The Hawk and the Lamb

by Susan Napier

  'Jack, please—I wasn’t trying to steal anything—'

  She stopped as he shifted his hand back to her throat, choking off the words.

  'Lying slut. I found this in your room, along with the rest of your cache!' From lightning-softness to cracking thunder! Elizabeth's burning ears rang with the ugly ac­cusation. 'No wonder you jumped when I walked in on you in the library this morning! I must have nearly caught you in the act!' He slammed the table again, punc­tuating his furious self-contempt. ‘I knew you were hiding something, I knew it! But, God forgive me for being a fool, I thought it was something innocent—'

  he spat out the word as if it revolted him '—like trying to charm Grandpère into selling you more of his books, or querying him about a suspect provenance of one he had sold you...'

  ‘I haven’t been trying to steal the necklace, Jack,' she croaked insistently. 'For God's sake—I've been trying to give it back!'

  Deep, dark colour flushed across his face as his lips pulled back in a rictus of a smile. 'You take me for a fool?' he demanded fiercely, leaning into her so that she felt the hard grind of his hips against her trembling belly and the grate of her spine against the table.

  'No—Jack—I'm telling the truth this time.'

  'Huh!' The pressure didn’t ease one iota. Elizabeth thought about bursting into tears but she realised he would probably enjoy hearing her sob—or, worse, think that she was still trying to manipulate him with her vul­nerability. She was bleakly aware of the miserable fate of the Boy Who Cried Wolf.

  ‘It's true,' she said huskily, trying to speak calmly through her severely restricted airway. 'The necklace and those books—they were sent to my uncles by mistake in the crate with their purchases from your grandfather. Obviously your grandfather couldn’t have packed them so it must have been someone who didn’t know books, who didn’t check the inventory properly, or was careless. By the time they realised what had happened my uncles were worried that they'd be accused of stealing...'

  'Why—if they were totally innocent of guilt?' he chal­lenged harshly. ‘If they had returned everything straight away Grandpère would have been grateful rather than suspicious of any wrong-doing.'

  Elizabeth swallowed, sternly reminding herself of the clean breast that she had promised herself to display. Her voice quavered bravely. 'Well, actually Uncle Seymour did find the necklace and the books more or less straight away but—"well, he's old and he loves beautiful old things... Since no one was shouting for their immediate return he—he just thought that it wouldn’t hurt if he enjoyed them for a while...

  'He never intended to withhold his finding indefi­nitely,' she added desperately. 'He just looked on it as minding... And when Uncle Miles realised—well, they did try to arrange a return through the proper channels. Uncle Miles phoned and wrote, but your grandfather never replied and we couldn’t just send the necklace back in the post! So-so I offered to bring it back and try and explain and apologise—'

  'And since you were already set for a spy mission on Ile des Faucons it was all incredibly convenient!' There was not a shred of belief in the sardonic interruption, but imperceptibly the grip on her throat eased.

  ‘It was the other way around,' she said quickly, hoping that the worst of the explosion was over and that now he would start to think. ‘I told you the truth last night— the Corvell thing was sprung on me at the last minute at the airport. I had no idea that the Hawkwoods and St Clairs were the same family...or whether the dis­appearance of the necklace had even been discovered. I had to know what the situation was before I blundered blindly into it. I'd promised Uncle Miles that I'd be very discreet. Don’t you see, I had to get into the estate and meet your grandfather before I could say anything...' Heartened by the slight easing of his hand, she ventured tentatively, 'Could you—do you think you could please get off me now? You're hurting me.'

  She had misread his softening. He didn’t budge. If anything his body settled more deeply on to hers, stressing the weakness of her position and the power of his. His eyes, as cold and grey as dead ashes, contrasted with the flaming tension that smouldered in the bunched muscles of his body.

  'And you think you haven’t hurt me with your litany of lies?' he grated. 'Did you think that I was so far under your spell that I would believe any ridiculous fabri­cation you chose to feed me?'

  Her description of events sounded absurdly unbe­lievable even to her own ears, and the fact that some of his condemnation was deserved undermined her feeble flutter of confidence. His reaction seemed to confirm her earlier decision not to confide in him until she had proof of her honest motives.

  She realised wearily that she was paying the price for two crimes here—one of which was not even her own. In Jack's mind she and the treacherous Zenobia had temporarily merged into one. The other woman had always been beyond any dream of vengeance, but she, Elizabeth, was right here, literally within his grasp.

  'Look, you can call Uncle Miles and ask,' she said, struggling against a fresh desire to weep. 'He'll tell you—'

  'Of course he would lie for you, if he was an ac­complice. Was it he who wormed the information of the existence of the necklace and where it was kept out of Grandpère...?’

  'Don’t be ridiculous, he's seventy-two!' she snapped with a trace of her natural resilience.

  'Age is no barrier to deceit.'

  ‘I know what Seymour did was wrong, but it wasn’t his intention to deceive,' she cried. 'He's a very gentle and unworldly sort of man. What will you do? Please don’t let my mistakes prejudice your actions. My uncles wanted so badly for things to be smoothed over that I don’t think it occurred to them that I wouldn’t succeed. They'd be horrified if they knew what had hap­pened—'

  'What you'd done, you mean?'

  'Yes—no! I mean, yes, what I've done—not what you think I've done...'

  'Bartering your body for a key to the kingdom of St Clair?'

  'No! Don’t you dare say it was that!' she said, reacting fiercely to his degrading reduction of what they had shared to its lowest physical denominator.

  'Well, if you came all this way to return the necklace to its rightful owner, why didn’t you mention the fact to my grandfather tonight?'

  Because tonight had been forbidden magic. A little slice of heaven. She was accepted in his home—desired, admired, wanted... gracing his table and his bed in the bitter-sweet knowledge that she loved him and that this one last night might be all that she would ever have of him. She had selfishly wanted it to remain unblemished.

  ‘I didn’t know I was going to meet him,' she said de­fensively. ‘I wasn’t prepared... You said he was sick. I—I couldn’t just blurt it out over dinner, so I decided to wait until tomorrow...'

  'You mean until I was out of the way and you were free to play on his sympathy with your pathetic story?' He flayed her with the accuracy of his contemptuous guess.

  ‘It was his property I was returning, not yours.' She flew the defiant tatters of her dignity at him. ‘It was only right that he be the one to decide what to do!'

  Her frustration at the hopelessness finally broke the bonds of her control. 'Oh, damn you, Jack, let me go. Please. I can’t even think with you lying on top of me!'

  Her outburst left her panting, having exhausted her temporary store of oxygen. He rode the rise and fall of her chest with crushing ease.

  ‘I know the feeling, chérie.' For the first time she caught a glimmer of light in the cold slate eyes, but no mercy. He straightened at last, but there was no es­caping the prison of his body. His thighs still trapped hers against the table-edge as she slowly pushed herself up off the dark mirrored-polish of its surface and his hands settled heavily on her aching shoulders. 'So where is the necklace now? I presume it's still hidden some­where on the premises. I certainly didn’t find it when I turned over your room.'

  He had searched through her things. What hadn’t oc­curred to her in the initial shock of his attack now made her recoil against an unexpected feeli
ng of violation that must be a pale imitation of what he was feeling. 'What made you look there in the first place?' she asked shakily, mistrusting his sudden calm.

  ‘Ironically enough I called in to leave a token of my grandfather's misguided esteem on your bed... at his request,' he said drily. 'A rare edition of seventeenth-century poetry that he thought would be an appropriate gift for such an "impassioned intelligence"...'

  'So you decided to search my room while you were there,' she said bitterly. ‘I thought you said you had faith in my integrity?'

  'Had, yes.' He stressed the past tense bitterly, a fresh flame kindling in his smouldering gaze. 'Until I saw the interesting collection of bedside reading on your dressing-table. You were too cunning for your own good, ma petite voleuse. Were you working on the Edgar Allan Poe theory that guilt is best hidden in plain sight?'

  'They weren’t in plain sight—I left them in my suitcase, not on the table!' She threw his own lie back in his face. When her bag had arrived she had wrapped her precious cargo in her most intimate underwear and thrust it into the back of the antique wardrobe.

  He surveyed her with a grim smile of malice. ‘If you intend to make a living as an upper-class cat-burglar, chérie, you'd do best to learn the aristocratic rules of etiquette. Guests dress—maids unpack. No doubt one of Grandpère's efficient army freshened your room for the night ahead and was over-zealous in her helpfulness.'

  Jack's hands tightened on her shoulders and he gave her a small, vicious shake. The calm had only been the eye of the storm. 'Now no more stalling, Beth. I've given you all the rope you need to tie yourself up in your lies. Where have you put the necklace? Somewhere utterly bizarre, I suppose, to match the rest of your tale. And, I warn you, don’t even think of using it to negotiate terms. I don’t make bargains with criminals!'

  Although she had bleakly anticipated his violent re­jection, and thought she had prepared herself for its impact, Elizabeth found that she hadn’t. How could she? She had never known such a devastating pain, as if she had been emptied of everything but the shattering knowledge that she had hurt him and that he would never let her get close enough to do that again. If she told him that she loved him now he would laugh in her face, and she only had herself to blame. He wanted no part of such a faithless love. She felt empty, scraped raw by his contempt and the realisation that with his words he was systematically destroying any possibility of reconcili­ation between them.

  ‘I’m wearing it!' she said dully.

  His reaction was dramatic.

  He went rigid, jerking back from her as if she had just told him that she was contaminated by some dread disease. His face wore a look of shocked fascination.

  'You're what?’

  ‘I’m wearing it,' she repeated uneasily, bewildered by her sudden release. ‘It seemed the safest way to carry it around since I couldn’t just leave it lying in my room.

  Naturally I used the safe at the hotel,' she added hur­riedly, thinking it was shock at her cavalier treatment of his precious heirloom that had prompted his violent recoil. 'But when I—I thought I might be able to find a way into the estate I decided it was better to wear it than carry it around in a bag that could get stolen. Not many people would realise the true value of the books offhand, but jewellery is something everyone can ap­preciate the value of—'

  'You've worn it before tonight?' he interrupted softly.

  'Yes, a couple of times,' she said uneasily, pressing her hand to her collarbone. His eyes followed her gesture as he muttered what sounded like a profane French prayer beneath his breath.

  'Actually I was wearing it on the plane when we met, too,' she announced defiantly. Whatever unknown crime she had committed now, she might as well confess it all.

  His eyes, which had been wide and pale, suddenly narrowed with a strange, dark intensity.

  'Mon Dieu, you really do like to live dangerously...'

  'No one's ever seen me wearing it,' she said, instinc­tively defending herself against the threat of that silky murmur. ‘I always wear something high-necked if I put it on...'

  'But it's still there around your neck. Still being worn.' He lifted his head suddenly, his eyes catching the light, and she shivered at the predatory satisfaction that was starkly revealed there, as if he were a hawk brooding over a fresh kill.

  ‘I want to see it,' he demanded.

  Her fist clenched over her chest. 'You can’t have it, not here. I'll have to unzip my dress to get it off—'

  ‘I don’t want you to take it off. I want to see you wearing it.'

  He was laughing! A richly exultant sound of amusement that had the impact of a bomb in the quiet room, and before Elizabeth could react to his sudden, inexplicable change of mood he had grabbed her by the wrist and propelled her out into the hall.

  'What are you doing? I told you I'd give it to you!' she panted as he dragged her up the stairs, leaving one of her shoes behind on the landing as he whirled her across it and up the next flight. By the time they reached the door to her room she was breathless with fear and excitement and wondering if one's body could drown in adrenalin.

  'You don’t have to do this, Jack—' she began but he unexpectedly ignored her room and plunged on down the dark corridor and round a corner.

  'Oh, yes I do, chérie. C'est le sort.'

  Fate? Elizabeth had thought that Jack was too much of a fighter to be a fatalist. Up a few more steps and around another corner and she found herself blind in the middle of a black room.

  The light snapped on and she blinked awkwardly and saw Jack leaning back against the closed door, staring at her, still in the grip of what was obviously some fiercely exultant emotion.

  'Show me,' he commanded, and stood, legs planted astride, hands hanging loosely at his sides, the picture of a relaxed man prepared to explode into violent motion at a moment's notice.

  Automatically Elizabeth turned away from the powerful image of daunting male arrogance and her eyes took in what her mind had subconsciously registered even before the light had been switched on.

  Not her bedroom. His. He had brought her to his room, his territory... his rules.

  The heavy blue silk-damask curtains were drawn at the double windows, increasing the closed-in intimacy created by the pale blue and gold figured wallpaper and the ornately carved plaster ceiling. A huge bed was turned down invitingly to reveal fine, pure white embroidered linen beneath the deep blue silk comforter. A chair and a wardrobe like hers were the only other furnishings. A room as starkly masculine and as finely disciplined as its owner was... usually.

  A drifting movement of air behind her warned Elizabeth too late, and before she could turn the fabric across her shoulders suddenly gave way as her zip was drawn down to her waist. She swung around, sup­porting her loose bodice protectively with her hands over her breasts, the wide, slanting shoulders of her dress dropping down her arms.

  'Jack...' Her protest faded away when she saw him staring at the first gleam of gold revealed by the slipping gown. The earlier tension was still in him but it was tension now of a different sort. Moody possessiveness glittered in his eyes, along with a kind of savagely amused tenderness that was like a balm to her self-inflicted wounds. Her fluttering fear that he intended to take his revenge by forcing her in a physical expression of his contempt died. Jack would never force her—he would never have to. Whatever he wanted she would give him willingly, gratefully...needing the chance to atone at least partially for the sin of her betrayal...

  He reached out and threaded his fingers gently under the sleeves of her dress, holding her wide, wondering and slightly wary eyes with his own hypnotic silver gaze as he tugged, slowly and inexorably dragging the sleeves further down her arms. ‘I want to see,' he said, in a rough whisper that curled caressingly around her sense.

  The zip was only partially unfastened and the dress caught in folds at her waist but he was too absorbed in his discovery to notice. He stared at the blaze of red and gold and diamond fire that hug from her
neck, mantling her pale skin from collarbone to the upper reaches of her breasts where they swelled above their twin cups of pale green lace. His eyes narrowed and Elizabeth had the fleeting feeling that he was studying her with the detached eye of a connoisseur rather than that of a passionate lover.

  She drew a ragged breath and her breasts quivered, setting the fiery jewels a-splinter with light. 'Oh, yes, they suit you well...' He reached out and touched the central stone, an oval-cut red ruby suspended from a fan of overlapping chased-gold links. He pressed on it lightly until it sank into the whipped-cream cushion of flesh, and then he ran his finger up the chain that disappeared around her neck.

  'Do you know why it's called La Flèche?' he mur­mured, moving closer as he studied the tiny overlapping triangles. 'Because these are tiny arrows, all pointing down...' He traced his finger back down again. 'Down towards a woman's secret heart... Many women have worn this necklace for the men of my family in the past three hundred years. It's in the nature of a ritual. And all the St Clair males have their duty to perform in this secret ritual...'

  To Elizabeth's delicious consternation his finger con­tinued on down past the necklace, over the rise of her left breast, skimming the lace that covered her trembling heart, down over the soft bunch of material at her waist to press lightly into the V between her legs.

  'To pierce his woman's body with the arrow of pos­session, that is the St Clair male's task... And if she is proudly wearing the badge of that possession there is no escape from destiny...'

  ‘I... I don’t understand,' she murmured. He smiled, his eyes slitting as he watched her sway helplessly to his feather-light caress. 'You will, chérie....’

  'You're still angry.' Her aching uncertainty was in every aching syllable and he made no attempt to assuage it.

  'Yes. But that will add an element of uncertainty that will be rather stimulating for us both, will it not?' His finger curved inwards, stroked, and Elizabeth melted inside. He took his hand away and she felt empty, abandoned.