Defiant Captive Page 32

  He had seen brutality there. It was expected on the fields of war. But to see it unleashed joyously against a terrified peasant woman had been more than he could take. There in Portugal he had heard the sound a man's skull makes when it cracks against naked stone.

  It had been gut-wrenching and totally satisfying.

  At that moment murderous rage surged through Hawkesworth once again. His fat captive thrashed in his grip, but Hawke did not notice for he was swept back to that hot dusty day in Vimeiro, to the acrid stench of fear and the fury for the kill. The memories blazed in his head until he forgot all else.

  The French soldier had been young and cocky, nearly Hawke's size, and he had been backed up by three compatriots. They'd been too much entertained with bayoneting a young village girl to hear his approach, and Hawke had cut down the other three almost before they'd noticed him.

  Which left only one. But he was a man cornered and armed, while Hawke was weaponless.

  They'd circled for long restless minutes, his enemy fast and clever. Hawke had let the cocky Frenchman draw blood twice, just to fuel his arrogance; then he'd feinted and ripped the bayonet from his adversary's hands.

  What had followed was sickening and totally unforgettable — the dull crack of a human skull splitting against naked stone.

  Now Hawke yearned to hear that sound again. His blood was screaming, and all he could think of was Alexandra's terrified eyes. The fat man in his hands kicked vainly, fighting for breath.

  "No, Hawke! You'll kill him!"

  Surprised, Hawke looked down at Alexandra's strained white face, wondering at the fear in her voice. She should be glad, by God! Didn't she understand this was for her?

  The gazebo and its iron-sided benches were only a step away. Hawke's face was a grim mask as he carried his struggling captive closer.

  "Oh God, Hawke, please stop! Listen to me, before it's too late!"

  The blood was roaring in his ears, and he had to fight to hear. He scowled down at the ground where she was sprawled in the shadow of the grotesque Adonis. She was clutching her torn dress together, a trickle of blood beneath her cheekbone. Naked terror in her eyes. Why terror now, he wondered?

  "No more, Hawke! You must stop. This is madness!"

  Finally her words penetrated the blinding haze of his fury. His fat captive sagged, a dead weight in his arms.

  Madness, she had called it. Slowly, Hawke lowered his motionless burden to the ground.

  Madness.

  She was right, of course. She had been right about everything. And that thought only goaded him to savage anger at her.

  "You bloody little fool!" he roared. "Why in hell did you bolt that way?" Glowering, he knelt beside her, irritated that her fingers clutched the rich green velvet.

  "I was s-sick," she said, shuddering.

  "Bloody stupid thing to do! You might have known you'd run into someone like that." He nodded toward the dark figure on the ground. "What would you have done if I hadn't come when I did?"

  "Gotten raped, probably." Her laugh was brittle, at the edge of hysteria. "Not for the first time." In the taut silence her fingers grated against the heavy velvet.

  Hawke cursed savagely. "Have you no idea what a prize you are?" he growled. His eyes were silver-flecked slate, his anger almost palpable. He ached to hold her, to shake her, to wipe the terror from her haunted face, but he was afraid that once he touched her, he wouldn't be able to let her go.

  "But it wasn't me he was after," Alexandra rasped. "It was Isobel, you see. He — he thought I was your wife." She laughed unsteadily.

  "Just be glad it wasn't Telford who found you," Hawke snarled.

  Suddenly, he frowned and dragged her fingers away from the ripped fabric at her chest. The cloth fell open, revealing her silvered curves and the perfect dusky crests at their center. Dark bruises marred the pale sweep of skin, dirty footprints against virgin snow.

  "Stop!" Alexandra cried, her chest heaving as she sought to cover her shame.

  But Hawke could not tear his eyes from the vicious marks, terrible reminders of how close she'd come to real harm.

  And then desire exploded through his loins. His breath caught and he fought the savage hunger that gripped him at the sight of her nakedness. His hands trembling, he released her, then forced his eyes away, concentrating on removing the diamond pin from his neckcloth. "So Orde did this?"

  Alexandra's eyes were bright with unshed tears, and yet the set of her chin was proud. "It appears he knew your wife quite intimately. Naturally, he assumed he could pick up where they'd left off." She was angry enough to want to wound him now, just as he had wounded her by refusing to leave her any scrap of dignity.

  Hawke's movements at his neckcloth ceased for only a fraction of a second. "Oh yes, our friend Orde knew Isobel very well," he said stonily. "But he did not know her well enough, it seems. My wife would be quick to discover when a man was not as flush as he pretended to be. No, she never countenanced the attentions of a man who could not reward her handsomely. My wife did not really enjoy physical intimacy, you see," he added harshly. "It was all a cold-blooded game with her, purely a means to an end — for all that she was a consummate performer."

  "Hawke!" Alexandra choked at his cold words. "You mean —"

  "No," he cut her off ruthlessly, "no more about it — not now. Perhaps not ever." Grim-faced, Hawke pulled together the jagged edges of her dress and secured them with his diamond pin. Though his touch was gentle, he felt her flinch and pull away.

  From the far side of the hedge came a shout of drunken laughter. A moment later came Lady Wallingford's grating titter, then a booming rejoinder from Lord Liverpool.

  "I can't be seen like — like this," Alexandra whispered, her fingers tightening convulsively on the lapels of his jacket. Her huge haunted eyes pleaded with him desperately.

  "I'll send a message to Morland that you were unwell and I took you home," Hawke said. Unconsciously, his strong fingers cupped her back, smoothing the corded muscles at her spine.

  A harsh muffled sound escaped from her throat, half sigh and half sob. "Please, let's go! Anywhere, as long as it's away from here."

  Hawke felt a shudder shake her body as he rose and caught her slim form against him.

  The ground rocked abruptly, and Alexandra feared she would be sick again.

  Silver eyes scoured her face. "Are you all right?"

  Mutely, she nodded, unaware how sharply her white lips belied her answer. Unbidden, the vision of a fat face with narrow beady eyes returned to torment her, and she choked back a sob. Hawke pulled her tighter, her breasts crushed against the hard ridge of his ribs as his lips caressed her forehead.

  "Close your eyes," he ordered, urging her head down against his chest. "I'll have you away from here in a few minutes."

  Alexandra shivered and gave in to the warm comfort of his arms. Beneath his crisp linens she heard the heavy rapid thump of his heart, echoed an instant later by her own.

  * * * * *

  It was some moments before the motionless Orde began to recover from unconsciousness. First he broke into ragged coughing, and when that abated, he lurched unsteadily to his feet and shook himself like some great shaggy canine.

  How like Orde! thought an unsmiling figure who watched in the shadows at the far end of the walk. As always, the drunken sot was boringly predictable.

  Damn it, if he'd been only seconds earlier ...

  But James Telford did not task himself with regrets. There would always be a next time — and he would be waiting.

  In the meantime this was one more bit of information to add to his store. He knew, for example, about the disastrous turn Orde's fortunes had taken at Watier's two nights before. As a matter of fact, he knew precisely to the pound how much the drunken gambler had dropped at play.

  It was his business to be informed, the man with colorless eyes thought, a thin smile on his sallow face. There was always a use for such facts. One found them and stored them away — even th
e most trivial details — because one day they would bear interest in the most unexpected fashion.

  Like the information he'd gained tonight. Yes, maybe it was a godsend he'd been too late just now, for he had gained a precious clue. He'd seen Hawkesworth crumple Orde and lift the frightened beauty into his arms. The duke's expression as he pulled her head down against his chest had not escaped the motionless figure who watched from the shadows.

  So that was the way of things. But how delicious! And how exquisitely vulnerable it made the cursed Black Duke!

  Not that the duke was an easy man to deceive. For six months he'd been Telford's unwitting source of information about key details of the English campaign on the Peninsula, details that had been worth a great deal to the right people. But not even Hawke's infatuation with Isobel had blinded him to the leak within his own household.

  And when the Black Duke had discovered its source, he'd meted punishment swiftly and mercilessly. There had been no public mention of the incident, of course, for Hawkesworth would never have permitted such a scandal. But in private he had shown no restraint.

  In the darkness the man fingered his cheekbones, tracing the faint ridges that remained even now. His lips curled with hatred as he remembered the savage beating he'd taken at the Duke of Hawkesworth's hands. It had been six months before the wounds had healed — six months of agony during which Telford had done nothing but lie in bed and plan how to exact his retribution.

  And now, from a totally unexpected source, the means had been handed to him.

  The woman, of course! She was the key to the whole affair. He should have seen it sooner. She could never deliberately mislead Hawkesworth, for her face was too transparent for such deception. Unlike his beloved sister's, Telford thought, his eyes hardening. But she would serve her purpose well.

  In the last quarter hour he'd learned everything he needed to know, and all that remained now was to put his plan into action. For Telford was a master of ferreting out secrets and putting them to good use. Yes, this time his old enemy would pay dearly. With what he had learned tonight he could at last bring the arrogant Duke of Hawkesworth to his knees.

  And then he would repay broken bone for broken bone, wound for bloody wound. In truth, those were only the first of the torments Telford had in store for his hated victim.

  * * * * *

  Soundlessly Hawke slipped through the darkened groves, past the drunken lovers, hard-eyed Cyprians, and prowling bloods in search of an evening's pleasure. His eyes were grim as he pulled Alexandra's silk mantelet up about her head and shoulders, veiling her face against a chance encounter with one of his acquaintances.

  Better to let them think she was an unknown impure, the duke thought bitterly, and that he was engaged in nothing more than an errand of simple lust. This, society would always understand. That he should feel something more was what would damn him.

  Not that lust was lacking, Hawke thought with harsh self-mockery. The painful truth was that the ache in his groin left him barely able to walk. And yet his lust was compounded by a thousand other emotions — tenderness, possessiveness, and respect — even now when he yearned to lay her down in one of the secluded bowers for which Vauxhall was famous and brand her with the marks of his passion.

  But he did not.

  He forced himself instead to ignore the low laughter of trysting lovers and the tangled bodies half hidden in the shadows. Each instant, his chest burned with the exquisite agony of Alexandra's touch, the liquid heat of her breath against his shirt. Every step drove her thigh against his groin, tormenting him with soft, agonizing friction.

  No — not yet, he told himself.

  She was not heavy, but a faint haze of sweat soon covered Hawke's brow, and it seemed an eternity before he finally found the carriage.

  Jeffers darted a quick look at Hawke's face, then hastened to lower the steps. "Home, Your Grace?"

  For a moment Hawke did not answer. Then, in the silence, a new voice rang out.

  "Where are you taking her?" It was Morland's voice, cold and precise.

  Hawke spun about and frowned to see his friend stalking out of the gardens behind him.

  "I repeat, Hawke, where the devil are you taking her?"

  Alexandra struggled to raise her head from Hawke's chest, but he curved his palm around her forehead to hold her where she was. Without another word he turned, carried her into the carriage, and deposited her on the leather seat.

  His body was rigid with tension as he climbed down the steps to face Morland. "Let me have the use of your apartments tonight, Tony. I can't take her back to Bedford Square — not yet. She's had a bad night. It was Orde, damn him! Bloody fool took her for Isobel and nearly —"

  "Far less than what you did to her, as I understand it," the earl said acidly.

  Hawke's jaw froze into a hard line, and his whole body bristled with an air of barely restrained ferocity. "Don't press me, Tony, I warn you! Not tonight."

  "Is that a threat, my dear Richard?" Morland's voice was as deadly as a honed blade.

  Hawke's eyes blazed. His fist was halfway to Morland's face before he caught himself, drew a long ragged breath, and shook his head.

  Dear God, was it happening to him all over again? Had he exchanged one nightmare obsession for another? "I just need some time with her, don't you see?"

  Morland's blue eyes were frankly skeptical. "Why? So that you can hurt her more?"

  "For a stranger you're bloody interested in this woman all of a sudden!"

  "She's not one of your damned opera dancers, Hawke. You can't just —"

  "I can do anything I please with her. She's mine, by God!" The duke's fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. "She'll always be mine."

  "Are you mad?"

  Hawke shrugged, then hunched his broad shoulders and thrust his balled fists into his pockets. "Perhaps so. But there are things we must settle between us. Alone. I can't take her back until that's done."

  "Settled to whose satisfaction?" his friend demanded. "Hers, or yours?"

  "To our mutual satisfaction, I trust," Hawke answered grimly. "If not, I give my word I'll let her go, free and clear. I don't much like what I've become either, you see." His voice grew very tired. "Somehow, I feel this is the last chance I'll ever have."

  Morland studied his friend warily, skepticism darkening his tense features. "Very well," he said at last. "Give Whitby the night off — or what's left of it. The rest of the staff will be asleep already.

  But I'll be around to see you tomorrow, by God, and I'd better have the whole story then, do you hear?"

  After a moment's hesitation Hawke nodded. "Time enough," he said flatly. "Time enough to discover where her heart lies. Men's futures have been decided in far less time."

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Alexandra's eyes were wide and searching when Hawke entered the carriage. With a lurch the horses began to move.

  "What did you — where are we going?"

  "Tonight I call for payment, Alexandra. But before I do, I'll give you one last chance." His eyes flickered over her torn bodice and her tear-stained face, her lips swollen and moist where she had bitten them during Orde's assault. "Would you do me the signal honor of becoming my wife?" He bit off the sounds harshly, in sharp contrast to the elegant politeness of the words themselves.

  Alexandra's eyes widened. Mutely, she shook her head.

  "Very well. I shall have you my way then. I'll take you again and again until you beg me to stop." Tonight she would be his, by God, body and soul, with no more barriers between them! And then maybe ...

  She fought down a sob. "It is good that your mother cannot see what her son has become," she rasped. "You're nothing but a contemptible savage!"

  "Yes, I'm a savage," he growled. "You make me so. You make me hate you, adore you, and desire you mindlessly, beyond reason. One look, and I burn to hold you, shake you, and love you. It was bad with Isobel, by God, but this is a hundred times worse, witch, for you give me hope one
minute, only to rip it away the next."

  Alexandra shrank back against the leather seat, frightened by the slashing steel of his eyes. Her head began to pound, and she closed her eyes against the insistent throbbing pain at her temple. Her white fingers slipped to her mouth as she fought her way through waves of nausea.

  "Never tell me you're going to be sick again?"

  White faced, she leaned toward the door. Her hand was upon the handle when she tensed ...

  Hawke jerked her back just as she was about to hurl herself from the swift-moving carriage. With a savage curse he dragged her into his arms and pulled her head back to glare into her face. "You gave your word, remember? Or have you no honor in that as well?"

  Alexandra went limp in his arms until his grip relaxed. Then, sea-green eyes flashing, she swung her open palm against his cheek with all her strength. The sound echoed and ricocheted in the closed space with all the explosive force of a pistol shot.

  Hawke's face was dark with fury as he captured her clawing fingers. "Maybe we'll have a storm tonight, Alexandra," he taunted. "Then at least you'd have an excuse when you purr for me and arch like a cat in heat."

  "Damn you!" she cried. "If I were a man, I'd call you out for that, you bastard!"

  "Ah, my dear — if you were a man, you wouldn't be here."

  He did not release her until the carriage halted some minutes later on a quiet side street. He jerked her, stiff with fury, to her feet and forced her down the steps before him. At Hawke's tapping, a servant appeared at the door of the townhouse.

  "Whitby, is it? The earl has given us the use of his apartments tonight. He said you might take yourself off until morning."

  The man's eyes flickered over Alexandra's tear-stained face. Whitby knew the Black Duke by reputation, of course. He began to think Hawke's nickname well earned. "Very well, Your Grace," he said with complete impassivity. "Will Your Grace be needing anything before I leave?"