleasant in sitting in your room and listening to the distant sound of a party you were not invited to. Nor knowing the next morning that some hostess would appear to claim that your invitation must have been lost or overlooked.”
He flinched at the unexpected jolt of pain that clutched at his heart.
Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) Page 8
