Defiant Captive

by Christina Skye

  "How base you are! I should have known that —"

  "Yes," Hawke agreed coolly, "you should have."

  "Very well, since you are dead set on being a bastard," Alexandra fumed, "let's dispense with playing cat and mouse."

  "A fine idea. Now, let me see. There's Cripplegate and his mixed brood. The man is notorious for his lechery, of course, but the salary would be considerable. Then there's Lady Sedgewick," he continued ruthlessly. "I understand she's looking for a companion. Faintly eccentric old thing, but nothing of harm about her. That son of hers is a different matter altogether, however." Hawke pursed his lips thoughtfully. "The fellow's been impregnating the housemaids at an amazing rate, so I hear. No wonder Lady Sedgewick is so hard put to find female domestic help."

  Alexandra felt sick, but she refused to let Hawke see her dismay. "If you hope to frighten me, you may forget it. I do not scare so easily. You of all people should know that!" Despite her brave words, Alexandra's face was pale, and her fingers twisted restlessly in the ribbons at her waist.

  Expressionlessly, Hawke watched her valiant struggle for optimism, knowing he had succeeded in upsetting her.

  Curiously, the thought gave him no pleasure — quite the opposite, in fact.

  A spark leaped from the hard flint of his gray eyes, and a moment later he jumped to his feet. "Goddamn it, Alexandra! Marry me!"

  At first she did not move, unable to believe what she had heard. Her heart mocked her, pounding erratically as she studied his face, amazed at the raw hunger reflected in his silver-gray eyes.

  In the stunned silence that fell between them Hawke knelt before her and grabbed her hands roughly. "Marry me, Alexandra!" he persisted urgently. "You're a creature of fire and passion. You were not meant to be a governess! Let me take care of you. Let me share your days and your nights. I'll never give you cause to regret it."

  Too shocked to speak, Alexandra stared at him, her breath coming quick and jerky. "M-marry?" she stuttered.

  Hawke's fingers tightened painfully. "Is it such a surprise? After all, you saved my life — Robbie's too. You must feel something for us!"

  For a moment — just the barest span of one erratic heartbeat — Alexandra considered Hawke's startling proposal, which shocked her far more than his crude demand that she share his bed. Cold uncomplicated lust — that she expected of this man. But an offer of marriage? From the exalted Duke of Hawkesworth?

  As the Duchess of Hawkesworth, she would be safe and protected. No more wandering. No more worry about how to pay for her next lodging.

  Shuddering slightly, Alexandra fought to regain her grip on reality.

  Cold hard reality! she told herself desperately. Just like the flinty gray light flashing in his eyes.

  Damn the man! He was married already, Alexandra reminded herself, terrified that she had come close to blurting out her consent. "Are y-you insane?" she cried at last, when she found her voice. "Is this some sort of new and vile insult?"

  Hawke's face darkened. "You consider it an insult that I ask you to become my wife?"

  "Would you add bigamy to your list of crimes against me?" she demanded in terrible, unthinking fury. At that moment she hated him with every nerve and sinew of her rigid, quaking body.

  Just as she hated herself for having considered his offer, even for the briefest instant.

  With an explosive curse Hawke jerked her upright and slammed her roughly against his broad chest. "My wife is dead, Alexandra!" he cried hoarsely. "Dead, do you hear? She died trying to steal Robbie away from me ten days ago."

  Alexandra gasped, shock halting her wild struggles against his iron grip. Her ivory brow furrowed. Isobel dead? She blinked, feeling the room spin around her.

  With a low groan Hawke trapped her face between his hands and forced her to meet his hungry, searing gaze. "Don't you understand, woman? I love you! I think I've loved you since the first moment I saw you run out of the fog. Even then I must have known—" Whatever he meant to say was forgotten as he slanted his mouth fiercely over hers. "Marry me!" he whispered against her heated skin. "Marry me very soon!"

  Alexandra shivered, inexorably drawn like a moth to an ancient, primal flame. Vainly, she struggled against this deadly attraction. Marriage to her ruthless captor? To a kidnapper and a murderer?

  No! she screamed silently. It was impossible! Honor forbade even considering such a thing!

  Yet consider it she did, as the heat of his body scorched her trembling frame. She hesitated, immobile within the span of his tense arms.

  "Say something, Alexandra," Hawke demanded hoarsely. "Say anything — anything but no." All his insouciance and fine speech seemed to have deserted him.

  It was that very loss of control and stripping away of pretense that caught Alexandra and held her spellbound long after she should have fled. And with the recognition of his weakness came the knowledge that she was in a position to take revenge on her captor at last.

  "Let me go!" she cried, straining against his chest. "With your wife but a week in her grave, you would search for a new mate?"

  Alexandra forced herself to laugh coldly. "You defile the very idea of matrimony!"

  Hawke's face darkened with pain and fury. "This is how you reply to my offer? Can you hate me so much?" His hands fell from her face and bit into her shoulders like talons. "Very well, then, I'll make the choice simpler. It's wed me or bed me," he said in a voice raw with rage. "You'll not escape me, woman, for I mean to have you, and when I do, it will be your desire as much as mine!"

  "Never, you vile bounder!" she cried, struggling against his cruel grip, feeling the hot, hard shaft of his manhood scorch her belly through the thin muslin of her gown. With strength born of desperation she wrenched free and flung herself toward the door. But her flight was cut off in its first steps as Hawke caught her gown and dragged her back against him.

  "Let me go, damn you!"

  With a twist of his wrist he spun her about, pinned her hands behind her back, and hauled her against his chest. "Don't ever walk away from me when I'm talking to you!" he thundered. "Not unless you want me to teach you some manners."

  "Don't threaten me, you m-miserable, contemptible —"

  "Oh, 'tis no threat but a promise, of a certainty! Shall I prove it to you, woman?" he taunted. "Shall I mount you here and now? On the carpet? Across the settee? Why not both places?" he continued savagely. "My wound is nearly healed, and I'm good for a night of whoring. Plowing you would be as good as plowing any other tart." Reeling with the pain of her curt refusal, Hawke spoke with deliberate cruelty, making his words as crude as possible, hoping to hurt her as she had hurt him. "A little fear only sharpens lust, as you'll learn soon enough. Maybe I should truss you when I take you."

  "Stop!" Alexandra screamed, horrified at how quickly his fierce tenderness had transmuted into bestiality. She wrenched her body away from him, only to discover one of her ribbons was caught on a button at his breeches.

  Hawke smiled insolently at her predicament. Slowly, his long fingers slipped along the ribbon until they just grazed her sensitized breast. His eyes were hard and knowing as he felt the dusky crest tighten at his touch.

  Alexandra's breath caught in her throat, and her lovely eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Stop it, Hawke, please!" she rasped.

  "Tell me why you won't marry me," he demanded harshly, his fingers teasing her taut nipple unmercifully.

  Alexandra did not answer. A dark skittering emotion came and went in her haunted sea-green eyes, and then she began to twist like a wildcat in his grip.

  Guilt? Hawke frowned in disbelief. What could she be ashamed of? "Hell and damnation, never tell me you're married already?" he growled.

  "No!" Alexandra snapped. "And I'll never marry. I'll be a slave to no man!"

  Hawke's mouth tightened into a hard line. "It seems I have lost Isobel only to find her again in you."

  From the door behind them came a soft scuffling noise. "Papa?" It was Robbie's voice, sleepy and confused.
"I heard noises." The boy stood uncertainly in the doorway, one hand rubbing sleepy eyes, the other clutching his favorite wooden soldier. "What are you doing to Miss Mayfield? Why is she crying?"

  Hawke bit off a curse and untangled the ribbon from his breeches, releasing his angry captive in the same quick motion. "For a boy who ought to be in bed asleep, you ask a great many questions!" He strode across the room and took his son into his arms. Above Robbie's head Hawke's angry eyes searched out Alexandra's face. "Miss Mayfield and I were just talking about promises, if you must know, and about how important it is to keep one's word." Dark with warning, Hawke's eyes raked her pale face. "If you make a promise, you must expect to keep it, whether you like it or not. Remember that, Robbie. Just as I'm sure Miss Mayfield always will."

  Hawkesworth's face was set in harsh lines, and his steely eyes promised limitless retribution as he carried his son from the room.

  "Like bloody hell!" Alexandra spat, almost tripping over the forgotten volume at her feet.

  A moment later, the book struck the door with a loud resounding crack that echoed all the way to the attic.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Upon arising the following day, Hawke sent a hastily scrawled note around to Madame Gres, a very select London modiste. He smiled, having a very good notion of her surprise and keen curiosity upon receiving his summons. Well known to be a connoisseur of female beauty and apparel, with a long string of high fliers under his protection, the Duke of Hawkesworth was a generous and coveted client.

  Not for nothing had Madame Gres — or Miss Gray, as she had been called when Hawke discovered her in a small seaside town near Brighton and took her up — scaled the heights to become the unrivaled purveyor of fashionable dress to the ton.

  There was nothing to suggest vulgar curiosity in the coolly professional reply sent back to Bedford Square in rather less than an hour. Madame Gres will be happy to wait upon the Duke of Hawkesworth at eleven o'clock, the lines read.

  Yes, Miss Gray had learned her lessons well, Hawke thought as he perused the neat yet fluid handwriting. A small smile played about the corners of his mouth.

  At eleven o'clock precisely Hadley ushered a small slender woman with smooth skin and jet-black hair into the spacious front drawing room. Unwillingly, Alexandra went down to meet the modiste who had come at Hawke's command.

  Neatly dressed in gray kerseymere with a brooch at her neck, Madame Gres was not at all what Alexandra had expected.

  "So you are to be my client, oui?" the smiling woman said with a soft yet very light French accent. "But you have so much the look of—" She stopped in confusion, coloring.

  Isobel bedamned! Alexandra thought, then remembered the woman was dead. She shivered slightly. "I am Alexandra Mayfield — an, er, cousin of the Duchess of Hawkesworth, which explains the likeness." She'd better get used to the lie, Alexandra told herself. "The duke speaks of your establishment in the highest terms," she said and invited the woman to a seat by the sunny back window.

  "Monsieur le Due is very kind. It will be a privilege to have the clothing of one so beautiful." The modiste's small head tilted, birdlike, as she scrutinized Alexandra from head to toe. "With so vivid a coloring, we must dismiss the pastels usual for young debutantes. This hair like fire calls for something rich and bold — evening gowns of lapis, perhaps, or emerald."

  "I fear there has been a misunderstanding," Alexandra said with growing awkwardness. "I do not look for a wardrobe of the sort you describe. I am —"

  The drawing-room door opened, and the Duke of Hawkesworth appeared at the threshold, comfortably surveying the two women. Ah, Miss Mayfield, Madame Gres — I fear I was delayed. The Battle of Hastings took rather longer to win than I anticipated. You have met, I take it."

  Hawke moved to the empty fireplace, where he leaned his shoulder against the gilt mantel and placed a booted foot upon the fender. His eyes were faintly mocking as he saw Alexandra's irritation. "Nothing too suggestive, you understand, madame. Miss Mayfield does not want to attract attention of the wrong sort. Several walking costumes, a riding habit, and two or three evening gowns, I should think — at least, to begin."

  The tiny woman's eyes widened with surprise, which was as quickly concealed. "Mais oui, Monsieur le Due — something becoming, but not 'crossing the line,' as you English would say.

  With mademoiselle's elegant lines, she will have a great success, I think. But everything comme il faut, I quite understand."

  "Exactly. With her hair and coloring pastels will not do, of course. Richer tones — lapis, jade. Even chestnut, I think. Have you brought samples?"

  Blaze and bedamned! They spoke about her as if she were a bloody fashion doll! Alexandra seethed as Madame Gres nodded and rose to summon her two assistants, who brought in cases laden with fabric, fashion dolls, and trimmings. Soon the furniture around Alexandra was swathed in a rainbow of fabrics, white satin lying crumpled upon crimson velvet and aquamarine sarcenet.

  The Duke of Hawkesworth knew a great deal about women's apparel, Alexandra discovered; quite an intimate knowledge, it became clear as he fingered lace and satin. He took an interest in the selection of every part of her wardrobe, right down to her chemisettes.

  As she sat motionless in silent fury, Hawke and the modiste animatedly debated the merits of each color and fabric. Even when Madame Gres draped bolts of silk across her rigid shoulders, Alexandra remained tight-lipped and aloof.

  "Not the crimson, I think," the duke said coldly.

  The modiste looked up quickly and searched his face before thrusting the crimson velvet back into its case. "A bad choice — you are right. But the jade is most suitable, rich and warm with a certain something of sweetness about it."

  Beneath lazy eyelids Hawke's gray eyes were sharp and quick. "Very good. You may prepare the three walking costumes and two evening gowns. We will need them in two days' time."

  The dressmaker's mouth opened in dismay. "C'est une plaisanterie, non?" When the duke did not reply, her mouth shut tightly. "Bien. It will be difficult, but—" Madame Gres turned to Alexandra. "If you please, with the shortness of time, will mademoiselle permit a fitting now? It would be impossible to finish otherwise."

  Two pairs of curious eyes leveled at Alexandra, who still felt like nothing so much as one of the fashion dolls clutched in the assistant's hands. "Permit?" she said icily. "Why not? Who am I to refuse two such expert advisers?"

  With chin high and two bright flags of color in her cheeks, she rose from her chair and walked to the door, carefully avoiding Hawke's face.

  The very next day, Madame Gres returned with two walking costumes and an evening gown. Grimly, Alexandra submitted to the attentions of the intense little modiste, who finally pronounced the dresses to be absolute perfection. Even Alexandra, staring pensively at her image in the cheval glass, had to admit that the walking dress of bottle-green merino cloth suited her to perfection. Molded close to her body and decorated at the waist with rich ribbons of ruby and green, the dress was a perfect complement to her hair and creamy complexion.

  The ribbons at the hem and sleeves were more decorative than she thought appropriate for the situation she was seeking, but the modiste convinced her the dress could not be changed.

  "Mais non!" the woman cried in great animation. "It is of the most suitable. Tres distinguee! Without the ribbons the dress is — oh, of the dowd!"

  Seeing the woman's sincere distress, Alexandra broke into unwilling laughter. "Very well, madame, you have convinced me. I do not think I would care to debate any issue with you."

  For a moment the smaller woman did not reply. Her head was averted as she readied the York tan gloves and black kid half-boots that completed Alexandra's costume. When she looked up, her expression was oddly serious. "I say only what my eyes tell me, mademoiselle. You must not think that I say this only for flattering you."

  Touched, Alexandra reached out and impulsively pressed the modiste's tiny wrist. "What a terrible ingrate I am, to be s
ure, when you are all that is kind. Forgive me, madame."

  "As to that" — the woman tossed her shoulders philosophically — "there is nothing to forgive. If I offend you, it is I who must make the apologies." She straightened a matching pilgrim's cloak of green merino cloth around Alexandra's shoulders, then stood back to study the effect. "Regardez! The cloak is all of the crack this season. Can you doubt my words now?"

  The effect was indeed distinguished, Alexandra had to admit, as she studied her reflection in the large cheval glass. The dress was rich but not flamboyant — a perfect complement to her vibrant hair and face. Suddenly, Alexandra understood why Madame Gres commanded such high prices.

  She was presented with an occasion to wear her new attire sooner than she'd expected. Seeing that Robbie's energy was fully restored and the boy was champing at the bit to be up, Hawke announced a surprise.

  "What sort of surprise, Father? A balloon ascension?"

  "It would be no surprise if I told you, young jackanapes," the duke said indulgently, ruffling the boy's dark hair. "You must be very good today, and if you are well rested, you'll find out later on. Along with Miss Mayfield."

  Alexandra, who had been quietly stroking Rajah in a wing chair on the opposite side of Robbie's room, stiffened as she saw Hawke's mocking smile. Resolutely she bit back the question she'd been about to ask. She would not give Hawke that pleasure, she decided. He might order her about, but he would have no source of pleasure in her curiosity.

  Nor could Robbie coax any further information from his father, who remained resolute throughout the day. Soon after luncheon he bundled Robbie up and took him to the front door. There a smiling Jeffers waited, with Pence in his wake.

  "Ah, Jeffers, punctual as always. You have the direction?"

  "Indeed I do, Your Grace. I fancy we'll make it with time to spare."

  With a nod Hawkesworth lifted Robbie up into the closed carriage, tucked a blanket about the boy, then turned to assist Alexandra. For a moment his hard gray eyes played over her face, studying her elegant form in the new walking dress. "I really must give my compliments to Madame Gres."