Defiant Captive Read online

  "Unpleasant, eh? What I'll do next will be a good deal more unpleasant still, my girl."

  The dry laugh at her back raised the fine hairs along her neck.

  Using the last of her energy, Alexandra lashed out with her foot, striking blindly, and on the second attempt her heel met bone and muscle. With a curse the man released her throat, jerking her around to face him.

  "I'll make you very sorry for that, you bitch!" He twisted her head roughly, so that the shifting moonlight played across her face. "By God, it's hard to believe, even now!"

  Alexandra's strength returned as air filled her lungs. Suddenly, she wrenched one hand free and tried to pry his fingers from her mouth so that she could scream, but he caught her hand like a pesky insect.

  "If you scream, you're dead. Remember that." His colorless eyes narrowed. His fingers loosened slightly and slid to her chin, where they rested menacingly.

  "What do you think you're —"

  "I'll ask the questions, bitch, and you'd best give me answers if you value your life." He reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a metal blade that glistened coldly in the thin light of the moon. "What's the lay with Hawkesworth? Talk!"

  "It's no business of yours!" Alexandra choked out but almost immediately regretted her words when his silver blade came up to trace the line of her cheek.

  "Oh, but it is," the man breathed, his voice low and ragged with tension, which Alexandra recognized as a man's desire. "Shall I force you to answer?" His blade pressed into her cheek, cutting deep and searing her with pain. "It would be such a pity to leave you disfigured ..." His voice trailed off meaningfully.

  Alexandra's mind raced. "I'm Alexandra Mayfield, may the Devil take you! I am governess to the Duke of Hawkesworth's son."

  "Such spirit for a governess!" the man said mockingly. "But I've no doubt you provide services for both father and son. The Black Duke could never resist a temptation such as you warming his bed."

  Alexandra recoiled at the hate in his voice, but the cloaked man gripped her tightly. His blade followed the line of her throat down to her neck and then to the swelling curve below. The honed point slid to a halt at the tip of her breast, where it rose and fell with the rhythm of her ragged breath.

  Alexandra tasted fear then, raw, acrid fear such as she had never known. Please God, let Hawke come and look for her!

  "What, no scandalized denials? No outrage? I thought as much. 'Tis a good position for a servant, after all." He laughed harshly. "A good position, by God, to have the duke between your legs!"

  "You're wrong!" Alexandra cried, her voice unsteady with fear and anger. "He's nothing to me, nor I to him. But it's a good job, and one I want to keep, so let me go before he discovers me missing."

  "Nothing to you, is he?" The colorless eyes measured her skeptically. "Perhaps I have a use for you then. Nothing demanding. It would come very easy to one of your talents."

  "What sort of use?" Alexandra rasped, feigning a note of sly cunning.

  "So you are interested?" His laugh was explosive with triumph. "This grows better and better, by God!"

  His fingers closed roughly around the swell of her breast, and Alexandra could barely keep from shuddering. Through clenched teeth she answered, "It all depends upon the type of service. And upon the rewards, of course." She tittered, twisting away coyly when the man's fingers dipped lower. "Not so fast, dearie." She laughed, slapping his hands away.

  His eyes glittered, as pale as the moonlight. "I can see why he keeps you, my dear. You'd be a pleasant diversion on a cold night. Unfortunately, I have other plans. Plans that render you infinitely de trop." His eyes flicked over her, blank and impersonal, like the death gaze of a coiling snake.

  "Let me go!" Alexandra screamed. Dimly, she felt his hands loosen as a shrill squeak exploded in the darkness.

  Cursing, her attacker stabbed the empty air with his dagger, but the weight that had fallen on his shoulders would not be dislodged. Rajah's eyes were bloodred with fury as he sank his teeth into her assailant's neck.

  Alexandra turned and stumbled down the hill, knowing Rajah had given her precious minutes to escape. Overhead, the moon slipped from the clouds, lighting her path, and she sobbed in relief to see a pair of lanterns swinging up from the meadow.

  "Where have you been?" the duke growled as she came hurtling down the slope.

  But Alexandra, blind with panic, only threw herself into his arms, clutching his jacket with rigid fingers.

  "What is it, Alexandra?" Unconsciously, Hawke circled her waist and drew her closer against his chest. With a frown he looked up to the high ground from where she'd come.

  "A m-man," she rasped. "T-Telford, I think. Rajah's with him now. P-please!"

  "Up there?" His face darkening, he pulled out of her grip and hurtled up the hill, where he disappeared into the yew grove.

  Long minutes passed with no sign of movement from the dark grove. Finally, Hawke appeared at the top of the hill. His expression was unreadable in the moonlight as he strode back down. Following behind him at a brisk trot came Rajah, his tail arched in triumph.

  "There was no one there," Hawke said flatly, disbelief written on every inch of his face. Suddenly, he raised his lantern and pulled Alexandra beneath its light. "What have you done to your cheek?"

  "Cheek?" she repeated woodenly.

  "Yes, damn it! There's blood on your cheek."

  "Blood?" Her hand crept up to the mark left by Telford's blade. Her fingers traced the sticky line of half-dried blood, and she winced with pain. "He — he had a knife."

  Hawke dropped the lantern abruptly, his face a frozen mask. Behind him Alexandra saw Jeffers, tense with worry, shepherding the two boys back to the carriage.

  "So," Hawke whispered, "the game is not over after all."

  * * * * *

  Back at the George and Dragon, Anthony Morland pulled himself away from a lazy contemplation of his bed partner's ripe charms. His nostrils wrinkled in distaste as the tousle-haired beauty began to snore, and he leaned back against the headboard, hands clasped behind his head.

  By God, Hawkesworth had changed! Morland thought in amazement. There was a warmth about him now, an ease that had never been there before, not even in their most drunken moments of leave during the Peninsular Campaign.

  Bad business about his wife, Tony thought. He'd caught only bits and pieces of the affair, for the dust had already begun to settle by the time he got back to London. But the scandal was still talked of in many quarters, and Tony had learned enough to feel a sharp stab of sympathy for his friend.

  His blue eyes narrowed as he stared up at the ceiling. Lord, those had been bad days. Their men had died from cold and hunger as often as from the enemy's grapeshot. Yes, very bad days, he thought grimly.

  At one time he'd believed that the Black Duke had come through it all unscathed, with his cool, unruffled superiority intact. But later, when Morland had chanced upon his friend in London, Hawkesworth had been entirely closed and remote. Damn if Hawke hadn't looked right through him, like a complete stranger! Tony frowned as he recalled how he'd slapped the duke on the back, certain it must be some sort of joke; but Hawkesworth had cut him off coldly, clearly anxious to be on his way.

  Well, a man didn't have to be told some things twice, Tony thought. He'd dropped the association after that. But now, after seeing Hawke again, the earl began to think his friend a new man.

  Lord Morland's blue eyes widened appreciatively as he recalled the woman who'd half run, half stumbled down the hill. Not the duchess, Tony realized, despite the close resemblance. No, this woman was softer — all fire, just waiting to burst into flame.

  Damn it, Hawke was a lucky man! Tony thought, a lazy grin on his face. This one was a regular stunner alright. Leave it to his friend to have all the luck. But then Hawke had always had a way with women — maybe it was his air of brooding indifference. Positively defied a female to break through his shell, Tony thought with a cynical smile.

 
He frowned thoughtfully, wondering how far the affair had progressed. A tension about Hawke had suggested things were far from settled between the two.

  Just then Morland's companion snored sharply and rolled to her side. Her hands reached sleepily to Tony and stroked his thigh with long nails. She arched her back, murmuring something under her breath, and he leaned closer.

  James, was it! the earl thought angrily. That damned caper merchant! She planned to play them off one against the other, did she?

  The fair Daphne had become a dead bore, the earl decided. Yes, it was time for him to shake this dust of the country from his boots and find out what was going on in the metropolis.

  Careful to make no noise, the tall man with piercing blue eyes uncurled his long legs and slipped from the bed.

  He only wished he might see Daphne's face when she awoke and found her pigeon had flown.

  Chapter Thirty

  Alexandra's nausea did not go away; nor did the nightmare vision of a lean face with glittering, colorless eyes. After the night at the fair something seemed to leach her energy, and even asleep she could not escape the memories of that shadowy face, nor the cold sense of evil that had hung about the man.

  In an effort to discourage such grim memories she threw herself into Robbie's company over the next days, filling his eager ears with tales of India and the heroic men and women who had shaped a new life on a strange continent. To all of this Robbie listened spellbound, with an almost pathetic attention that caught at Alexandra's heart.

  She was careful to time her visits with Robbie during the early morning or late afternoon, when she knew Hawke was likely to be occupied elsewhere. Her other hours she spent in her room or in the quiet upper saloon, where she tried to read.

  It was not that she was avoiding the duke; it was rather that she did not go out of her way to find him. When the news of his return to London blazed among the ton, invitations had rained down upon the townhouse in earnest, and the door knocker clanged from morning to night.

  And Hawke at last was accepting some of them. In the afternoon he sparred with Gentleman Jim at his boxing establishment, and as often as not, he joined an acquaintance or two for dinner and an evening of cards.

  At least, that was what he told Robbie his evenings were given to. Alexandra guessed that he had also found companionship of a more intimate sort. Toward her Hawke's attitude was curt and impersonal. Yet she was always conscious of him, of his quiet step in the hall, of his deep, rumbling laugh while he played with Robbie. Through the long hours she waited, tense and smoldering, for the dread moment when he would come to collect his payment.

  In spite of her care to avoid him they occasionally met at breakfast or in passing. Whenever they were close, the air around them grew electric with tension. Even Robbie noticed.

  Soon, Hawke's steely eyes promised.

  My body, and nothing more, Alexandra's stormy eyes countered.

  Like an Indian monsoon their hostility grew, feeding on itself and the frenzied energy of life in the capital, building to a violent strength that neither could have imagined.

  * * * * *

  The air was unseasonably cool on the evening Alexandra joined the duke for their trip to Vauxhall. In spite of herself she'd been looking forward to the event, for she had long heard of this celebrated place where the low born and the noble, the rich and the poor alike, could mingle freely for a night's pleasure.

  She wore a gown of jade-green velvet caught high at the waist in a stomacher of deep rose trimmed with white silk. Above the rich velvet her shoulders rose in cool splendor, although in deference to the night air she draped a mantelet of rich burgundy tissue silk loosely across her upper arms. Her burnished tresses were caught up behind and fell in artless ringlets against her neck. As the final touch she'd threaded a ribbon of velvet and mock pearls through her hair and across her forehead.

  It was not the costume of a governess, of course, but Alexandra did not dwell upon that thought. Tonight she meant to ignore the arrogant duke and enjoy herself for once.

  In the foyer Hawke turned from his guest as Alexandra slowly descended the curving staircase, and his dark eyes narrowed. By God, she was magnificent! he thought. Desire as sharp as a blade plunged through his groin when he glimpsed the pale curve of her shoulder and the creamy expanse of her chest that was revealed by the low-necked gown. Unconsciously, his hands tightened on his buff kid gloves. She was not dressed as a governess tonight, he thought, admiration dissolving into irritation. And where had she gotten those damned pearls decorating her forehead?

  Blue-green eyes flashing, Alexandra crossed the foyer and waited for a scowling Hawke to make the introductions.

  The duke merely raised an eyebrow and studied the ribbon inset with pearls. "Another curious Indian custom, Miss Mayfield?"

  Her laugh was like tinkling bells on the wind. "I cannot claim the idea as my own, Your Grace. It had been the style for quite six months before I left Madras."

  Hawke's companion cleared his throat pointedly, recalling Hawke to his duty. "Miss Mayfield, may I present Lord Morland?" the duke said coolly. "He is something of an old friend, but I caution you to accept whatever he says with a callous ear, for he is a notorious flirt." The duke turned to his tall companion. "Tony, may I make known Miss Mayfield, a relative of the duchess, recently arrived from Madras."

  The tall man bowed gracefully over Alexandra's gloved hand. "An unexpected honor, indeed. What superior good fortune that you eschew a mask." His twinkling blue eyes lingered upon her face. "One had no idea the eastern colonies held such jewels as these."

  "Are masks customary then? You did not tell me, Your Grace." Alexandra shot Hawke a reproachful look before turning back to Lord Morland. "As for the pearls, I'm sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but they are entirely sham."

  "Oh, the jewel is quite real, my dear, I can assure you." His eyes lingered appreciatively on her face. "And your hairstyle will be all the rage by the morrow, mark my words. Soon La Belle Assemblee will be speaking of nothing but hair dressed a l'Indienne."

  Alexandra laughed and shook her head. "You are very kind, but I recognize when I'm being flattered shamelessly."

  "Oh, surely not shamelessly, Miss Mayfield."

  Hawke had begun to slap his gloves in irritation during this exchange and now abruptly interrupted their pleasantries. "As you recall, Tony, the concert begins at eight o'clock. If you mean to detain Miss Mayfield much longer, we shall never arrive in time for the fireworks."

  Unflappable, Lord Morland merely bowed to his scowling friend. "I am entirely at your disposal, my dear boy. Lead on, and I shall follow."

  Alexandra stifled a laugh as Hawkesworth's scowl grew more pronounced.

  Hawke began to feel a decided distaste for this outing. Something about Tony's warm glance forced him to acknowledge Alexandra's wit, charm, and striking beauty.

  She would capture many eyes tonight, he knew suddenly.

  And what if some bloody fellow captured her eye in return? Morland, even? His eyes hardened into flint chips. No, by God, she was his! No one else would ever touch her!

  Busy drawing on her long kid gloves, Alexandra did not at first notice the expression on Hawke's face. She knew his eyes were upon her though, and when she looked up, his mouth was thin with distaste.

  She flinched as if he had slapped her. Her cheeks burned crimson as she lifted her chin proudly. "Changing your mind again, Your Grace? Must I remind you that this excursion was your idea?"

  Hawke smothered a curse, feeling Morland's curious gaze upon them. He caught her arm in a viselike grip, and his dark eyes snapped a warning. "You give me no leave to forget it, Miss Mayfield. Nor your feelings upon the occasion."

  In stiff silence Hawke escorted her outside to the carriage, ignoring Morland's wicked smile, and each was soon caught up in a different train of thought.

  Perhaps that was why none of them noticed a thin man scuttle out of the darkness to hail a hackney as soon as Jeffers rounded th
e corner.

  * * * * *

  A thousand dancing lanterns greeted their arrival at Vauxhall. It was as close to a fairyland as she would ever come, Alexandra decided, mesmerized by the swaying pools of color beneath the tinted lanterns. Narrow gravel walks meandered through secluded groves guarded by white marble statuary, while darkened gazebos guaranteed privacy for those who desired it.

  Judging by the slurred speech and leering laughter from behind the thick hedges, a great many people were in search of privacy this night. Indeed, the gardens were already thronged with revelers as a lilting waltz drifted over the laughter and gay conversation.

  Ignoring Hawke, Alexandra turned to Lord Morland for a description of the pleasures to be found.

  "It's been a while, I'm afraid," he told her, "but I recall a hall of mirrors, a Swiss cottage, and some sort of Turkish chamber, along with the usual assortment of musical spectacles. Then there's the Dark Walk, of course — not a place to go without escort, you understand." He looked thoughtfully toward Hawke's shadowed face. "Perfectly safe if you're with one of us, though."

  There was a short explosive snort from the far corner of the carriage. "Don't let us clip your wings, Tony. Feel free to forage as usual. Miss Mayfield will be perfectly safe in my company."

  The duke had reserved a private box within view of the orchestra, but Alexandra begged to look about a little before they were seated. Falling under the influence of the gay revelers, the drifting music, and the swaying lanterns, she felt herself relax.

  Everything would have been perfect, in fact, could she have escaped the raw tension of Hawke's company and the frequent contact with his hard, muscled body as they walked down the narrow lanes before the performance. When it became clear there was room for only two to walk side by side, Lord Morland silently fell behind.

  In the darkness even the smallest action took on a sense of intimacy. Their feet scraped quietly over the graveled path, while strains of the waltz drifted from an unseen orchestra. Colored lanterns shaped like stars and crescent moons cast a mysterious beauty over the grottoes and shadowed walks.