There was no need to mock.
Glaring into the beautiful features that could make a woman’s heart forget to beat, Clara waited for him to gain control of his mirth.
“Are you quite finished?” she at last demanded.
The blue eyes continued to smolder in the flickering candlelight. “I must admit that I have never considered using mathematical equations to seduce a woman.”
Clara was not about to reveal that the equations were only the beginning. That they formed the basis of a secret code that when properly calculated spelled out a poem. The beast might choke himself laughing at her.
Perhaps not entirely a bad thing.
“Mr. Chesterfield was not attempting to seduce me,” she bit out, shifting on the mattress. She was not at all certain how clean it might be. A worrisome thought. Perhaps even more worrisome than the large gentleman who was hovering over her like a hawk circling for a kill. “We simply possess a shared interest.”
“Kitten, you are either astonishingly gullible or the best liar I have ever encountered,” he taunted softly.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You might consider an intellectual relationship the stuff of dreams, but I assure you any red-blooded male is interested in something a bit more . . .” His gaze deliberately lowered to her lips. “Tangible.”
Oh my.
A hot flash seared through her before Clara was sternly squelching it.
“I will not discuss this with you, sir.”
The blue gaze reluctantly returned to her flashing eyes. “You would prefer we do sums?”
“I would prefer you tell me what is occurring. First you kidnap me, and then you announce that some gentleman I have never encountered desires me dead. I believe I am due some explanation.”
He considered her demands for a brief moment. “Perhaps, but I have yet to decide if I trust you.”
Trust her? Trust her? Well, that took some bloody nerve.
“If anyone is untrustworthy it is you, sir.”
He lifted a brow at her tart tone. “Now, my dear, is that any way to speak to the gentleman who saved you from a nasty ambush?”
“I have only your word to prove I was in any danger in the first place. And since you are a kidnapper and a ruffian, it is only logical to assume that I am the more honest person.”
He shrugged. “But I am larger.”
“Larger? What does that have to do with anything?”
“It ensures that I am the one who gets to decide who is to be trusted and who is not.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It does not have to.”
Her lips thinned. “Barbarian.”
“Not entirely.” Shifting back, her captor slid his arms beneath her and gently lifted her to a sitting position. Then, reaching to one side, he produced a glass of water and held it to her lips. Clara’s throat was too parched for her to dwell overmuch on whether the glass had been recently washed or if the water was fresh from the well, and taking a large gulp, she closed her eyes in relief. “Better?” he murmured.
“Yes.”
He pressed the half-empty glass into her hand and reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear.
“Let us start from the beginning,” he said, ignoring her heavy sigh. “You claim you have no knowledge of Lord Doulton.”
“None whatsoever.”
“And you were traveling to London to meet with a Mr. Chesterfield, whom you only know through correspondence.”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
His gaze skimmed her pale features. “Your family did not object to such a scandalous journey?”
Drinking down the last of the water, Clara set aside the glass with a small click.
“There is nothing scandalous in my traveling to London. Besides which, I have no family. I am a lady of independence who is perfectly capable of making decisions for myself.”
He seemed oddly displeased with her confession. Obviously he did not consider the notion that if she did possess a mythical relative, he might very well discover himself gazing down the barrel of a loaded pistol.
“You have no guardian? No one to protect you?”
“I have no need for protection.” Her brows drew together as he gave a short, humorless laugh. “What?”
“For God’s sake, if any woman is in need of protection, it is you,” he growled. “Not only is a gang of thugs currently attempting to do away with you, but you are being held hostage in a bed with a dangerous ruffian.”
She blinked at his fierce tone. “Are you dangerous?”
With an exasperated shake of his head, he allowed his features to soften. “That depends on what sort of danger you mean. I do not intend to slit your throat or dump you in the nearest well.”
“What do you intend to do?”
The blue eyes darkened in what was becoming a familiar manner. “Now that is a most intriguing question.”
Distracted by a pair of green eyes and kissable lips, Hawksley nearly missed the faint sound from below. Tensing, he reached behind his back to withdraw the pistol he had shoved in the waistband of his breeches.
Beside him Miss Dawson abruptly scooted away, clearly not having heard the soft scrape of the door opening.
“What are you doing?”
Leaning close, he whispered directly in her ear. “Remain here and do not make a sound.”
He waited for her slow nod before lifting himself off the mattress and inching his way down the narrow stairs. Careful to keep low and to remain in the thicker shadows, Hawksley reached the lower floor and leaned against the wall. He had no intention of moving until his eyes managed to adjust to the darkness.
Several moments passed before a figure slid through a slanting ray of moonlight, and his tension eased. Straightening, he stepped away from the wall.
“Dillon.”
Little was visible beyond a squat, blocky body. Had there been light, however, he would have seen a pug face crisscrossed with knife scars and a squashed nose that had been broken more than once. He had hired Dillon as his manservant shortly after arriving in London, more for his ability to watch his back than for any talent as valet.
Thank God, since no sane gentleman would allow the brute near his throat with a razor.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“Jimmy just left the road,” the servant warned in a raspy voice.
Hawksley gave a slow nod. He had expected as much. Jimmy Blade would not easily allow a small fortune to slip through his fingers. Especially not when it would mean returning to Lord Doulton and confessing he had failed.
“Is he coming in this direction?”
“I’d say there is the likelihood that he’ll eventually stumble across this place.”
Hawksley shoved the pistol back into his pants. “Take Brutus and hide him in the woods.”
“What of you?”
“We will wait in the tunnels. Signal when it is safe to come out.”
“The wench may not be so pleased with your plans.”
Hawksley gave a dismissive shrug. “The wench would not be pleased if I got down and kissed her feet, but she will do as she is told.”
There was a moment of silence, warning Hawksley that his friend was battling a surge of amusement.
“Or?”
Hawksley’s lips twitched as the image of seducing Miss Dawson to his will rose to mind.
“There are any number of possibilities I am considering,” he at last murmured.
Dillon gave a short laugh. “Just make sure those possibilities are done quietly.”
“I will be as silent as a mouse.”