“But you have not yet told me of your meeting,” she reminded him. “Did you discover anything of value?”
“We shall discuss what I learned on the morrow,” he said, his voice strained.
“But I wish to—”
Her words ended in a squeak as he easily reached out to pluck her from the floor and lifted her until they were eye to eye. Only then did she become fully aware of the torment shimmering in the indigo gaze.
“Miss Dawson . . . Clara . . . I beg if you have any compassion for me at all, you will return to your chambers and lock your door.”
“Oh.” Her heart gave a tiny flutter. Perhaps it would be best to speak in the morning, she had to concede. At the moment her thoughts possessed the most disturbing tendency to stray in forbidden directions. Not surprising when pressed against a very handsome, very wicked pirate. “Very well.”
Chapter Eight
Hawksley awoke with a curse, the slanting morning sunlight revealing that he had managed to oversleep.
Not that he couldn’t be excused for his rare indulgence, he grouchily acknowledged. He had paced the floor for hours as he had battled the urge to toss nobility into the midden heap and give in to the passion pulsing through his body.
Why should he not?
He was a rake, a scoundrel, and a perpetual disappointment to his family and the world in general. Why should he balk at seducing a female who was clearly as eager as himself to explore the smoldering desire?
He would ensure she was well pleased, both in bed and out. Hell, he would lavish her as if she were a princess.
In the end, however, he had forced himself to splash his face with cold water and crawl beneath the blankets to fantasize what he would be doing with Clara if only he were not such a fool.
There was something about the woman that brought out a sense of honor he barely knew he possessed. And made him long for her . . . what?
Her respect, he at last concluded with a hint of embarrassment.
Absurd, but there it was.
With a shake of his head he plunged himself in the bath that had been left for him and shaved without assistance. Once clean he attired himself in the plain black garb that he had donned since his brother’s death and pulled his still-damp hair into a ribbon at his neck.
The house was silent as he made his way down the stairs, and a frown touched his brow as he searched through the parlor and dining room to no avail.
He began to suspect where his missing guest might be discovered.
Angling toward the back of the house he entered the kitchens, halting at the doorway in sudden amazement.
Oh, not at the sight of his angel dusted with flour and her silver curls already tumbling from her tidy knot. That was a sight he fully expected to discover.
It was the squat, pug-nose man standing beside her that made him choke back a sudden laugh.
Covered in a large apron with his countenance red with exertion, the one-time thief was busily pummeling a lump of dough with obvious relish.
At his side Clara gave a light laugh, reaching out to pull back his large fists. Hawksley’s heart gave an odd leap at her engaging smile, and suddenly the morning seemed a bit brighter.
“No, no, Dillon, you are not attempting to murder the dough,” she corrected the burly servant, taking the dough into her slender hands to knead it with a rolling motion. “You must fold it gently and wait for it to tell you when it is done. You see?”
Dillon regarded her in understandable horror. “The devil I will. I am an Englishman, not some bloody French chef. The day I fondle a lump of dough is the day you might as well have me neutered and tossed into the gutter.”
Hawksley bit his lip as Clara slanted the man a wide-eyed glance. “Well, if you wish your crust to be a charred, tasteless lump, then by all means continue to pummel it like a proper Englishman.”
For a moment Dillon merely glared at her, and then clearly no more immune to those beautiful green eyes than Hawksley, he moved forward to snatch the dough from her hands.
“Blast it all . . . Give it here.”
Watching with the eye of a master chef, Clara at last gave a satisfied nod of her head.
“Much better, Dillon. I shall turn you into a proper cook yet.”
The servant merely snorted, although Hawksley did not miss the covert smile of pleasure that touched his lips.
“If you tell anyone of this I shall . . . Well, I cannot think of anything horrible enough to threaten you with that Hawksley wouldn’t have me flayed for, but I assure you it will be dire.”
Unperturbed by the gruff warning, Clara gently patted his arm. “My lips are sealed. Now while you finish that, I shall take Hawksley his tray.”
With those concise, deliberate motions that fascinated him, Clara plucked a heavy tray from the counter and moved toward the door.
Swiftly Hawksley backed into the corridor and awaited her in the shadows. What he had to say to her would be best said in private.
Holding still until she was nearly level with him, Hawksley reached out to firmly snatch the tray from her hands.
“On how many occasions must I remind you that you are not a servant in my home?”
Stifling a gasp, she clutched her hands to her heart. “I was merely bringing you your breakfast.”
His features hardened at her defensive words. It was not that he was offended by the knowledge that she had already taken firm control of his household. Or that she had clearly bewitched his staff.
It was quite simply a deep offense at the thought of her waiting upon him as if she were a lowly servant.
“I am well aware of what you were doing and I assure you that it is utterly unnecessary. If I desire breakfast I am perfectly capable of entering the kitchen and retrieving it for myself.”
She blinked at the edge in his voice. “Are you angry?”
“Yes.”
She bit her lip, her gaze wary. “I suppose I have rather taken over your home . . .”
“’Tis not that.” With a hint of impatience he balanced the tray on one hand and reached out to grasp her arm with the other. “Come in here.”
Too startled to properly argue, Clara allowed herself to be tugged into the small morning parlor where Hawksley set aside the tray and turned to regard her with his arms folded.
“What is the matter, Hawksley?” she demanded.
“You are my guest here,” he said in stern tones. “If the house or food is not pleasing to you, then I shall hire servants to have it made suitable. You are not to tire yourself working as a common scullery maid.”
Surprisingly, a small flush touched her cheeks, although he could not be certain if it was pleasure at his insistence or anger that inspired the delicate color.
“I told you I enjoy such work.”
“Be that as it may, I will not have you playing maid beneath my roof. Here you are to be waited upon, as is only fitting for a lady.”
This time there was no mistaking the faint twinkle of amusement in the emerald eyes.
“I suppose you will insist upon having your own way?”
“I fear I must.” Reaching out, he touched her cheek. “I have great need of that astonishing mind of yours. I cannot have you distracted by stray battles against dust and lumpy crust. Agreed?”
She eyed him squarely, as if easily sensing she was being manipulated, but much to his relief she at last gave a decisive nod.
“Very well.”
“Good. Now will you join me while I eat?”
Together they settled at the small table, and Hawksley hid a smile as she reached out to straighten the plate of toast and perfectly center the sugar and cream upon the tray.