Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den)

by Ivy, Alexandra

  With a lingering kiss upon her inner thigh, Hawksley pressed himself upward, entering her with one smooth thrust.

  His teeth ground together as her tightness clamped about his erection. Oh . . . God. She felt so damnably good. As if she had been made just for him.

  Burying his face in her hair, he greedily inhaled her female scent.

  “I will never tire of you, kitten,” he whispered in her ear. “Never.”

  Her arms wrapped about him as Hawksley steadily stroked himself into her heat. She was soft and welcoming and everything he desired in a woman.

  Keeping his pace steady, he reached down his hand to find her pleasure point, teasing her back to full arousal. Her nails clenched his back and her breath quickened in response.

  Pulling back, he reveled in the emotions playing over her delicate features. She had never appeared more lovely, with her lips slightly parted and her eyes smoldering with desire.

  All too quickly the tension built within him. As much as he wanted to prolong the exquisite pleasure, he was unable to halt the gathering climax.

  Lifting himself onto his hands, he pressed himself ever deeper, listening to her soft pants as her hips lifted to accept him. Her hands shifted to grip his surging hips, pulling him ever deeper as together they exploded in searing delight.

  Sucking in a rasping breath, Hawksley collapsed on top of her, shuddering as a warm peace enfolded him.

  This was how a man was meant to make love to a woman, he told himself with a contented smile.

  It was how he intended to make love to this particular woman for the rest of his life.

  Hours later, Clara absently toyed with the food upon her plate.

  In many ways she was utterly content. What woman would not be, she wryly acknowledged. A day spent in bed with Hawksley was surely the stuff of dreams.

  As a lover he was passionate, tender, and surprisingly playful. She could not recall when she had laughed so much as she had lying in his arms.

  But while she cherished the moments she spent with Hawksley, she could not deny that there was a growing restlessness in the back of her mind.

  She could never be fully at ease when there was a puzzle to be solved.

  Certainly not with a puzzle as important as discovering the identity of Fredrick’s murderer.

  Unaware of the lazy blue gaze that kept close track of her growing distraction, Clara was startled when Hawksley abruptly broke the silence.

  “Is there something wrong with your trout?”

  With an effort she forced her thoughts back to the small dining room, and more importantly back to the handsome gentleman sprawled in the seat opposite her.

  A faint amusement raced through her as her gaze lingered over the chiseled features and broad form. With his raven hair pulled to his nape and his earring glinting in the candlelight, he looked deliciously wicked.

  Goodness, what woman in her right mind could have taken her mind off him for a moment? Especially a woman who could never have dreamed in her wildest fantasies she could attract his attentions?

  It was little wonder she had been left firmly upon the shelf.

  “Oh no, it is perfect,” she protested. “Mrs. Black has proven to be very skilled in the kitchen.”

  A raven brow flicked upward. “There must be some reason you are not eating.”

  She grimaced, well aware she could hide nothing from his piercing gaze.

  “I was thinking of Lord Doulton.”

  “Yes, well, that is enough to make anyone lose their appetite,” he growled, his features tightening at the mere mention of the man’s name. “Were you thinking anything in particular?”

  She blew out a frustrated sigh. “I was simply attempting to straighten things out in my mind.”

  “Were you successful?”

  “Not particularly,” she confessed. She hated the feeling that she had overlooked something important. Something that might very well help Hawksley. “What I need is paper and a pen.”

  There was a short pause as he regarded her in a searching manner. Then with an elegant motion he was on his feet and pulling out her chair for her.

  “Very well, we can retire to the library.” In silence they left the room and moved down the short hall to the book-lined room. Clara waited while Hawksley lit the candles upon his desk and pulled out a piece of parchment and a pen. “Here you are.”

  Taking a seat at the desk, she pulled the writing implements toward her and gathered her thoughts.

  A lesser woman might very well have been distracted by the large pirate who leaned over the back of the chair with his hand flat upon the desk. Not only did his close presence send a rash of prickled awareness over her skin, but his scent cloaked her with potent force.

  Even worse, the desire to pull his head down and kiss those talented lips suddenly seemed like a much better notion than hashing through Lord Doulton’s nefarious dealings.

  Thankfully, Clara was well aware that she would have no peace until she had sorted through the unease plaguing her, and she managed to resist tossing herself at Hawksley like some common tart.

  “Let us begin at the beginning,” she muttered, scratching the number one upon the paper.

  “Which beginning?” he demanded, his breath tickling her ear.

  “The beginning of what we know of Lord Doulton. Now, according to your brother’s journal, he played cards with the gentleman and received the vowels that you found hidden.”

  “Yes.”

  She wrote card game on the paper. “We assume that he noticed the writing on the back of the vowels and became curious.”

  “Which led him to Mr. Chesterfield.”

  “Precisely.” She wrote vowels followed by Mr. Chesterfield. “From there we think that Mr. Chesterfield approached Lord Doulton and demanded some sort of payment for keeping his silence.”

  She could feel Hawksley stiffen behind her. If he were a dog, his hair would be bristled and his teeth bared.

  “And ensured Fredrick’s death,” he growled.

  Neatly scratching the number four on the paper, Clara paused. This was the source of her unease, she abruptly realized. Number four.

  “It is missing,” she muttered.

  “What is missing?” he demanded in confusion.

  “Number four.”

  “Number . . . ?” Hawksley shifted to lean against the desk, his arms folded over his broad chest. “I presume you are now speaking in the obscure ‘Clara tongue’ only you understand. You will have to translate for me, I fear.”

  She wrinkled her nose at his teasing. “Number four should be the manner that Mr. Chesterfield blackmailed Lord Doulton. But how did Mr. Chesterfield know that Lord Doulton was involved in anything nefarious?”

  A frown tugged at his brows. “The vowels . . .”

  “Revealed a petition to the pope,” she said, warming to her subject. “On its own it is meaningless. There are no doubt thousands of such petitions. It might have been peculiar, but it would not have revealed that Lord Doulton possessed stolen artwork from the Vatican. There is still something we are missing.”

  He gave a slow nod of his head, easily following her logic. “Perhaps you are right. Still, it is impossible to know unless we find the missing Mr. Chesterfield.”

  “May I see your brother’s journal?” she abruptly demanded.

  “Of course.” Reaching beneath his jacket, he pulled out the leather book and vowels that he still kept close to his heart. A gesture that revealed just how deeply he still mourned his brother’s death.

  Giving his fingers a tender squeeze, she took the journal and flipped through the pages.

  Arriving at the date of the infamous card game, she studied the tidy handwriting. Speak to me, Fredrick, she silently willed, tell me your secrets.

  Coming to the bottom of the page, she pointed toward the meticulous numbers at the corner.

  “What are these?”

  Hawksley leaned forward. “It is the tally of what he won during the eveni
ng. Fredrick was always careful to keep careful account of such matters.”

  Clara carefully smoothed out the vowels on the desk. “But the vowels do not equal this number.”

  Hawksley shrugged. “That means very little. No doubt some of his winnings were from other gentlemen who possessed the funds to pay him that evening. Not all gamblers depend upon vowels.”

  He had a point, of course. Still, Clara felt a tiny flare of excitement.

  “Or there might have been other vowels.”

  Hawksley appeared more confused than excited. “If there had been other vowels, they would have been with these.”

  “Not if Mr. Chesterfield kept them to examine more closely.”

  “Why would he keep only a portion of the vowels?”

  A reasonable question, she had to concede. Closing her eyes, she attempted to imagine what had occurred. She could see Fredrick bent over the vowels, piecing them together as he realized there was something written on the back. As a scholar he would have been curious and of course determined to unravel the mystery. He must have managed to decipher that it was of a religious nature for his thoughts to turn to Mr. Chesterfield, a religious historian.

  And then what?

  The brain that she took such pride in seemed to flounder.

  Why would he have taken only half the vowels to Mr. Chesterfield? It was hardly the swiftest means to uncovering the truth of the document. And as a scholar . . .

  A scholar.

  Of course. He was a scholar just like her father.

  What would he have done in such a situation?

  Briefly she recalled the quiet, studious man who always had a smile for his only daughter. A sweet-tempered man with a gentle soul.

  But one who could become as rabid and secretive as any scholar when it came to his research.

  “If Fredrick believed the petition to be of historic value, he would have been careful with what he was willing to share. With anyone,” she said slowly, lifting her head to meet his watchful gaze. “True scholars are notoriously fearful of having others steal their research and claim it as their own.”

  He stilled at her words. “Are you implying that the petition itself is somehow valuable?”

  Clara grimaced. It all made sense, but she was well aware that it was little more than a leap of faith. The logic involved would fit in a thimble.

  “It is only a theory,” she warned. “And a rather far-fetched one at that.”

  He did not seem to hear her words of caution as he lifted himself from the desk to pace across the worn carpet.

  “Why would Lord Doulton use a valuable document as scrap paper?”

  “Perhaps he did not realize the value. If it was stuffed among the paintings, it might easily have been dismissed and tossed aside.”

  “Until Chesterfield approached him and blackmailed him for the return of the petition,” he said slowly.

  “Lord Doulton would realize that he was in more danger than simply being blackmailed for a forgotten piece of parchment. He had brought unwanted attention upon himself, and worse, there was now a connection to him and the Vatican.”

  He moved to grip the mantle above the fireplace, his knuckles turning white with strain.

  “And so he took the necessary steps to rid himself of those who might stir up unwanted questions. Including my brother.”

  Leaving the desk, Clara moved to lay a hand upon his tense arm. Too often she allowed herself to forget just how difficult this must be for Hawksley.

  “We will find the evidence we need, Hawksley,” she promised. “Lord Doulton will pay for what he has done.”

  The blue eyes flashed with frustrated pain. “That is all I have thought of for months. All I wanted . . .”

  She shifted to lay her hands upon his chest, her expression troubled. “What is it?”

  His eyes briefly closed. “I suppose I am at last realizing that even should Doulton be punished, it will not bring my brother back to me. He will still be dead and I . . . I will be completely alone.”

  Her heart twisted. He sounded so lost. So terribly frightened of the future. It was a feeling she knew all too well.

  And one she could not bear the thought of this wonderful man enduring.

  Not giving herself time to consider the wisdom of her words, she laid her head upon his chest and wrapped her arms about him.

  “No, Hawksley, not alone,” she whispered. “I will be with you.”

  She felt him stiffen beneath her. “Clara, what are you saying?”

  Tilting back her head, she was startled to discover his expression guarded, as if he feared she was playing some horrid jest upon him.

  “I think you know perfectly well what I am saying,” she whispered, a blush staining her cheeks.

  His fingers lifted to brush over her lips, his eyes glowing with a hectic glitter.

  “Since I quite often am at a loss when you speak, kitten, I think it best if you tell me in simple words so that my poor brain can comprehend what you mean.”

  Regarding the fiercely handsome countenance, Clara nearly faltered. How she possibly hope to please such a man? He could have any woman he desired. All of them more beautiful, more charming, and more wealthy than herself.

  But none of them capable of loving him with more devotion, her heart whispered.

  She swallowed heavily, and for the first time in her six-and-twenty years, tossed caution to the wind. She would take a chance.

  A chance that would either bring her happiness beyond her wildest imaginings or break her heart utterly.

  “I will be your wife, Hawksley,” she said simply.

  There was a brief, terrifying pause when Clara was suddenly certain that he must be regretting his impulsive proposal. Then, before she could guess his intention, she discovered herself lifted off the floor as Hawksley planted a burst of heated kisses over her countenance.

  “You will not be sorry, kitten,” he muttered, his lips brushing her mouth. “I promise I will make you happy.”

  Squeezed by his tight grip to the point she could barely breathe, Clara slowly smiled.

  Her father had promised that someday she would meet a man who could appreciate her just as she was. A man who would see beyond her annoying eccentricities and peculiar habits.

  Who the devil would have suspected he would be a dangerous, wicked pirate?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hawksley awoke to a loud clatter of pails and pouring water as his bath was being prepared. Instinctively he reached out for Clara, only to heave a sigh as he recalled her slipping from his arms to return to her own bed before dawn.

  Damn, but he needed to get her before a vicar. The sooner the better. He did not like awakening alone. Not when he might begin the day with an angel in his arms.

  His dark thoughts were interrupted by another loud clatter, followed by a string of hair-raising curses.

  Dillon, of course, he acknowledged even before he opened his reluctant eyes to regard the grizzled servant. And in an even fouler mood than usual, if his grim expression and rigid movements were anything to go by.

  “Good God, Dillon, there have been French invasions less deafening than you pouring a simple bath,” he groaned as he pushed himself upright and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I presume you are in some sort of a twit?”

  “A twit?” Dillon allowed an empty pail to clank loudly onto the floor. “Should have strangled you in your sleep when I had the opportunity.”

  Hawksley lifted his brows at the muttered threat. “I do hope that I have done something to annoy you, you cantankerous old goat. I should hate to think I have harbored you beneath my roof for all these years while you plotted my demise.”

  The gnarled servant kicked a stray pail, wincing as he obviously hurt his toe. “If I’d been plotting you’d already be cold in the ground.”

  “Why do you not just tell me why you are so perturbed before you do injury to yourself?” Hawksley retorted.

  “Very well.” His chest swelling with i
ndignation, Dillon turned to stab Hawksley with a withering glare. “I thought you to be a gentleman.”

  Hawksley lifted his brows even higher. “Hellfire, that is a stretch even for you, Dillon. Why the blazes would you ever presume a poverty-stricken rake with nothing more than a talent for gambling could claim the title of gentleman? I certainly have never done so.”

  “Even a hardened rake should recognize a lady when he encounters one,” Dillon muttered.

  Ah. So that was it. Hawksley heaved a deep sigh. He should have known he could hide nothing from his loyal servant. The man possessed an uncanny ability to know precisely what was upon his employer’s mind. Hawksley had often depended upon that talent over the years.

  Attempting to hide his amusement, Hawksley settled himself more comfortably upon the pillows. There was no reason he could not have a bit of fun. Dillon had often enough played some prank or another upon him.

  “May I hazard a wild guess and say that you are referring to Miss Dawson?” he drawled.

  The battered features hardened. “I am not blind. I have seen how you look upon her.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Like a starving hound sniffing about a bone.”

  Hawksley wrinkled his nose. Gads, it was a fortunate thing he had never been forced to rely upon his acting skills to keep a roof over his head. They would all be living in the gutter.

  “Hardly the most flattering comparison, but no doubt accurate.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” Dillon growled.

  “Actually I am inordinately proud of myself.”

  The servant took a sharp step forward. “Why, you randy—”

  “’Tis not often that I realize what is good for me and what is not,” Hawksley overrode the angry words. “In truth, I have always possessed a tedious habit of preferring dross to gold. On this occasion, however, I was quite wise enough to comprehend that Miss Dawson is by far the best thing that has ever entered my life.”

  Perhaps sensing he was being roasted, Dillon regarded him with suspicion. “That she is.”

  “Which is why I am to make her my wife.”

  A suitably shocked expression touched the lined countenance. “Wife?”