“And her?”
Hawksley smiled. “Now that I cannot promise.”
Turning on his heel, he made his way back up the stairs. He was careful to ensure that Miss Dawson was not poised to knock him upside the head or tumble him backward before stepping into the loft. He would never be fool enough to underestimate his competent angel.
Finding her waiting upon the mattress, Hawksley moved forward. With one smooth motion he had scooped her into his arms. He paused only long enough to wrap his caped coat about her and pinch out the candle before returning to the stairs.
“Sir, what are you about?” Miss Dawson squeaked, obviously not quite as pleased as she should be at finding herself in his arms. “Put me down at once.”
He pressed her closer, not at all prepared to risk allowing her to walk down the steps on her own. She had taken a sharp blow to her head. He had no intention of having her take another tumble. Not while she was in his care.
“Halt your squirming, kitten,” he commanded.
“Or?” she tartly demanded.
“Or I shall toss you out the door for Jimmy Blade to find,” he chided, carefully negotiating the stairs. Thankfully, without breaking either of their necks.
“He is here?”
“He soon will be.”
“For goodness’ sake, why did you not simply say so? I have no desire to have my throat slit. There was no need to manhandle me.”
Crossing the short hall into the kitchen, he smiled at her exasperated tone.
“Perhaps I simply desired to manhandle you,” he murmured.
His blunt honesty momentarily stilled her tongue. A rare occurrence, and one he was certain would not last for long.
It didn’t.
As he located the hidden latch that swung the china cupboard forward and stepped onto the narrow stairs that led downward, her lips were already parting.
“Where are we going?” she demanded.
“The cellar.”
Hawksley made certain the cupboard was firmly back in place before continuing down to the narrow tunnel below. Only then did he slide Miss Dawson to her feet.
“This does not feel to be a cellar,” she whispered in the thick darkness. “I believe it is a tunnel.”
“Perhaps.”
She pondered the knowledge a moment before drawing in a sharp breath. “Good heavens, you are a smuggler.”
His lips twitched at her shocked tones. “Not guilty.”
“Then why do you have a hidden door and tunnel in your cottage?”
“It is not my cottage.”
“Oh.”
He smothered a chuckle. “Disappointed, kitten?”
“Well, at the very least you are in collaboration with a smuggler.”
Hawksley could hardly argue with her accusation. His friends included smugglers, spies, thieves, and gamblers. Most of whom possessed greater honor and higher morals than so-called noblemen.
“Actually, Santos prefers to think of himself as a purveyor of rare objects.”
“Rare objects such as brandy and French silk?”
“Those might be included.”
“Good heavens, do you possess no appreciation for the law?”
Hawksley felt his muscles tighten. An instinctive reaction to his still-raw anger.
After the death of his brother he had naively turned to the authorities. He had presumed they would be anxious to hang those responsible for the death of a viscount.
What greater crime was there in all of England?
And, indeed, they had been anxious to arrest the culprits. Only they had possessed little concern whether the culprits they arrested were actually guilty or not.
He discovered that guilt and poverty were irrevocably linked in the minds of most gentlemen of power. The less money in your pocket, the more guilty you became. And if you happened to be foolish enough to be a foreigner in the bargain, you might as well place the noose about your own neck.
It had taken Hawksley less than a fortnight to wash his hands of the lot of them.
“I make my own laws, kitten,” he said in harsh tones. “A fact you would do well to recall.”
Miss Dawson abruptly stiffened, no doubt sensing she had touched a raw nerve.
Hawksley discovered himself regretting his sharp retort and instinctively began to offer an apology, only to hastily snap his lips shut when he realized he was being ridiculous.
Dammit. This woman was his captive, was she not? A mere piece in the puzzle of his brother’s murder. Beyond that, she was annoying as the devil.
But that protective urge that she seemed to stir in him refused to be denied.
Almost as if to prove the point, she shivered, and Hawksley instinctively reached out to ensure the coat was tucked about her.
“Are you cold?” he demanded.
“No, I am quite warm.”
“I felt you tremble.”
“I was just thinking of some stranger wishing me dead. It is not a pleasant thing to consider.”
His hands lingered, pulling her close to him. “No one is going to harm you, that I promise.”
She shifted in his arms, as if attempting to peer at him through the thick blackness.
“That is rather an odd promise considering that you are the gentleman currently holding me hostage,” she said dryly.
He chuckled softly. “If you will recall, I am also the gentleman who saved your life.”
“There is that, I suppose.” There was a moment of silence. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you rescue me?”
Hawksley took a moment to consider his response. It would be easy to blithely assure her that he would never allow a young maiden to fall into the hands of a ruffian such as Jimmy Blade. It was, after all, no less than the truth. No gentleman with the least conscience would turn his back on a cold-blooded murder.
But Miss Dawson was not stupid. Far from it. She would not believe for a moment his motives were completely altruistic.
Not when he had promptly carried her off to this isolated cottage.
“Because I thought you had some connection to Lord Doulton and I desired information from you.”
As was her way, she accepted his less than chivalrous admission with remarkable calm.
“You have yet to tell me what information it is you desire.”
His fingers absently toyed with a silky curl. “Yes, I know.”
“Perhaps I could be of some assistance if you would confide in me. I do not mean to boast, but I am rather renowned for solving problems.”
Hawksley hastily choked back a startled laugh. “Is that so? And what sorts of problems would you be renowned for solving?”
He felt her give a small shrug. “Oh, all sorts. Just last week the squire’s wife requested that I discover the location of the brooch she had misplaced.”
Caught somewhere between amusement and astonishment, Hawksly cleared his throat. What other woman in all of England would be offering to assist the man who had callously kidnapped her?
“Ah, a dire problem, indeed,” he murmured.
“Do not sneer,” she retorted, bristling in swift offense. “It was a rather tangled investigation.”
“Allow me to guess. The upstairs maid slipped it into her pocket?”
“Not at all.”
“Then it fell behind cushions of the sofa?”
“No, indeed. All of the family rooms had been searched quite thoroughly, as well as the grounds.”
“Then where was it?”
“In the pantry, just as I had suspected.”
Hawksley discovered himself reluctantly intrigued. “The pantry? Why the devil would you suspect it would be there?”
“Because it is well known that the doctor has put Millicent on a diet to help cure her gout.”