“I thought you had gone to get an apron?”
“I could not find one that was not as filthy as the rest of the household,” she informed him coldly.
Strolling from the desk, Hawksley placed her hand upon his arm. “It does not matter, my dear. I can find no evidence of your manuscript.”
“It seems that we shall have to go to the authorities after all.”
The butler paled at the threat. “Nay…I…I will find your bloody manuscript.”
“And how could we possibly trust you?” Clara demanded.
“Perhaps we should give him the opportunity to search, my dear,” Hawksley murmured, his gaze holding hers. “It would be a pity to make a fuss if it is simply misplaced.”
Easily sensing what he desired of her, Clara gave a slow nod. “I suppose I can wait a day or two.”
“When you find the manuscript, you may send word to the Hawk’s Nest,” Hawksley commanded.
The butler did not bother to hide his relief. “Aye.”
With an arrogant nod of his head, Hawksley led her out of the gloomy townhouse into the pale spring sunlight. In silence they crawled back into the carriage.
Only when the door was shut and they were clamoring down the cobbled road did Hawksley abruptly tilt back his head to laugh with rich enjoyment.
“Bloody hell, kitten, you were brilliant.”
Chapter Nine
“I must say, I surprised myself,” she admitted.
He reached out to grasp her hand, his smile warm. “Biddles himself could not have done better, and that is saying something.”
Clara felt her countenance warm with startled pleasure. She was not at all accustomed to such praise.
“Did you learn anything in the study?”
“I discovered that before he left London, Mr. Chesterfield was researching papal records and the history of the Vatican.”
“Perhaps not utterly surprising for a church historian, but still intriguing,” she murmured.
“My thoughts precisely.” Tossing his hat on the opposite seat, he turned to face her squarely, his diamond earring flashing in the dim shadows. “Now tell me where you disappeared to.”
“I went to Mr. Chesterfield’s bedchamber to be certain that he had truly left London.”
“What did you find?”
“Much of his clothing has been taken from the room, as well as his shaving kit, which indicates that he did indeed leave on a trip, but I found these on his desk.” Digging into the pocket of her voluminous skirts, she produced a fine gold pocket watch and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
Taking them from her hand, Hawksley gave a lift of his brows. “Glasses and a pocket watch? Hardly unusual objects to find in a bedchamber.”
“Yes, but a gentleman leaving town for several weeks would never leave them behind.”
He pondered the objects in his hand a long moment, clearly attempting not to leap to conclusions.
“It could be that he possesses more than one pocket watch and pair of glasses.”
The thought had crossed Clara’s mind as well, only to be dismissed when she noted the undoubted craftsmanship of the watch.
“Mr. Chesterfield did not appear to have the sort of funds that would lend itself to having several gold pocket watches. And even if he did have more than one, he would surely have taken care to place this one in a safe rather than leaving it lying upon his desk where a servant might take off with it.”
“Perhaps his trip was unexpected.” His fingers slowly closed about the watch and glasses as he stabbed her with a glittering gaze. “Or someone decided to make him disappear.”
A pang shot through her heart at the mere thought. From what she knew of Mr. Chesterfield he had been a quiet, scholarly gentleman. He would be no match for someone wishing him violence.
“But surely the servants would have reported to the authorities if he had gone missing?” she protested.
He grimaced, his expression revealing he was all too familiar with darker side of human nature.
“Not if they were paid well enough by someone who wished his absence to remain a secret. If Mr. Chesterfield did not have close family, it might be weeks or even months before his absence was noted.”
“That butler did seem quite uneasy at having us poking around.” She bit her lip, her stomach rolling with dread. “Dear Lord.”
Pocketing the objects she had taken from Mr. Chesterfield’s chambers, he gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze.
“We know nothing yet, kitten. For now I think it best we assume he is still alive.”
Sucking in a deep breath, she gave a nod of her head. He was right. It would not help Mr. Chesterfield to leap to conclusions.
Until they had positive information they must presume that he was still alive. And perhaps in need of their assistance.
“What do we do now?”
He silently considered their options as the carriage swayed and rattled its way through the crowded London streets. With the windows shut and the heavy curtains firmly pulled, they might have been utterly alone in the world.
As the silence lingered, Clara discovered herself becoming disturbingly aware of the warmth of his thigh pressed close to her own and the sheer power of his presence. She knew that there were far more important matters to concentrate upon. Her body, however, seemed determined to play traitor.
“I believe I will call upon Biddles and see if he will be kind enough to have Mr. Chesterfield’s servants followed,” he at last murmured.
Clara licked her lips, which seemed strangely dry. “Why?”
“I wish to know where they might be going and who they might be meeting with. If Mr. Chesterfield is in hiding, they might very well be carrying him supplies and information. Then again, if they are in league with Lord Doulton, then they might lead us to the bastard.”
“An excellent plan,” she agreed, albeit in strained tones. It was an excellent plan. Unfortunately, her brain was not functioning nearly so well as she might wish.
Reaching up, he deliberately grasped the end of her veil and pushed it back, his eyes darkening.
He slowly stilled, as if he could actually sense her tingling awareness. And perhaps he could, she wryly acknowledged. She was quite certain she had raised the temperature in the carriage by several degrees.
“Why, thank you, Miss Dawson, I did assure you that I have my moments.”
“You told me I was not to raise my veil,” she reminded him softly.
Yanking off his gloves, he tossed them aside and reached to remove hers. Only then did he lift his hand to trace the line of her jaw.
“But you did not raise your veil…I did.”
The tingles became more pronounced. “That hardly seems fair.”
His nose flared as his gaze lowered to her mouth. A nerve in his jaw twitched, as if he were waging a mighty battle.
“Neither is the manner you have bewitched me, kitten,” he husked. “’Tis monstrously unfair.”
His tension brought a faint frown to her brow. “Hawksley?”
“Ah, Clara, I promised myself I would not do this.”
“Do what?”
“This…”
Framing her face, Hawksley slowly lowered his head. Clara’s heart came to a perfect halt as the lips neared. Oh, thank God. Thank God.
Then, a breath away he paused, and she instinctively realized he was offering her the opportunity to pull away.
It was what she should do, no doubt. After last eve she could no longer plead ignorance as to what a mere kiss could lead to. But even her much vaulted logic was impervious to the fierce pleasure his touch could offer.
And why should she deny herself, she silently demanded?
For six-and-twenty years she had quietly endured the rude slights and direct cuts by gentlemen. She had pretended that she did not yearn to feel the warmth of a man’s arms about her or to experience the secret delights that other women took for granted.
Now, this beautiful, wonderful pirate desir
ed her.
Her. Miss Clara Dawson, aging spinster and village oddity.
Logic and common sense be damned.
She wanted him. He wanted her.
What else mattered?
Suddenly frightened he might come to his senses and turn away, Clara threw her arms about his neck and tugged his head downward.
Just for a moment she thought he might resist her silent plea, and a familiar sinking sensation rushed through Clara’s stomach. No, not again. Surely she was not to be rejected yet again.
She had thought Hawksley different.
Special.
Then with a rasping sigh Hawksley dropped his head downward and claimed her mouth in a kiss that seared away any lingering doubt as to his willingness. Catching her breath at the jolt of sizzling excitement, she clutched at his neck, her eyes sliding shut as she savored his demanding touch.
This was what she wanted. What she had wanted since the first moment she had laid eyes upon him.
His kiss deepened, his tongue stroking over her mouth.
“Let me taste of you, kitten,” he whispered.
Uncertain what he desired, Clara tentatively parted her lips and stiffened in surprise when his tongue plunged into her mouth.
Oh my. This was…delicious.
With a moan she arched forward, her tongue touching his to match the slow, steady rhythm. If someone had told her about such a thing she would have shuddered in horror. And she did shudder, only horror had nothing to do with it. Instead an intense flare of anticipation clutched at her.
She wanted to be closer to him. To feel the heat of his bare skin next to her own.
Once again seeming to read her mind, he shifted to wrap his arms tightly about her. She heard him growl deep in his throat and then suddenly he was plucking her off the seat.
Never breaking the kiss, he turned her in his arms, tugging her until she was straddling his legs, her knees bent and the thick dress hiked up well past her knees.
Clara abruptly pulled back to meet the smoldering blue gaze. In such an intimate position she could easily feel the thrust of his hardened erection. It pressed firmly against her cleft, creating a rash of thrilling sensations.
Holding her gaze Hawksley allowed his fingers to trail down her spine, easily slipping the buttons loose from their hooks.
“Am I frightening you?” he whispered in ragged tones.
“No.” Her fingers trailed through the raven hair, delighting in the satin tresses. He was so unbearably gorgeous. So perfect. “I like your touch.”
He gave a husky chuckle. “A good thing, considering that I cannot seem to keep my hands off you.”
As if to prove his point he gave her gown a sudden tug, pulling it off her shoulders along with the thin shift beneath. He seemed to freeze as he regarded her bared breasts, an odd expression upon his countenance. Then with exquisite care he cupped the small mounds in his hands, simply holding them for a long moment before his head dipped and his lips closed over one tip.
Clara’s eyes slid shut as she felt his tongue rasp over the sensitive nipple, coaxing it to a hard peak. Dear Lord, the pleasure was nearly unbearable. It was a struggle to recall to breathe as he tugged and teased her with merciless expertise.
“Does this please you?” he murmured, stroking his mouth to tantalize her other breast.
She moaned, besieged by a dark longing she did not understand. Shifting on his lap, she pressed herself against the jut of his manhood.
“Do not stop,” she pleaded.
“Do you wish more? Shall I teach you of passion?” he muttered, his voice thick.
She clutched at his shoulders. “I am not certain I can bear more. I feel as if I might shatter.”
He leaned back, his lids half lowered and a dark flush upon his cheeks.
“Will you trust me?” he demanded, easily holding her bewildered gaze.
She gave a slow nod, rather surprised to discover that she did trust him. Perhaps it was not utterly logical, but there was something about him that assured her that he would never deliberately harm her.
“Yes.”
He smiled as he lifted a hand to lightly trace the line of her swollen lips. Distracted by his touch, she barely noted his other hand slipping beneath the heavy folds of her skirts. It was not until his fingers brushed the bare skin of her thigh that she gave a sudden jump.
“Hawksley?”
His eyes flared as he cupped the back of her head and drew her head downward to accept his fiercely hungry kiss.
Clara paused before eagerly returning his kiss, her momentary unease forgotten. He obviously knew what he was about, she acknowledged fuzzily. Indeed, he seemed quite an expert. And she was wise enough to always concede to an expert. No matter what the subject.
Running her hands over the hard planes of his chest, she felt his fingers continue their soft journey. Aimlessly tracing patterns on her tingling skin, he moved ever higher. And higher.
And…dear heavens.
He easily swallowed her scream as his fingers swept the line of her cleft, pressing between the lips to seek her damp heat.
Her fingers dug into his chest as he gently stroked her, tiny bursts of fire shimmering through her as he brushed over the very source of her pleasure.
Wrenching her lips free she buried her face in the curve of his neck, her breath coming in short gasps.
“Hawksley…there is something…”
“I know, my sweet,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple.
“I do not know what to do,” she muttered.
He chuckled softly. “For once you need do nothing. Allow me to pleasure you.”
Unable to help herself, she asked the question trembling on her lips.
“Why?”
He paused in surprise. “Why what?”
“Why me?”
Thankfully, he did not laugh at her absurdity. Instead his lips softly nuzzled her cheek.
“There is no logic to such things, kitten. I desire you because I desire you.” She moaned as his finger resumed its steady caress, his thumb pressing against her tender nub as his finger slid into her with infinite care. “You. Just you.”
“Oh.” A sharp-edged pleasure was spiraling through her, tensing her muscles. She had to move. She could not halt the instinct to tilt her hips forward to meet his steady stroke. There was something awaiting her. Something beckoning just out of reach. “I can bear no more,” she gasped.
“Trust me,” he whispered, his head dipping to capture a straining nipple in his mouth.
Her entire body went rigid as her body posed at the edge of a chasm. The world receded as she arched backward and gasped. Then with an explosive force the tension fragmented into a hundred shards of pleasure.
Utterly stunned by powerful climax, Clara flopped onto Hawksley’s broad chest.
“Oh…my.”
“Oh my, indeed.” Gently removing his hand, Hawksley smoothed the skirts over her legs and wrapped his arms about her.
Unable to help herself, Clara snuggled against his warmth. She felt sated. Wondrously sated. But there was more. She felt a connection to this man. As if when she was near him, she was not so terribly alone.
It was something she had not felt in a very long time, and a small ache clutched at her heart.
The sensation would not last, of course. Everyone she had ever been attached to had left her. But for the moment she intended to cling firmly to the illusion that she possessed someone she cared for.
A friend.
A lover.
A man who stirred emotions she had buried years before.
Breathing deeply of his scent, she smiled. “Thank you.”
He became motionless before his chest rumbled with a startled chuckle.
“Good Lord. You never fail to amaze me.”
With an effort she leaned back to meet his amused gaze. “What?”
“Most females would be slapping my face, regardless of whether they had enjoyed my touch or not. They certainly w
ould not be thanking me.”
She grimaced ruefully. “I never seem capable of doing what is expected of me.”
“Which is no doubt why I find you so fascinating,” he murmured. “There is nothing coy or deceptive about you. There is a purity in your soul that is all too rare.”
She laid her head back on his chest with a sigh. Unlike her, he always knew precisely what to say.
“This has been a most unusual trip to London.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Most unusual.”
For the next two days Hawksley barely rested as he scoured London for information on Mr. Chesterfield and ancient papal records.
He spoke to the handful of gentlemen who could claim an acquaintanceship with the reclusive scholar. He approached church officials, renowned scholars, and a number of collectors who specialized in religious artifacts.
He even spent hours rummaging through his brother’s library, all to no avail.
He told himself that his sudden burst of energy was merely the result of having a new path to investigate after weeks of being thwarted at every turn.
In truth, however, he knew at least a portion of his restlessness was due more to the young woman currently seated across the table from him than his conviction that he would learn anything of value.
Damn and blast, but she had him twisted in knots.
The moment he entered the Hawk’s Nest he was aware of her presence. It was in the lingering scent of vanilla in the air, the sound of her graceful footfalls as she directed the newly acquired maids to a flurry of constant cleaning, and the sweet laughter that echoed through the house.
She even haunted his private chambers despite her careful habit not to intrude into his sanctuary.
Lying in his bed at night, he was plagued with the memories as he had held her in his arms and tasted of her sweetness.
Hellfire. It had been bad enough when he could only imagine what she might look like as he coaxed her to her climax. Now that he knew precisely how her face would flush and her eyes darken with pleasure, it was near torture to keep his hands off her.
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