"Because, my dear, I detect my wife's fine hand at work here," Hawke said flatly. All his suspicions had been confirmed by her threat of blackmail. So that was Telford's game, was it? "Until I know exactly how you're involved, I mean to keep you here with me at Hawkeswish. Now, let's dispense with this pretense of enraged innocence, shall we, and get right to the point. How much is Telford paying you — fifty pounds? One hundred? Whatever it is, I'll double the amount if you tell me where he is and exactly what he's planning."
"You can't hold me here, you swaggering satyr!" Alexandra hissed. In her wrath she paid no heed to the rest of what he had said.
"Just see if I can't — that, and a great deal more!" Without warning, his long fingers slid down to cover her neck and shoulders.
Alexandra felt a jolt of awareness when their skin met. "Get out!" she raged, furiously eyeing the towel draped just out of reach on a low stool. But she was powerless to move, as he well knew, for the slightest motion would give him an unrestricted view of her naked anatomy.
"I might find other forms of payment, you know." His breath teased at her ear, while his hands slid smoothly across her back and shoulders.
"You — you—" Mutinously, Alexandra tightened her arms across her chest, glowering up at him. "Words desert me before your villainy."
"There is a first time for everything, my dear — as you discovered last night. For myself, this is the first time I've been used as a lady's maid." His warm breath stirred the fine hairs at her ear. "Consider my offer — you will find me a far more pleasant companion than Telford, for his delight is pain, while mine is pleasure." As if to prove his point, the duke dipped to taste the delicate skin at the back of Alexandra's neck.
"You can take your pleasure, your precious wife Isobel, and this man you call Telford, and hie yourselves off to the Devil!" Alexandra cried. "Speaking of which, don't you have work to do — saints to tempt? Souls to torment? Believers to harrow?"
Hawke threw back his head and laughed, his fingers never ceasing their drugging rhythm upon her neck and shoulders. "Who knows? Perhaps I'm doing all those things right now. But then, you are no saint, are you?"
Angrily, Alexandra reached into the water and sent a great wave flying toward his still smiling face, feeling a blaze of triumph as he was drenched from head to thigh.
"That was a very bad idea, Miss Mayfield," he said quietly, hauling her from the water and slamming her against his chest. A moment later, his damp mouth came down to crush her in a punishing kiss, forcing her to taste his fury, burning her with his violence and heat. His fingers dug into the slim curves of her buttocks, driving her into the saddle of his thighs.
A whimper escaped Alexandra's lips. She could not breathe, she could not think clearly. She feared she would faint.
Miraculously, his mouth lifted and she was free.
"Blackguard!" she cried as soon as the capacity for rational thought returned. "You have the morals of a snake!"
"But my point is made. We can be civilized about this, my dear, or we can be very primitive — the choice is up to you. If you choose to play by the rules of a savage, you'd better expect the same treatment in return. Now, which is it to be?"
"No rules," Alexandra rasped, hating the raw edge of panic in her voice. "I won't play your filthy games!"
"Oh, but you will," Hawkesworth said icily. "It's far too late to change your mind now. And you'll begin by dining with me. Shadwell will escort you down in forty-five minutes. We keep country hours here, and I do hope you turn out to be a punctual sort of female."
"I'd rather sup with a scorpion!"
"Suit yourself, my dear. But if you do not join me, you'll remain locked in this room."
"Gladly, if your company is the alternative."
He studied her from the doorway, his massive strength dwarfing the dark timber frame. "You may have won the battle, my dear, but don't think that you can win the war."
Alexandra's eyes flew to Hawkesworth's face, and the dark mix of desire and raw male power she saw there made her gasp. Her whole body tingled with the awareness of that force.
As if he read her thoughts, Hawke drew one sable eyebrow up in a mocking slant. He was smiling faintly as he pulled the door shut behind him.
An instant later, a bath brush cracked against the wooden frame like a thunderclap. In the silence that followed, Alexandra heard the duke's lazy laughter echoing down the hall.
He could take his title, his wealth, and his base suggestions, and go straight to hell, Alexandra fumed as she stepped from the bath and toweled herself dry. She would teach him soon enough that she was more than his equal.
In every way.
Chapter Fifteen
True to her captor's word, Alexandra was left alone in the room. Her furious pacing was interrupted only much later, when Lily came bearing a dinner tray, a sheer lace peignoir draped over her arm. For a moment Alexandra was tempted to send both back with a suitable message for the duke; then common sense took control. She realized she must eat. And even a sheer nightgown was better than none at all.
The wide-eyed little maid left with a promise to return in a half hour's time.
One half hour.
Alexandra looked at the pea soup, cold beef, shaved ham, and lemon curd upon the silver tray.
One half hour.
Suddenly, she found her appetite miraculously restored.
* * * * *
Hawke jerked the door to his study closed and stalked to the massive desk at the opposite end of the room.
Women, he thought furiously, are inveterate liars!
Angrily, he poured a small amount of brandy into a large crystal goblet, then doubled the amount.
Who the hell did the chit think she was, and what was it about the irritating creature that brought out a granite streak of possessiveness in him?
He emptied the glass and poured himself another.
She had a great deal to learn, this one, and he was just the man to teach her. But who was she? She claimed she was from India, and her air of hauteur suggested that her father had been a man of some importance there.
But that was always the way with these colonials, Hawke thought cynically. She was probably no more than the daughter of an insignificant East India Company drone.
The truth would be easy enough to find out.
Which still left the question of how she had run into Telford. And how much Telford was paying her.
Hawke smiled cynically. There might be ways of shaking her loose from Telford. Ways that Hawke would find totally enjoyable. His eyes narrowed as he recalled her momentary whimper beneath his punishing kiss.
Oh yes, Miss Mayfield was not as unfeeling as she pretended. He could make her want him — Hawke knew it as clearly as he knew his own unmistakable desire. So why did she continue to defy him, damn it?
And who was she to be talking about morals?
Hawke's silver eyes narrowed, studying the amber spirits in his glass. What did women know of honor or morals? They were far too busy spending their husbands' money, rigging themselves out in the latest fashion, and ensnaring their latest lover to concern themselves with honor.
Maybe this woman is different, a nagging voice answered. Ruthlessly, Hawke cut it off.
Women were all the same. Isobel had taught him that.
* * * * *
Precisely to the minute Lily returned, announcing herself with a quick tap at the bedroom door.
"Come in, Lily," Alexandra said, her voice muffled.
When the maid entered she found the curtains drawn and the room in semidarkness. The duchess was lying in bed with the covers drawn over her head.
"Are you feeling poorly, Your Grace?" the girl asked anxiously.
There was no answer from the bed.
Warily, the girl stepped closer. "Your Grace?"
When the sleeping form still did not stir, Lily moved across to the foot of the bed.
Suddenly, the door was wrenched open and Alexandra sprang from her hiding
place. Her heart pounding, she slammed the door and twisted the key in the lock. Down the hall she fled, the long trail of her ivory peignoir fanning out over the azure carpet. Lily's muffled cries were barely audible as Alexandra reached the end of the corridor and halted, listening for sounds from below.
He must be at table, she realized, which meant that the servants were occupied as well. With bated breath she stole down the curving staircase to the Great Hall, her fingers gripping the oak banister. She sighed in relief, realizing the muffled cries from her room could not be heard so far below.
She had just stepped onto the marble floor when she heard approaching voices. Heart pounding, she slipped beneath the vast spiral of the staircase and waited.
"Eaten almost nothing, he has. Oh, a bit of ham, but little else. Never been the same since his wife — well, you know all that as well as I do. Odd, though, this one he brought with him from London. He says as how she's the duchess, but Lily says she's changed. Not so cold nor haughty no more. If I didn't know better, I'd think —"
A tittering voice cut off the first housemaid. "You'd think? And who are you to be settlin' the duke's affairs?"
Two young women walked briskly through the hall, hands full of freshly ironed linens, too occupied with their argument to pay any attention to the dim figure hiding beneath the staircase.
"No law that a person can't hold an opinion, is there?" the first said testily. "Leastways, not so far as I know." Abruptly, she stopped, shoved a hand on her hips, and confronted her companion. "Let me tell you, I remember Her High and Mighty Grace only too well. Slashed me with a carving knife, she did! Said I was dawdlin' about my work — can you credit that? And what she did to Briggs — well, that's a tale best left untold. So I'm tellin' you now, it's kind to me the duke's always been, and I'm sorry to see him in such a state, that's all. Been drinkin' heavy too. Footman told me so."
"Heavy?" Another titter. "Steady, maybe, but not heavy. Got a powerful head for spirits, does our duke. Drink any man beneath the table, he could. In fact," the saucy housemaid added smugly, "Briggs says as how the duke ain't generally considered dangerous till he's broached his fourth bottle."
"Well, if he hasn't already, he soon will. Lord help us, that means we'd best shake a leg. The footmen will be back from servin', and us still here gabbin' with the bed linens not changed. Mrs. Barrows will sack us for sure."
The pair bolted toward the narrow rear stairs reserved for the servants. Only then did Alexandra release the breath she'd been holding so tightly for the last minute.
So he was drinking, was he? Good! Maybe he would drink himself into a stupor. For all she cared he could drink himself to death!
For a moment she studied the corridors leading from the great hall. Blaze and bother! Which way? The cursed house was a maze.
A door opened somewhere to her right, and she decided in an instant. She fled down the marble corridor on the opposite side. The passage soon narrowed, twisting at a right angle, and she found herself in the rear of the house. The smells of roasting meat and fresh bread told her she was near the kitchen.
A door opened in front of her, and she caught a quick glimpse of Davies' trim black-suited figure, then slipped through the first door that presented itself. She heard his feet scurry past, whispering on the cold marble. Turning, she saw she was in some sort of storage room off the pantry lined with potatoes, turnips, and onions. At the end of the room was a heavy door with grillwork at the top.
To the stables, Alexandra thought hopefully.
She shoved open the heavy door and shivered in a blast of cold air. Stone steps led down into the gloom beneath the house.
Damn! Behind her she heard Davies returning, this time at what was as close to a run as the decorous servant would ever come. Lily was with him, speaking quickly, very frightened.
Alexandra plunged forward and swung the door closed behind her, just as loud voices exploded in the corridor.
In a panic she fled down the rough-hewn granite steps, feeling the cold dampness of the air beneath the house. Her way was lit by torches whose flames danced in the shifting air currents. At the bottom of the steps she halted, studying the vast cavern before her. All was stone — floor, roof, and walls. The ceilings were huge, with vaulted arches, and below stood row upon row of massive oaken casks. The cider rooms, Alexandra realized, where the estate's beer was brewed.
Her bare feet were silent as she ran beneath the shadowed vault. Before her was a second, narrower room, intersected every three feet by thin wooden frames. Hundreds of bottles were cradled within the racks, which ran from floor to ceiling.
The wine cellars. No way out. She was trapped!
She shivered suddenly, the cold damp air beginning to penetrate her thin peignoir. Behind her came the clang of a door and the heavy stamp of feet.
"You search the still room and the conservatory. I'll check the wine cellars."
He was coming! With a hand to her lips, Alexandra fled into the shadows, shrinking back behind a wall honeycombed with bottles. Angry steps thundered across the large room she had just left, the sounds echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling.
She caught her breath, struggling for silence. The footsteps halted. At the far end of the room she saw a low door in the wall, probably a storage area of some sort, she decided. Slowly, she began to creep toward it.
But the long dangling sleeves of her nightgown pulled taut, caught on a sliver in the wood. Alexandra twisted away, shredding her sleeve, only to feel her skirt catch in a metal support jutting from the wooden struts. Throwing caution to the wind, she jerked wildly to free her skirt, for she had heard the echo of her pursuer's indrawn breath in the adjoining room.
She ripped free, but in the process the offending piece of metal came loose and the whole frame tottered crazily.
"Where the hell are you?"
In answer came a deafening boom as the wine rack collapsed onto the stone floor, followed by a host of smaller reports as hundreds of wine bottles toppled free to meet a similar fate.
With the duke's furious curses ringing in her ears, Alexandra fled along the narrow aisle between the wine racks, shivering as she passed through a thick veil of spider webs. Dust lay heavy on the floor at the end of the room, and she was coughing by the time she reached her goal. She tugged at the knob, but the little door would not budge. Wild-eyed, she turned and pressed her back against the cool granite wall.
She heard the crunch of his boots upon the broken glass and inhaled the rich, sweet scent of grapes and decay.
"By God, when I get my hands on you —"
Alexandra's heart was hammering wildly when Hawke's taut features appeared. His eyes were silver fire as he closed the distance between them. "First you attack my roof, and now you demolish my wine cellar. I'll make you pay for every damned bottle!"
"Stay back!" Alexandra cried, her voice high pitched and unnatural.
But Hawke did not stop, nor did she imagine he would.
She turned, desperately tugging at the thin strips of wood that cradled dust-covered bottles. The rack began to sway.
"Stop! Those bottles are forty years old!"
The whole frame gave way, and Hawke barely had time to duck before wood and glass crashed explosively to the floor.
From the other side of the wreckage Hawke studied Alexandra, tight lines of fury etching his face. "You little bitch," he said softly, the sound more frightening that any bellow.
Slowly, he stepped over the fragments of glass and wood. Alexandra sank back against the wall, trapped once again. Hard fingers circled her wrist and hauled her out of her hiding place.
"What kind of hellcat are you? Oh, yes, I'll make you pay for every one, Alexandra," Hawke said roughly, his eyes burning across her slim shoulders and heaving chest. "It will give me almost as much pleasure as the wine."
He pushed her roughly back toward the wall, trapping her against the hard line of his chest. Without taking his eyes from her face he reached behind him and lifted a bo
ttle from one of the last remaining racks. His eyes played across the dusty glass for a moment. "1776 — a bad year for English sovereignty but a very good year for brandy." His muscled thighs ground against Alexandra while he lifted the bottle and pulled out the cork with his teeth.
"Try some, Miss Mayfield."
Alexandra's face was white, drained of any color as he forced the bottle into her mouth.
"Drink, damn it!"
"I won't, you arrogant—" She choked as the fiery spirits rushed into her mouth. She clawed at his chest, coughing violently as more brandy flooded down her throat. The fumes were thick in her nostrils, and she swayed dizzily.
Abruptly, the bottle left her lips. "Not so greedy. Leave some for me." Effortlessly, Hawke pressed closer still, capturing her hands between their straining bodies. Carefully he raised the bottle to his lips and drank long and hard, stopping only when no more than an inch remained at the bottom of the vessel.
"You waste good brandy, sir," Alexandra hissed, twisting helplessly. But his massive body could not be shifted. In the struggle the sleeve of her nightgown was pushed low on her shoulder, and the sheer fabric parted to reveal the pale curve of her breast.
Hawke's eyes were molten flames as he feasted upon her ivory beauty.
"Not at all, my little hellcat." With cold deliberation he tilted the bottle, splashing the remaining brandy across the white expanse of her skin. He chuckled, low and coarse. "I prefer to sample the rest from a different vessel."
Dizzy from the spirits he had forced upon her, Alexandra felt the room sway. The lanterns suspended at intervals from the ceiling danced crazily. Suddenly, she felt his warm lips upon the curve of her breast, plundering her skin, licking away every drop of the brandy he had poured there.
"Stop," she gasped as his lips traced a fiery path across her heaving chest. Lower they dipped, tracing the furled bud of her nipple through the sheer veil of lace. "Please," she moaned. But then he tugged powerfully, and suddenly nothing stood between her and the exquisite torment of his teeth and tongue.
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