“Certainly not,” he assured her, not having forgotten her distaste for the sickening sway of a carriage.
Just for a moment she appeared relieved. Then, as she glanced over his shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps, her gaze widened.
“No. Absolutely not.”
Hawksley gave a low chuckle. Turning, he vaulted in the saddle of the waiting Brutus. With the same ease he urged the large stallion forward, reaching down to sweep the reluctant Miss Dawson off her feet and across his legs. “Do not be frightened, kitten. Nothing will happen to you while you are in my arms.”
His assurances were met with a glare, but thankfully Miss Dawson preferred to keep her sharp words to herself. At least for the moment, he acknowledged wryly. He was not foolish enough to hope he wouldn’t be due for a nice trimming as soon as they reached London. For now, however, she tightly wrapped her arms about his waist and clung to him for dear life.
With a surge of satisfaction Hawksley gave a shift of the reins and charged into the darkness.
Astonishingly having fallen asleep as they had galloped down the narrow lanes, Clara awoke to discover herself lying upon a strange bed in a strange bedchamber.
She should no doubt have been terrified, she ruefully acknowledged. Proper ladies did not find themselves awakening in strange bedchambers. Indeed, they did not awaken in any bedchamber but their own.
Not even if they had been kidnapped by a handsome ruffian.
As it was, however, it was rather a predictable end to the peculiar day.
Scooting to a sitting position, Clara ran a hand through her tumbled curls. A brief glance about the chamber revealed a stark simplicity to the narrow bed and square armoire in the corner. The washstand did possess a lovely pitcher and matching bowl, and the curtains were freshly laundered, but there was no mistaking the lack of feminine influence.
The chamber was functional, nothing more. But it was clean, thank the Lord, and not nearly as shabby as the previous cottage.
A suitable setting for her captor.
Her captor.
Clara leaned against the pillows with a faint sigh. She knew she should not be here. Despite her reputation of being an eccentric, she had always been careful to avoid the least hint of scandal. Indeed, anyone acquainted with her would be deeply shocked by the mere notion that she might do anything that was not rigidly proper.
How else could a young lady live on her own without causing social censure?
Unfortunately, at the moment she knew that she was not particularly interested in her reputation. Oh, she could perhaps convince herself that it was not as if she had much choice in the matter. Her captor had not politely consulted with her on his decision to halt her carriage, or carry her off to the cottage, or even to take her to his home in London.
She had been utterly at his mercy and in no way responsible for her current position.
Clara was too honest, however, to simply blame fate and a wicked pirate.
Throughout the ordeal she had made few genuine attempts to flee her captor. Or even to plead for her release.
And if she were to closely examine her heart, she would admit that when she had briefly assumed her kidnapper might put her in a carriage and send her on her way, she had not felt relief.
Instead she had been struck with the most amazing sense of regret.
Admit it, Clara Dawson, she chided herself. For years you have harbored a renegade dream of being shaken out of your dull existence. And now that you have, you are not at all eager to return to your cottage and the tedious future awaiting you. Especially when that future did not include a certain fascinating, sinfully bewitching gentleman.
Besides which, she acknowledged, there was the small matter of some lunatic desiring her dead.
How could she possibly settle back into her usual routine when she was plagued with the constant fear of Jimmy Blade arriving upon her doorstep?
The distant sound of approaching footsteps had Clara hastily tugging the covers to her chin. She had not seen her captor since she had fallen asleep in his arms. Now she discovered her heart beating at an oddly swift pace.
A wasted effort on the part of her heart, she discovered, as the door was pushed open to reveal the short, square servant who had ridden to London with them the evening before.
Glancing toward the bed, the man set down the modest cases that Clara had last seen strapped to the back of her hired carriage.
“Awake, are you?” he said in abrupt, but not unkind tones.
Clara gave a slow nod. The man looked as if he was well acquainted with violence, but she sensed no danger. If anything, she was forced to concede that he was the sort of man one might desire to have about in times of trouble.
“Where am I?”
“Most call it the Hawk’s Nest. And I am Dillon.”
Hawk’s Nest? Unusual, but somehow perfectly suited to the raven-haired gentleman.
“We are in London?”
“Aye. I suppose you must be hungry?”
Clara offered a rueful smile. It had been hours since her last meal. She had been far too queasy during her journey to even contemplate food. And in truth, she found it difficult to eat anything that came from an unfamiliar kitchen.
Just another one of her many and varied eccentricities.
“Starving,” she admitted.
“Then have a wash and I will fix you a bite.”
Clara delicately cleared her throat. Hostage or not, she possessed the habit of situating her surroundings to suit herself. She had no intention of altering her routine.
“Actually, if you will wait for me to change my clothes I will cook my own breakfast, or luncheon, I suppose I should say,” she stated in firm tones.
A sudden frown marred the battered countenance. “I may not be a bloody French chef, but I shan’t poison you.”
Belatedly realizing she had managed to insult the poor man, Clara offered an apologetic smile.
“Oh, forgive me. I never meant to question your skills in the kitchen, Dillon,” she said in genuine regret. “It is just that I enjoy cooking, especially when I have need to consider a thorny problem. I find it soothes my nerves.”
Dillon continued to frown, but it was obvious he was pleased by her proper apology. Indeed, the pale eyes held a hint of amusement.
“Well, I would say you have your share of thorny problems.”
Clara gave a sudden laugh. “Indeed, I do.”
“The kitchen is downstairs at the back. Just give a call if you have need of anything.”
“Thank you, Dillon.”
With a brusque nod of his head the servant turned to leave the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Once alone Clara lost no time in scurrying from beneath the covers and giving herself a thorough wash. Later she would demand that a bathtub be carried to her room, she promised herself with a grimace. Until then she could only do her best to appear reasonably tidy.
In the minimum of time she had scrubbed herself rosy from head to toe and brushed her hair into a long braid that she tucked into a knot at the base of her neck. It did take a bit longer to open her cases and arrange her handful of belongings in the armoire before pulling on a sensible green gown. She did not know how Dillon had managed to retrieve her property, and she had no intention of inquiring. She was far too relieved to have on a clean gown to care.
At last prepared, she left the chamber and made her way down the narrow flight of stairs.
She paused for a moment upon the landing, considering a swift tour of her temporary abode only to give an unconscious shake of her head. Although the lack of prickling awareness assured her that her kidnapper was nowhere near, she was too hungry to indulge in any immediate prying.