Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) (6 page)

Besides which, she acknowledged, there was the small matter of some lunatic desiring her dead.

How could she possibly settle back into her usual routine when she was plagued with the constant fear of Jimmy Blade arriving upon her doorstep?

The distant sound of approaching footsteps had Clara hastily tugging the covers to her chin. She had not seen her captor since she had fallen asleep in his arms. Now she discovered her heart beating at an oddly swift pace.

A wasted effort on the part of her heart, she discovered, as the door was pushed open to reveal the short, square servant who had ridden to London with them the evening before.

Glancing toward the bed, the man set down the modest cases that Clara had last seen strapped to the back of her hired carriage.

“Awake, are you?” he said in abrupt, but not unkind tones.

Clara gave a slow nod. The man looked as if he was well acquainted with violence, but she sensed no danger. If anything, she was forced to concede that he was the sort of man one might desire to have about in times of trouble.

“Where am I?”

“Most call it the Hawk’s Nest. And I am Dillon.”

Hawk’s Nest? Unusual, but somehow perfectly suited to the raven-haired gentleman.

“We are in London?”

“Aye. I suppose you must be hungry?”

Clara offered a rueful smile. It had been hours since her last meal. She had been far too queasy during her journey to even contemplate food. And in truth, she found it difficult to eat anything that came from an unfamiliar kitchen.

Just another one of her many and varied eccentricities.

“Starving,” she admitted.

“Then have a wash and I will fix you a bite.”

Clara delicately cleared her throat. Hostage or not, she possessed the habit of situating her surroundings to suit herself. She had no intention of altering her routine.

“Actually, if you will wait for me to change my clothes I will cook my own breakfast, or luncheon, I suppose I should say,” she stated in firm tones.

A sudden frown marred the battered countenance. “I may not be a bloody French chef, but I shan’t poison you.”

Belatedly realizing she had managed to insult the poor man, Clara offered an apologetic smile.

“Oh, forgive me. I never meant to question your skills in the kitchen, Dillon,” she said in genuine regret. “It is just that I enjoy cooking, especially when I have need to consider a thorny problem. I find it soothes my nerves.”

Dillon continued to frown, but it was obvious he was pleased by her proper apology. Indeed, the pale eyes held a hint of amusement.

“Well, I would say you have your share of thorny problems.”

Clara gave a sudden laugh. “Indeed, I do.”

“The kitchen is downstairs at the back. Just give a call if you have need of anything.”

“Thank you, Dillon.”

With a brusque nod of his head the servant turned to leave the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Once alone Clara lost no time in scurrying from beneath the covers and giving herself a thorough wash. Later she would demand that a bathtub be carried to her room, she promised herself with a grimace. Until then she could only do her best to appear reasonably tidy.

In the minimum of time she had scrubbed herself rosy from head to toe and brushed her hair into a long braid that she tucked into a knot at the base of her neck. It did take a bit longer to open her cases and arrange her handful of belongings in the armoire before pulling on a sensible green gown. She did not know how Dillon had managed to retrieve her property, and she had no intention of inquiring. She was far too relieved to have on a clean gown to care.

At last prepared, she left the chamber and made her way down the narrow flight of stairs.

She paused for a moment upon the landing, considering a swift tour of her temporary abode only to give an unconscious shake of her head. Although the lack of prickling awareness assured her that her kidnapper was nowhere near, she was too hungry to indulge in any immediate prying.

First things first, she told herself briskly. First luncheon and then a spot of snooping.

Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was narrow and without more than the basic necessities. There was, however, a nicely stocked pantry, and rolling up her sleeves, Clara soon found herself happily distracted in the pleasure of kneading dough and slicing vegetables.

Two hours swiftly passed, and removing the apple tarts from the oven, Clara was in the process of determining whether her shepherd’s pie was in need of another few moments when a harsh voice suddenly rasped behind her.

“What the devil are you doing?”

With a startled squeak Clara spun about to glare into the dark, impossibly handsome countenance.

“Sir, you nearly made my heart fail,” she chastised, attempting to keep her gaze focused upon the glittering blue gaze. Not an easy task when she longed to fully appreciate the exotic beauty of his male features and the long raven hair that was pulled to a tail at the nape of his neck. Attired entirely in black with the diamond flashing with cold brilliance upon his ear, he appeared a dangerous, elegant predator. Even more unnerving was the smoldering power that seemed to overwhelm the cramped space. It was rather like being caged with a stalking panther, she inanely concluded. “Do not sneak up on me in such a fashion.”

Not at all put off by her scolding, her captor folded his arms over his chest.

“I asked you a question.”

She gave a pointed glance about the kitchen. “One I assumed needed no reply considering it is perfectly obvious what I am doing.”

“I did not bring you here to play servant. Where the hell . . . blazes is Dillon?”

Clara frowned, not quite certain why he appeared so irate. Of course, she often wondered why those about her seemed irate, she acknowledged with a faint sigh. She possessed a rare talent to annoy without even trying.

“I am not playing servant and I have no notion where Dillon is,” she retorted tartly. “Hopefully he is out purchasing proper beeswax so that he may polish the furniture, which does not seem to have had a good waxing for some time.”

He ignored her pointed comment with his usual arrogance. “If you were hungry, he would have made you something. In fact, I commanded him to do so.”

“He did offer, but I prefer to make my own meals. Cooking is a particular hobby of mine.”

“Hobby? Proper ladies do not consider cooking as a hobby.”

“This proper lady does.”

He continued to glare at her for a long moment until at last his lips began to twitch with that humor she found so disarming.

“Very well, Miss Dawson. I will have to admit I have never smelled anything so delicious coming from the hands of Dillon, although I will throttle you if you dare tell him I said so. He is rather proud of his dubious skills,” he murmured, stepping around her to pull open the oven door. “Ah, shepherd’s pie, my favorite. I hope you intend to share your efforts?”

Clara refused to acknowledge she might be pleased by his obvious flattery. Or to even consider the notion that she might have gone to such effort to impress this wicked pirate.

That would make her . . . well, nothing short of pathetic.

Instead she forced herself to meet the teasing gaze with a stern expression.

“I might be convinced.”

“Ah . . .” A worrisome smile curved his mouth as he straightened and moved toward her. Too late Clara recognized the dangerous glow in his eyes and hastily backed away. She did not halt until she had bumped into the wooden counter, but even then he continued forward until he was nearly pressed against her. Without warning his hands landed on the counter on either side of her hips, effectively trapping her. “What will it take, my kitten?” he husked softly, his gaze slowly sliding over her pale features. “I have several skills of my own. Many of which I would be quite happy to share with you.”

She clenched her hands together, staunchly battling the urge to reach up and test the hardness of his broad chest.

Oh, Clara, you are treading in waters that are far beyond your depth,
she warned herself.

However innocent she might be, she could not pretend that the dark, fluttering excitement lodged in the pit of her stomach was anything but sensual awareness.

Unfortunately, she could not seem to stir up the proper sort of dismay for her traitorous reaction.

Wetting her lips, she did her best to ignore the tingling sensations and instead forced herself to concentrate upon more pressing matters.

“I desire to know your name,” she at last demanded.

A raven brow arched. “My name?”

“It is awkward enough to be trapped with a stranger without at least knowing his identity.”

There was a short pause, almost as if he was somehow reluctant to confess his name. Then with a twist of his lips, he gave a resigned shrug.

“Hawksley.”

She frowned, sensing that he was deliberately hiding something from her.

“Is that your true name?”

“Yes.” He shifted until his thighs brushed her own. A magical fire flickered through her blood. “Anything else?”

She swallowed heavily, astonished her skirts did not burst into flames.

“I wish to know why you are interested in Lord Doulton and why you have brought me to London.”

He narrowed his gaze as he blatantly shifted his attention to the uncertain line of her mouth.

“I will agree to reveal a portion of my interest in Lord Doulton,” he conceded slowly, “but only over a very large slice of shepherd’s pie.”

“I will not be fobbed off,” she warned, her voice strangely breathless.

“Or?”

“Or you shall not have one bite of the apple tarts.”

He gave a husky laugh as his dark head swooped down to gently nip at the lobe of her ear. “You do not play entirely fair, Miss Dawson, but I am too hungry to quibble. Allow me to change my coat and I will return.”

His lips stroked the line of her jaw before he was abruptly pulling away and striding from the kitchen.

Still leaning against the cabinet, Clara gasped for air.

Until Hawksley had stormed into her life, she had always presumed that passion was one of those fussy emotions that she could never quite feel as she ought. After all, she had known gentlemen throughout the years. Perhaps not suitors, but friends and acquaintances.

Certainly none of them had managed to make her face flush and her body tremble.

But Hawksley . . .

Well, at least she now knew beyond a shred of doubt that she was more than capable of experiencing desire.

Whether that was a good or bad thing had yet to be decided.

“Good God. This is ambrosia.”

Leaning back in his seat, Hawksley regarded his slender angel with astonishment. He supposed he should not be surprised that he had just enjoyed one of the finest meals ever set before him. Miss Dawson was clearly a woman who demanded the highest standards in whatever she did. Whether it was baking a tart that would melt in the mouth, or driving a man to Bedlam.

Still, he found himself continually caught off guard whenever in the presence of this woman.

Perhaps it was the fact that she appeared so fragile, he inanely acknowledged. She looked as if she should be lying upon satin pillows with a gown of gossamer lace. Not marching through life with the skill and determination of a seasoned general.

As if sensing his ridiculous imaginings, his companion set aside her napkin and tidily folded her hands in her lap. She regarded him with the same expression his governess used to conjure when about to wring an unwilling confession of his latest sin.

His lips twitched. It was an expression that was doomed to failure. How could he possibly think of her as a forbidding governess when the entire meal he had been plagued with the image of sweeping aside the plates and spreading her across the worn wood of the table?

An erotic fantasy easily trumped even the most prudish expression.

“I believe you know that it is not your compliments I desire to hear, sir,” she prompted.

Hawksley remained silent a long moment. He had known from the moment he made his decision to bring Miss Dawson to London he would have to reveal at least a portion of his troubles.

The only question was how much.

“Very well.” Meeting her gaze squarely, he offered the blunt truth. “I believe that Lord Doulton is responsible for my brother’s death.”

The emerald eyes darkened with swift sympathy. “Oh. I am sorry,” she breathed. “Was it a duel?”

Hawksley’s expression hardened with the bitter frustration that had haunted him for the past three months.

“No. My brother was found floating in the river with his throat slit.”

There was a stunned silence as his companion absorbed his stark words. Hardly surprising. Such violence was rare even by London standards.

“Dear heavens,” she at last managed to choke out. “And you think Lord Doulton did such an evil deed?”

“I do not think he actually put the blade to Fredrick’s throat, but I am certain he hired the villain who did so.”

“I see.” Sucking in a slow breath, Miss Dawson slowly gathered her thoughts. Hawksley could almost feel her odd mind beginning to grind over his startling confession. “Why would he do such a thing?”

A good question, he ruefully acknowledged. Unfortunately, he possessed little more than conjecture and gut instinct.

And, of course, a healthy dose of intense dislike for the weasly bastard.

“It is my belief that my brother foolishly stumbled across information that would be harmful to Lord Doulton.”

“Do you have any proof?”

“Nothing tangible,” he reluctantly conceded. He was certain Miss Logic would not consider vague instinct and prickly dislike quite the irrefutable proof that he did. “I do know my brother was very distracted just before his murder. I quizzed him upon his odd manner, but to be honest, I assumed it was a woman preying upon his mind.” His lips twisted as he recalled his brother’s habit of tumbling in love with every pretty chit who crossed his path. “He tended to be a hopeless romantic, always tossing his heart at the feet of some female or another.”

She leaned forward, folding her arms upon the table. “Now you think his distraction was due to something else?”

“Just before his death his townhouse was broken into. The thieves managed to make a mess, but there was nothing missing.”

“That is odd. Could they have been interrupted?”

Hawksley shrugged. “That was what Fredrick claimed, although after his death I am no longer so certain.”

“Why?”

“His home was broken into again a fortnight after his funeral, only on this occasion the thief took far greater care to hide his search. It was only because I noticed that the papers in the desk had been disturbed and several books my brother kept in precise order moved on the shelf that I knew anyone had been there at all.”

“What was the thief searching for?”

“I cannot say for certain, but I believe it had something to do with this.”

Reaching into his pocket, Hawksley withdrew the small journal that he had not revealed to anyone.

Strange that he would share it with this woman he barely knew. Perhaps it was because she was regarding him with intense concentration rather than that pitying expression that implied she thought his grief had driven him mad. Or perhaps it was because he had grown so desperate that he was willing to clutch at any straw, no matter if it was an innocent wench fresh from the country, he wryly acknowledged.

Whatever the reason, he found himself wanting to discover her unique opinion on the mystery surrounding his brother’s murder.

“Your brother’s diary?” she murmured, taking the journal and glancing over Fredrick’s meticulous notes.

“It was hidden beneath the floorboards of my brother’s study. It was only by accident the butler stumbled across it and brought it to me.”

“Does it reveal who your brother might have feared?”

“No, but it did include these.”

Once again reaching into his pocket, Hawksley revealed the folded scraps of paper that had been tucked within the diary. Taking them, Miss Dawson smoothed out the wrinkled notes with a frown.

“What are they?”

Hawksley was not surprised by her puzzlement. Proper young ladies were not supposed to be familiar with such things. Of course, when it came to his angel he was learning to be prepared for anything.

“Gambling vowels.”

“Ah.” She peered at them more closely. “From Lord Doulton?”

“Yes.”

She pondered a moment before lifting her head to regard him with obvious curiosity. “You think Lord Doulton killed your brother because he could not pay his debts?”

Hawksley grimaced. “That was my first thought, but no longer. Those vowels add up to a little over two hundred pounds. A paltry sum that is not worth the risk of murder.”

She nodded her head, no doubt having come to the same conclusion. Only at a much quicker pace.

“But . . . you still believe Lord Doulton was involved?”

His features hardened. “Yes.”

“Why?”

His hand reached out to point to the open journal. “In his diary my brother was painstaking in listing his appointments. A fortnight before his death he had dinner at Lord Doulton’s home and stayed to play cards.”

She glanced toward the paper in her hands. “The vowels?”

“Precisely. After that night his usual schedule has obviously been rearranged. He scratches out appointments with both the prime minster and the prince and inserts a meeting with a mysterious MC.” Hawksley caught and held her gaze. “He would never have cancelled an appointment with the prince unless it was a matter of vital urgency.”

Her expression became distracted, her brows furrowed together. Hawksley settled back in his chair, sensing that she was busily shifting and sorting in her usual method. He presumed such deep pondering could not be rushed.

Oblivious to his presence, Miss Dawson absently shifted the vowels she still held in her fingers, turning them this way and that in silence. He watched her in a rather bemused fascination.

He had never before allowed a female in his home. Partially because the cramped, barren chambers were hardly suited to entertain the fairer sex, but more importantly because he had no desire to encourage any woman to believe she might domesticate him.

Allow a woman into your home and before you knew it, she was fussing and clucking over a gentleman as if he were a mere child.

Somehow, however, he did not resent the sight of the silver-haired beauty seated so comfortably at his table.

He tried to tell himself it was because she was not the sort to bother a man. If she chose to alter the household it would be to suit her own damn pleasure, not an attempt to coax her way into his life. And as for fussing over him, well . . . he was not entirely certain she was more than passingly aware of his presence most of the time.

Highly reasonable excuses. Unfortunately, they did not explain his sense of ease as they had shared the private luncheon, or the undeniable pleasure he found in simply having her near.

“This is odd,” she murmured.

Hawksley leaned forward. “What is odd?”

“The paper.”

Turning his attention to the vowels in her hand, Hawksley frowned in puzzlement. “No doubt it is just a scrap that Lord Doulton had lying about. There is no need for a formal contract between gentlemen.”

“This is not a scrap.” Without warning she rose to her feet and moved toward a nearby window. With a flick of her hand she pulled the curtain aside and held the vowels against the windowpane. “It is old. Very old.”

Undeniably curious Hawksley rose to join her at the window.

“What is it?”

“There is writing on the back.”

Ignoring the tingling awareness of her slender form, he leaned close to study the faded ink.

“Some sort of scribbling?”

“No, it is script,” she corrected. “Some sort of formal document, I believe.”

He shrugged, not quite so entranced by the long-forgotten letter as his companion seemed to be.

“It is not that unusual to use old bits of paper or even manuscripts for such purposes, Miss Dawson. Not all of us possess a fascination with the past.”

She turned to regard him with a searching gaze. “What of your brother?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“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.