Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den)

by Ivy, Alexandra

  “I was right. You live in a village of idiots.”

  “No, it was not their fault. Or at least, not entirely.”

  His brows snapped together. “What the blazes do you mean?”

  “You said yourself that I am an eccentric,” she reminded him simply. “I believe you even claimed me a lunatic. And you were not wrong.”

  His hands tightened upon her. By gads, he had never intended to hurt her.

  “Kitten . . .”

  “You were right,” she overrode his soft protest, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight. “I have never managed to mix easily with others. I do not comprehend the jests that others find so amusing, or possess the talent to dazzle gentlemen with my wit. I even manage to annoy the servants who wait upon me.” She gave a faint sigh. “’Tis not that I have not tried to change. I practice before mirrors and even memorize precisely what I should say when at a party. Unfortunately, it never comes out right. I am like a dancer who is always one step out of beat.”

  A voice of foreboding whispered in the back of Hawksley’s mind as he shifted his hands to frame her countenance.

  Her words had been calmly spoken, her demeanor more of bewilderment than a plea for sympathy, but they managed to stir wounds long forgotten.

  He knew what it was to feel unappreciated and unwanted. To struggle to please only to fail despite his best efforts.

  It was a vulnerability within him that he kept sternly protected. Not even Fredrick had been allowed to see into his heart. His brother, like everyone, had believed in Hawksley’s magnificent air of wicked disdain.

  For once, however, he ignored the prickling unease that warned of impending danger.

  He would not pull away from this woman who had so readily laid her heart bare to him.

  “Why should you desire to mix with such obvious dolts? You are better served without them,” he assured her gently.

  A hint of sadness settled about her. “Perhaps, but I cannot deny that there are times I wish I were not quite so alone.”

  Alone. His eyes slid closed. He was intimately familiar with the sensation.

  Or he was as a rule.

  Rather to his surprise he discovered that he did not feel alone at the moment.

  Not with this woman held in his arms.

  He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing in deeply of her feminine scent.

  “You are not alone now, kitten, you are with me, and I assure you that I possess the good sense to appreciate your fine qualities.”

  She slowly tilted back her head to regard him with wide eyes. No doubt at last sensing the awareness thick in the air.

  “Hawksley . . .” she breathed.

  A shudder wracked through him. He had warned himself a dozen times on his way back to the Hawk’s Nest that he must remember he was a gentleman. Holding a proper lady against her will was scandalous enough without adding her seduction to his sins.

  But no amount of honor could halt the searing urge to know her touch, to feel her lips beneath his own.

  “Clara . . . my sweet angel . . . I want to taste of you,” he husked, holding her gaze with smoldering need. “Will you allow me?”

  She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips, the unwitting motion clenching the muscles of his thighs.

  “Taste?”

  “I want to kiss you.”

  “Oh.” She gave his plea a moment of consideration. “Why?”

  Despite his aching urgency Hawksley could not halt a small laugh. “Not everything has a reasonable explanation, Miss Dawson. Indeed, there are some things that should be left a mystery.”

  She regarded him with a somber expression. “Such as kisses?”

  “Such as kisses.” He stepped until her soft curves were pressed to his own. Still holding her face in his hands, he lowered his head until he was a breath from her lips. “Give me leave, kitten. I will not steal what should be offered freely.”

  Her hesitation could not have lasted more than a heartbeat, but to Hawksley it seemed as if it were an eternity.

  “Yes,” she at last whispered.

  “Yes.”

  With a groan he softly touched her lips, fiercely reminding himself she was an innocent. Certainly there was passion enough beneath her proper manner, but she had no experience with the darker desires. He must take care not to startle her with his hunger.

  Unfortunately his silent lecture did nothing to prepare him for the satin sweetness of her mouth. Barely sweeping over her lips, he gasped as a flood of gut-wrenching pleasure surged through his body.

  Holy hell. He had expected to enjoy her. A lot. The truth had simmered between them from their first glance.

  But this . . . this was magic.

  Sliding his fingers into her hair he tilted her head back, allowing himself to slowly savor the taste and feel of her. Over and over he kissed her, outlining her lips with the tip of his tongue and nuzzling the corner of her mouth.

  In the darkness she gave a low moan, her body arching instinctively closer to the growing hardness of his own. His breath caught as her arms lifted to encircle his neck, and all too easily he allowed himself to forget the danger to be had in her ready capitulation.

  Instead his caresses deepened.

  Urging her lips apart, he teased her tongue with his and swept his hands gently down the curve of her neck. By gads, this must be heaven, he fuzzily acknowledged, feeling the softness of her warm skin beneath his fingers.

  Heaven complete with his own angel.

  The robe proved to be a meaningless barrier as he impatiently tugged it open to allow his hands greater freedom to explore her curves. He growled as he encountered the soft thrust of her breasts. They were as sweet and delicate as the rest of her. And utterly perfect.

  He cupped them gently, allowing his thumbs to brush over the puckered nipples.

  She murmured restlessly against his lips but made no move to pull away. Indeed, her arms tightened about his neck in obvious approval.

  Bloody hell, he was on fire. His erection strained painfully against the tight breeches and his hands trembled as if he were an overeager youth rather than a man of sophistication.

  More, he needed more. More, more, more.

  The word drummed like a litany through his blood as he tore his lips from her mouth and branded an urgent path of kisses down her neck, his arms encircling her waist to raise her off the floor.

  With swift strides he was across the room and lowering her onto the narrow sofa. For a breathless moment he simply regarded her with astonishment. In the moonlight her curls shimmered like priceless silver, her features the purest ivory. And most enticing of all were the emerald eyes that shimmered with an invitation as old as time.

  Careful to keep from crushing her, he lowered himself on top of her body, giving a groan of satisfaction as his swollen muscles pressed into the curve of her hip.

  “Perfect . . . You are so perfect . . .” he muttered, his mouth moving down the line of her collarbone and at last to the softness he craved.

  “Hawksley . . .” she breathed in shock as his lips at last closed about the straining tip of her breast.

  It was the sound of her voice that made him pause and allowed his niggling conscience to be heard over his pounding heart.

  He had only meant to kiss her, it reminded him. Just a taste. Not to take the innocence that did not belong to him.

  With a savage curse he battled to gain control of his biting lust. Not an easy task when he knew with a few swift movements he could have himself free of his breeches and thrust deep into her heat.

  And it most certainly did not help matters to have her hands clinging to his shoulders as if she possessed not the slightest sense of self-preservation.

  What woman with the least amount of wits would trust him to be the one to halt matters before they tumbled beyond control?

  A woman utterly unfamiliar with her own passions, a voice reminded him in the back of his mind.

  Damn and blast, it was no wonder chival
ry had died out.

  It was a ghastly business.

  Sucking in deep, rasping breaths, Hawksley pressed himself onto his elbows, his body threatening open mutiny.

  “Holy hell . . . This is where you are supposed to slap my face and tell me that I go too far, kitten,” he muttered in the thick silence.

  Below him she blinked in confusion, as if she had been rudely interrupted from a particularly pleasant dream.

  “But I do not wish to slap you. I very much enjoy your kisses.” She stilled, a sudden concern darkening her eyes. “Do I not please you?”

  Not please him? A groan was wrenched from his throat. He was so hard he was damn well near to exploding and she asked if she did not please him?

  “My God, if you knew precisely how much you please me, you would be locked in your rooms and hidden beneath your bed.”

  Pleasantly floating within the warm sensations that shimmered through her body, Clara regarded the man poised above her with a hint of impatience.

  Everything had been going along splendidly. At least as far as she had been concerned.

  His kisses had been just as glorious as she had suspected they would be. Tender and yet demanding a response she was quite eager to offer.

  And as for those hands . . .

  Well, she had feared she might actually catch fire as they had so skillfully smoothed over her body.

  She had wanted nothing more than for him to continue with his intoxicating seduction. It seemed somehow a crime to halt so abruptly.

  “I do not understand, Hawksley,” she whispered. “If I please you, then what is the matter?”

  His jaw locked as he took stock of her disappointed expression.

  “Do you desire to be my mistress, Miss Dawson?”

  She faltered at his blunt question.

  “I . . .”

  “A few moments more and I will be inside you and any claim to innocence you might possess will be lost forever,” he pressed with grim determination, obviously determined to make her realize that the cost of such pleasure was higher than any respectable lady should be willing to pay.

  Unfortunately for him, Clara was not like any other lady. Instead her eyes widened in astonishment.

  “You wish to make love to me?”

  “Make love to you?” He gave a disbelieving blink, as if he wondered if she was jesting. “I wish to carry you upstairs and drown in your heat. I wish to take you over and over and listen to you scream in pleasure. In truth, if I had my way I would tie you to my bed so that you could never leave. Does that not shock you?”

  She met his blazing gaze squarely, still not able to accept such a man could ever find her desirable. For so long she had convinced herself that she must be somehow repulsive to men. It was little wonder her notorious logic was decidedly absent.

  “It should, of course,” she conceded ruefully.

  “But . . . ?”

  “But I discover I must be shameless as well as eccentric. I find your kisses far too thrilling for an innocent maiden.”

  His eyes squeezed shut as if he were in actual pain. “Bloody hell, kitten, you shall surely be the death of me.” Sucking in a rasping breath, he fluidly pushed off her willing body and held out an imperious hand. “Come, it is time you were safely tucked in your bed.”

  Allowing herself to be lifted to her feet, Clara absently tugged the belt about her robe tighter, her brow furrowed at his abrupt dismissal.

  “But you have not yet told me of your meeting,” she reminded him. “Did you discover anything of value?”

  “We shall discuss what I learned on the morrow,” he said, his voice strained.

  “But I wish to—”

  Her words ended in a squeak as he easily reached out to pluck her from the floor and lifted her until they were eye to eye. Only then did she become fully aware of the torment shimmering in the indigo gaze.

  “Miss Dawson . . . Clara . . . I beg if you have any compassion for me at all, you will return to your chambers and lock your door.”

  “Oh.” Her heart gave a tiny flutter. Perhaps it would be best to speak in the morning, she had to concede. At the moment her thoughts possessed the most disturbing tendency to stray in forbidden directions. Not surprising when pressed against a very handsome, very wicked pirate. “Very well.”

  Chapter Eight

  Hawksley awoke with a curse, the slanting morning sunlight revealing that he had managed to oversleep.

  Not that he couldn’t be excused for his rare indulgence, he grouchily acknowledged. He had paced the floor for hours as he had battled the urge to toss nobility into the midden heap and give in to the passion pulsing through his body.

  Why should he not?

  He was a rake, a scoundrel, and a perpetual disappointment to his family and the world in general. Why should he balk at seducing a female who was clearly as eager as himself to explore the smoldering desire?

  He would ensure she was well pleased, both in bed and out. Hell, he would lavish her as if she were a princess.

  In the end, however, he had forced himself to splash his face with cold water and crawl beneath the blankets to fantasize what he would be doing with Clara if only he were not such a fool.

  There was something about the woman that brought out a sense of honor he barely knew he possessed. And made him long for her . . . what?

  Her respect, he at last concluded with a hint of embarrassment.

  Absurd, but there it was.

  With a shake of his head he plunged himself in the bath that had been left for him and shaved without assistance. Once clean he attired himself in the plain black garb that he had donned since his brother’s death and pulled his still-damp hair into a ribbon at his neck.

  The house was silent as he made his way down the stairs, and a frown touched his brow as he searched through the parlor and dining room to no avail.

  He began to suspect where his missing guest might be discovered.

  Angling toward the back of the house he entered the kitchens, halting at the doorway in sudden amazement.

  Oh, not at the sight of his angel dusted with flour and her silver curls already tumbling from her tidy knot. That was a sight he fully expected to discover.

  It was the squat, pug-nose man standing beside her that made him choke back a sudden laugh.

  Covered in a large apron with his countenance red with exertion, the one-time thief was busily pummeling a lump of dough with obvious relish.

  At his side Clara gave a light laugh, reaching out to pull back his large fists. Hawksley’s heart gave an odd leap at her engaging smile, and suddenly the morning seemed a bit brighter.

  “No, no, Dillon, you are not attempting to murder the dough,” she corrected the burly servant, taking the dough into her slender hands to knead it with a rolling motion. “You must fold it gently and wait for it to tell you when it is done. You see?”

  Dillon regarded her in understandable horror. “The devil I will. I am an Englishman, not some bloody French chef. The day I fondle a lump of dough is the day you might as well have me neutered and tossed into the gutter.”

  Hawksley bit his lip as Clara slanted the man a wide-eyed glance. “Well, if you wish your crust to be a charred, tasteless lump, then by all means continue to pummel it like a proper Englishman.”

  For a moment Dillon merely glared at her, and then clearly no more immune to those beautiful green eyes than Hawksley, he moved forward to snatch the dough from her hands.

  “Blast it all . . . Give it here.”

  Watching with the eye of a master chef, Clara at last gave a satisfied nod of her head.

  “Much better, Dillon. I shall turn you into a proper cook yet.”

  The servant merely snorted, although Hawksley did not miss the covert smile of pleasure that touched his lips.

  “If you tell anyone of this I shall . . . Well, I cannot think of anything horrible enough to threaten you with that Hawksley wouldn’t have me flayed for, but I assure you it will be dire.”
/>   Unperturbed by the gruff warning, Clara gently patted his arm. “My lips are sealed. Now while you finish that, I shall take Hawksley his tray.”

  With those concise, deliberate motions that fascinated him, Clara plucked a heavy tray from the counter and moved toward the door.

  Swiftly Hawksley backed into the corridor and awaited her in the shadows. What he had to say to her would be best said in private.

  Holding still until she was nearly level with him, Hawksley reached out to firmly snatch the tray from her hands.

  “On how many occasions must I remind you that you are not a servant in my home?”

  Stifling a gasp, she clutched her hands to her heart. “I was merely bringing you your breakfast.”

  His features hardened at her defensive words. It was not that he was offended by the knowledge that she had already taken firm control of his household. Or that she had clearly bewitched his staff.

  It was quite simply a deep offense at the thought of her waiting upon him as if she were a lowly servant.

  “I am well aware of what you were doing and I assure you that it is utterly unnecessary. If I desire breakfast I am perfectly capable of entering the kitchen and retrieving it for myself.”

  She blinked at the edge in his voice. “Are you angry?”

  “Yes.”

  She bit her lip, her gaze wary. “I suppose I have rather taken over your home . . .”

  “’Tis not that.” With a hint of impatience he balanced the tray on one hand and reached out to grasp her arm with the other. “Come in here.”

  Too startled to properly argue, Clara allowed herself to be tugged into the small morning parlor where Hawksley set aside the tray and turned to regard her with his arms folded.

  “What is the matter, Hawksley?” she demanded.

  “You are my guest here,” he said in stern tones. “If the house or food is not pleasing to you, then I shall hire servants to have it made suitable. You are not to tire yourself working as a common scullery maid.”

  Surprisingly, a small flush touched her cheeks, although he could not be certain if it was pleasure at his insistence or anger that inspired the delicate color.

  “I told you I enjoy such work.”