Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) (8 page)

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.”

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.”

“Be that as it may, I will not have you playing maid beneath my roof. Here you are to be waited upon, as is only fitting for a lady.”

This time there was no mistaking the faint twinkle of amusement in the emerald eyes.

“I suppose you will insist upon having your own way?”

“I fear I must.” Reaching out, he touched her cheek. “I have great need of that astonishing mind of yours. I cannot have you distracted by stray battles against dust and lumpy crust. Agreed?”

She eyed him squarely, as if easily sensing she was being manipulated, but much to his relief she at last gave a decisive nod.

“Very well.”

“Good. Now will you join me while I eat?”

Together they settled at the small table, and Hawksley hid a smile as she reached out to straighten the plate of toast and perfectly center the sugar and cream upon the tray.

He was quite certain she did not even realize her instinctive need to keep all in tidy order.

Placing the napkin in his lap, Hawksley allowed himself to thoroughly enjoy the plates of smoked ham and warm toast with marmalade.

Since leaving his family estate he had lived the life of a bachelor. What did it matter if his home was tidy or his food cooked to perfection? All he needed was a roof over his head and a place to store his meager belongings.

Now he realized that he had unwittingly missed all the small comforts that made a house a home. The touches only a woman could provide.

With a soothing calm Clara waited for him to polish off the last of his tea before at last leaning forward.

“Did you manage to have the paper translated?”

Hawksley pushed aside the tray before reaching beneath his jacket to pull out the vowels and arrange them in the center of the table. Carefully he placed them together as if they were pieces of a puzzle.

“What there was to translate. Even together they only complete a portion of the page.”

“Did you learn anything at all from them?”

Hawksley’s lips twitched as he recalled his meeting with Biddles. As always, the little ferret had been a font of information.

“A bit. The writing is old Latin, as you suspected. And more fascinating, it appears to be some sort of petition.”

“A petition?” She regarded him with a curious expression. “A royal petition?”

“Papal.”

“Papal,” Clara murmured, mulling over his revelation before her eyes abruptly widened and she was on her feet. “Dear God . . .”

Hawksley regarded her with a lift of his brows. He had expected a measure of surprise at his revelation, but not this blatant amazement.

“What is it?”

“Mr. Chesterfield,” she breathed.

A flare of possessive annoyance hardened Hawksley’s expression. He found that he deeply disliked the man’s name upon Clara’s lips.

“Now is hardly an appropriate moment to be worrying over your mathematical genius.”

She gave an impatient shake of her head. “Mathematics was only a hobby for him, as they are for me. His profession was that of a church historian, specifically translating ancient manuscripts,” she said, leaning her hands on the table as she stabbed him with a glittering gaze. “If your brother managed to suspect that this paper was religious in nature, he most certainly would have sought out Mr. Chesterfield if he desired more information.” She allowed herself a dramatic pause. “And just as importantly, it would explain the mysterious appointment with MC he noted in his journal.”

Hellfire. Hawksley rose to his feet, belatedly realizing what had captured her interest.

“MC. Mr. Chesterfield.”

“Precisely.”

“Yes.” He gave a slow nod. “It certainly fits. Like you, my brother could not possibly allow a mystery to go unsolved. Especially not if it included some musty bit of history.”

“And perhaps he would have begun to question how Lord Doulton could possibly have come to possess a petition to the pope,” she muttered. “Such a document is not something that is commonly lying about a gentleman’s home.”

A slow smile curved his lips. God, it had been so long since he had managed to uncover the faintest trail that might lead to his brother’s murderer. He had begun to fear that he was beating his head against an impregnable wall.

Now he wanted to shout in happiness. Or better yet, grab Clara in his arms and soundly kiss her for her assistance.

Very, very soundly.

Instead he contented himself with grasping her fingers and squeezing them in silent appreciation.

“I think it time I pay a visit to this Mr. Chesterfield.”

The green eyes sparkled with excitement. “Allow me to change my gown. I will not be a moment.”

She would have slipped away if he had not tightened his grasp to keep her standing before him.

“Hold a moment, kitten.”

She frowned at his stern tone. “What?”

Hawksley was wise enough to consider his words carefully. Miss Clara Dawson was not a woman who meekly accepted a gentleman’s commands. No matter who that gentleman might be.

If he wished to keep her safe he would have to use logic, not male intimidation.

“You cannot simply go dashing about London,” he pointed out in smooth tones. “For now we can hope that Doulton believes you to be dead. I have no intention of disabusing him of that notion.”

“How would he possibly recognize me?”

Hawksley shrugged. “We cannot be certain he does not somehow know you and what you look like.”

The delicate features tightened. “You intend to hold me prisoner in this house?”

His lips twitched at the mere thought of attempting to hold her captive. So far she had chosen to remain with him of her own will. Should she change her mind he did not doubt for a moment that she would be away before he could blink.

Still, he could not resist a bit of teasing.

“Well, there is that lingering fantasy of tying you to my bed.”

An enchanting blush touched her cheeks, but it did nothing to ease her annoyance.

“Hawksley.”

“Be at ease, kitten,” he murmured, pressing a swift kiss to her forehead. “I have no intention of holding you prisoner. As delightful the thought, not even I am that brave. I do think, however, that we must see about some sort of disguise before you go about town.”

“Oh.” She mulled over his words before giving a nod of her head. “I suppose that is reasonable.”

“I do have my moments.”

She offered a grudging smile. “A few.”

“Mmm.” He gently dusted the flour from her cheek, his fingers lingering before he sternly pulled them away. “Allow me to go speak with Dillon and we will make our plans.”

On this occasion it was her turn to reach out and halt his retreat.

“You do not intend to sneak out behind my back?”

He gave a lift of his brows. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“Out of some misguided need to protect me.”

His features softened as he met her searching gaze. “I have every intention of protecting you, but I am honest enough to admit that I have need of your assistance. Whatever my varied talents, they do not include your unique ability to notice those niggling details the rest of us overlook. I promise I shall return in a moment.”

Her expression of gratitude warmed his heart far more than was reasonable, but distracted with his thoughts, Hawksley missed the dangerous sensation.

With swift steps he returned to the kitchen, discovering his manservant muttering beneath his breath as he carefully chopped a mound of vegetables.

“Dillon, I have need of you,” he commanded.

“Thank God,” Dillon breathed, yanking off the offending apron with obvious relief. “Do I get to hit someone?”

Hawksley gave a chuckle. “I fear not. I desire you to discover a housekeeper who can not only be discreet but possesses the skills to keep this house in the sort of order that Miss Dawson prefers.”

A rare smile touched the battered face. “Ach, t’will not be easy. Miss Dawson is right particular.”