Only when they were well away from the expensive townhouse did Biddles suddenly lean forward to where she sat next to Hawksley to grasp her fingers and lift them to his lips.
“We are in your debt, my dear,” he murmured, his gaze slanting toward the tense gentleman at her side. “I admire a woman with such quick wits. You are fortunate I am already wed, Hawk.”
Not about to be outdone, Santos snatched her fingers from Biddles’s grasp and brushed his lips over them in a lingering kiss.
“I am fortunate that I am not.”
There was a growl of irritation as Hawksley grabbed her wrist and tugged her fingers free. Then possessively he tucked her in the crook of his arm and glared at his two companions.
“You will both keep your lips to yourself unless you wish to be tossed from this carriage.”
Santos merely chuckled as he lounged carelessly in his seat. “You cannot keep her hidden away forever, Hawksley.”
Clara felt herself tugged even closer. Not that she was about to protest. As far as she was concerned, he could hold her in his arms for the rest of eternity.
“Actually, Santos, that has yet to be decided,” he warned in dangerous tones.
It was nearly an hour later when Hawksley escorted Clara to her dark chambers in the Hawk’s Nest.
The priceless canvases had been left in Biddles’s care with the hope that Lord Doulton would have no means of connecting him to the theft, and Santos had been charged with the task of planting rumors that the artwork had been smuggled out of England by an unknown band of cutthroats.
Such a flimsy tale would not fool Lord Doulton for long, but it might keep him from turning his suspicions toward Hawksley for at least a few days.
Halting in the shadows of the upper hall, Hawksley glanced down at the woman at his side.
As always when she was near, he felt that potent mixture of exasperation, pride, and gut-wrenching tenderness.
And of course, that damnable lust that clawed at him with ruthless determination.
Bloody hell, he had been a fool to insist she dress as a young lad. At the time his thought had only been to ensure that a casual observer would mistake her for a young male servant.
How the devil was he to know that the soft breeches would cling to her sweet bottom with such tenacious perfection? Or that the masculine coat would reveal the enticing curve of her breasts?
Or that the knowledge that Santos and Biddles were enjoying the same erotic view was enough to make him smolder with possessive anger?
Ignoring the small voice in the back of his mind that warned it was dangerous to linger here in the dark, he reached out to pluck the hat from her head and tossed it aside. In a heartbeat her satin hair tumbled about her shoulders.
“Biddles was right, you know,” he said softly, his fingers lingering of their own accord to toy with a silver curl. “You were magnificent.”
She grimaced, the emerald eyes still shimmering from her night of adventure.
“Actually, I was terrified,” she confessed. “I dropped the first rock upon my toe, and to be honest, the second barely made it over the wall.”
“You did what was necessary even though you were terrified. That is the true measure of courage.”
She shivered. “It was a near thing, was it not?”
His expression abruptly hardened. The fear he had experienced when he thought they might be exposed was still too fresh to be shrugged aside.
“Too near,” he muttered.
She regarded him a moment before she stepped close enough for her soft, feminine scent to weave about him.
“Oh no, Hawksley. Do not even consider it,” she warned.
“Consider what?”
“Locking me in this house.”
Against his will Hawksley discovered his lips twitching in amusement. It was a wonder that this woman had not yet been burned as a witch.
“Actually, I was considering an offer Santos made to have you tucked away in one of his cottages.” He fingers shifted to brush over the lush curve of her lips. His muscles hardened with a swift arousal. Damn. It had been days since he had allowed himself to be near her. And with good reason, he reminded himself sternly. He was not a chivalrous man. He was a rogue, a rake, and a pirate. He took what he wanted. And he wanted this woman with a force that was nearly blinding. “It would be far safer.”
Indifferent to the sudden danger shimmering in the air, she reached up to grasp the lapels of his coat. The movement brought her body next to his, and Hawksley bit back a groan of torment.
“You cannot send me away. I will not allow it.”
“Not allow?” he rasped.
“You have need of me, Hawksley. You know that.”
His hands cupped her face with a flare of compulsive desire. Damn and blast, but he had need of her.
Shrouded in her sweet heat and feeling the brush of her soft curves against him, Hawksley could barely breathe. He wanted this woman. He wanted her enticing innocence, her heat, her ready passion.
More than anything, he wanted to hold her in his arms and not feel alone for the first night in more nights than he cared to remember.
“Yes, I have need of you.”
A shudder raced through him and she regarded him with darkened eyes.
“Hawksley?”
“Damn,” he cursed his unfamiliar weakness.
“What is it?”
He briefly closed his eyes, battling the fierce urge to pick her up in his arms and carry her off to his chambers.
“’Tis not only Lord Doulton you need fear, kitten,” he warned her in a thick voice. “I am not at all certain that you may trust me.”
She pulled back to frown at him with obvious disbelief. “That is absurd. I would trust you with my life.”
His smile was without humor. “And what of your virtue? Do you trust me with that?”
She grew motionless as she considered his stark words. At first Hawksley feared he might have frightened her with his honesty, and a pain clenched his heart. The last thing he would ever desire was for this woman to lose her faith in him. Astonishingly enough, he realized that her trust was more important to him than her passion.
Just another assurance that this woman had him utterly daft.
“Do you wish me to be honest?” she whispered.
Oh Lord. Even as he struggled to breathe, her eyes began to smolder with a dangerous fire. A fire that seared straight through him.
“Of course.”
“I have begun to suspect that virtue is highly overrated for a female of my age and temperament,” she murmured, deliberately pressing herself against his hard body.
Hawksley’s heart halted at her stunning confession. A confession that he did not need to be hearing. At least not when they were all alone in the dark with nothing to prevent him from claiming her. Nothing but his own badly battered chivalry.
“Clara . . .”
“You once asked me if I wished to be your mistress, and I have given the matter a great deal of thought.”
Actually feeling his control slipping from his grasp, he gazed helplessly into those beautiful emerald eyes.
“You have?”
“Yes.”
He groaned, his fingers tightening upon her cheeks. “Bloody hell. I need to—”
Without warning Clara tossed her arms about his neck. “Do you not wish to know what I have concluded?”
Feeling her pressed tightly against his stirring body, Hawksley clenched his teeth in agony. Hellfire. Surely he had done nothing to deserve such torture? Well, perhaps he had. Still, it did not seem entirely fair considering there were any number of gentlemen who had no doubt done far worse.
And then, without warning, he remembered Biddles’ simple words.
“Then make her your wife . . .”
At the time Hawksley had been too shocked to even consider the ridiculous suggestion. Not in all his thirty years had he given serious thought to binding his life irrevocably with a woman’s.
His brother held the title and responsibilities of producing the necessary heir. And of course, Fredrick also held the family fortune that would ensure that his bride was not forced to live in a shabby house on the edge of the stews.
Hawksley had no need for a bride and nothing to offer even if he did desire one.
Now, however, he could not entirely scrub the tantalizing thought from his mind.
Married. To his angel.
Why not?
She fascinated him in a manner he had never before experienced. Her swift wits, her unique intelligence, her kind heart, and her breathtaking beauty. She certainly would never bore him.
And perhaps most importantly, she had accepted him precisely as he was.
From the beginning, she had seen him at his very worst. And yet in all their time together, she had done nothing to try and mold him into something he could never be.
It was a hell of a lot more than most people who claimed to love him had ever given.
Just for a moment the image of his father’s face rose to mind. He grimaced at the thought of informing the proud, pompous nobleman that his unwanted heir was determined to marry a woman with no wealth, no position, and none of the usual social graces.
No doubt he would be horrified.
His grimaced turned to a slow, satisfied smile.
There might not be any means of turning his back upon the responsibilities that had been thrust onto him, but there was no reason he could not thoroughly enjoy his father’s utter fury when he discovered Hawksley had wed a woman he would consider thoroughly unworthy to eventually become the Countess of Chadwick.
Aye . . . He gazed down at her sweet, beautiful countenance. His wife, his future countess. Suddenly he felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders.
There would be no more aching battles to contain the desire that gnawed within him. No more nights spent alone in his bed. No more facing life without a partner at his side.
It all seemed astonishingly simple. And right.
With a groan he wrapped his arms about her and buried his head in the scented softness of her hair.
“Clara, you are certain this is what you want?” he muttered.
Her arms tightened about his neck, nearly strangling him in the process.
“Yes, Hawksley, I am certain.”
Chapter Twelve
The words had barely tumbled from Clara’s lips when she discovered herself scooped up in a pair of strong male arms and carried down the short hall.
With the same swift movements, Hawksley had her in his shadowed chambers and tumbled onto his bed.
Despite her sharp anticipation, she could not help but chuckle as she heard him muttering low curses while he struggled out of his clothing.
“Hawksley?”
“You would not be laughing if you knew how desperately I desire you, Miss Dawson,” he growled, the sound of ripping fabric echoing through the darkness before he was abruptly upon the bed beside her and gathering her into his arms. “God, at last.”
All amusement faded as Clara felt the naked heat sear through her thin clothing.
Dear heavens, he was hard. Hard . . . everywhere.
A blush touched her cheeks as his erection pressed into her thigh. She had never so much as caught a glimpse of a naked man, let alone had one sprawled half on top of her.
Oddly, however, she experienced no fear as she allowed her hands to tentatively stroke down the curve of his back. The satin heat of his skin made her breath catch in her throat. Who could have known the feel of a man could be so incredible?
“I am not certain what I should do,” she murmured.
“Mmm . . .” His breath brushed her temple as he nuzzled her skin. “Just touch me, kitten. I have dreamed of your hands upon me since I first saw you.”
Emboldened by the husky need in his voice, she skimmed her hands lower, smiling at the sensation of his rippling muscles that clenched beneath her fingers. He moaned as she reached the lean hips, thrusting his swollen staff against her leg.
“This is about to end before it begins,” he muttered, abruptly flipping on top of her and pinning her hands above her head.
Her protest at having her delicious exploration brought to an end was halted as he covered her mouth with a fierce, demanding kiss.
Clara closed her eyes, nearly overwhelmed by the raw hunger she could feel humming through him.
Suddenly the barrier she had always felt in his touch was gone. There was no hesitation as he swept the clothing from her body with experienced ease, no hesitation as his lips brushed down the line of her neck and latched onto the aching tip of her breast. No hesitation as a hair-roughened leg pressed between her thighs to rub at her sensitive cleft.
Clara gasped as she arched upward, assaulted by a flood of unfamiliar sensations.
“Hawksley,” she breathed, tugging her hands loose so that her fingers could tangle in his hair.
He suddenly stilled, a groan wrenched from his throat.
“Forgive me, Clara,” he muttered, his lips brushing the curve of her breast. “I do not mean to frighten you.”
“I am not frightened,” she denied, shivering as his hot breath stroked over her skin. And she was not. The feel of his warm body pressed to her own was sending a wave of tingling pleasure through her blood, the stroke of his lips making her forget the importance of breathing. Still, for a woman accustomed to a strictly predictable life, she had to admit that it was difficult to plunge into the unknown without a few qualms. “I suppose I might be a bit . . . nervous.”
He pulled back to regard her with a searching gaze. “I wish you to be absolutely sure, kitten. There must be no regrets.”
Her heart faltered at his tender expression. Oh my, for the moment he was hers. All hers.
“I am sure,” she whispered, her fingers softly stroking the aquiline planes of his countenance. “’Tis only that I would feel more at ease if I knew what was to occur.”
He remained silent a long moment, as if searching to assure himself that she did indeed wish to be in his arms, and then a slow smile curved his lips.
“Very well, my logical Miss Dawson, we shall do this your way,” he murmured. “You will know precisely what is about to occur.”
“Hawksley . . .”
“Shh.” He pressed his mouth lightly to hers. “First, kitten, I am going to taste that delectable skin of yours. I am going to kiss and lick and nibble you from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. And then I shall make my way back to your soft lips.”
Without giving her time to consider his husky words, his mouth was already in motion. He stroked over her cheek, nipping gently at the line of her jaw and then down the curve of her neck. He paused at the base of her neck to kiss the frantic pulse that beat there, his tongue brushing over the spot before he was trailing ever lower.
Clara sucked in a hissing breath, her eyes squeezing shut.
Sweet saints.
She had thought that there could be nothing beyond the pleasure Hawksley had given to her in the carriage. To be honest, she was not certain a woman could survive anything more pleasurable.
Now she realized that there was something incredibly sensuous in having a handsome pirate devouring her with such methodical care.
Dropping soft kisses upon the curve of her breasts, he gave each aching nipple a lick of his tongue before moving down to her stomach. Clara arched upward, unable to hold still as a sharp burst of excitement clutched deep within her.
“So sweet . . .” Hawksley murmured as he tasted the curve of her hip and then down the tense muscles of her thigh. “So soft.”
“Oh my.” Her hands clutched at the blanket beneath her. “This is . . .”
“Yes, kitten?” he demanded, slipping off the bed as he ran his tongue down the inside of her leg.
“This is wondrous.”
His chuckle tickled over the arch of her foot. “You are wondrous. As delicate as the rarest f
lower.”
She swallowed a moan as he shifted to torment her other foot, lazily exploring her toes and then her ankle before moving on to her knee. She would not survive, she thought as she clenched her teeth.
Already she could feel that damp heat between her legs. Could feel the glorious pressure beginning to build. And those demonic lips were only adding to the fierce ache.
Using his teeth he nipped at the inside of her thigh, making her hips lift off the mattress as the sharp pleasure speared through her.
“Hawksley, I am uncertain I can bear much more,” she rasped.
“Kitten, I have only begun,” he warned her, his hands grasping her legs and tugging them apart.
Feeling oddly vulnerable as he lay between her thighs, she lifted herself onto her elbows and gazed at his shadowed countenance.
“What are you doing?”
“I am going to taste you,” he murmured, holding her gaze as one slender finger slipped into her slick heat. “I am going to taste you here.”
“Hawksley, no . . .” she began to protest, only to have her words stolen as he shifted upward and she felt his tongue part her tender flesh to discover the tiny nub of pleasure. “Oh, yes.”
She flopped back onto the bed, her head tilted back as she bowed beneath the intense sensations.
His tongue was relentless as it teased and stroked her need to the very edge of explosion. At the same time his finger was pushing steadily into her, smoothing in and out with a rhythm her hips instinctively matched.
The bliss was so near. The shattering pleasure beaconing with desperate force.
Her teeth gritted as she gave a strangled groan. “Please, Hawksley, I need you,” she pleaded.
With a last soft kiss upon her thigh he slowly surged back over her, his eyes stark with a need that sent a shiver through her body.
“Clara, I am going to enter you,” he prepared her in rough tones. “I shall try to take care, but I cannot be certain it will not hurt you.”
She framed his face with her hands. “I am ready.”
His eyes slid shut as his brow furrowed with concentration, clearly determined to hold himself in check. Settling more firmly between her spread legs, he nudged the tip of his shaft into her.
Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) Page 14