“That butler did seem quite uneasy at having us poking around.” She bit her lip, her stomach rolling with dread. “Dear Lord.”
Pocketing the objects she had taken from Mr. Chesterfield’s chambers, he gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze.
“We know nothing yet, kitten. For now I think it best we assume he is still alive.”
Sucking in a deep breath, she gave a nod of her head. He was right. It would not help Mr. Chesterfield to leap to conclusions.
Until they had positive information they must presume that he was still alive. And perhaps in need of their assistance.
“What do we do now?”
He silently considered their options as the carriage swayed and rattled its way through the crowded London streets. With the windows shut and the heavy curtains firmly pulled, they might have been utterly alone in the world.
As the silence lingered, Clara discovered herself becoming disturbingly aware of the warmth of his thigh pressed close to her own and the sheer power of his presence. She knew that there were far more important matters to concentrate upon. Her body, however, seemed determined to play traitor.
“I believe I will call upon Biddles and see if he will be kind enough to have Mr. Chesterfield’s servants followed,” he at last murmured.
Clara licked her lips, which seemed strangely dry. “Why?”
“I wish to know where they might be going and who they might be meeting with. If Mr. Chesterfield is in hiding, they might very well be carrying him supplies and information. Then again, if they are in league with Lord Doulton, then they might lead us to the bastard.”
“An excellent plan,” she agreed, albeit in strained tones. It was an excellent plan. Unfortunately, her brain was not functioning nearly so well as she might wish.
Reaching up, he deliberately grasped the end of her veil and pushed it back, his eyes darkening.
He slowly stilled, as if he could actually sense her tingling awareness. And perhaps he could, she wryly acknowledged. She was quite certain she had raised the temperature in the carriage by several degrees.
“Why, thank you, Miss Dawson, I did assure you that I have my moments.”
“You told me I was not to raise my veil,” she reminded him softly.
Yanking off his gloves, he tossed them aside and reached to remove hers. Only then did he lift his hand to trace the line of her jaw.
“But you did not raise your veil . . . I did.”
The tingles became more pronounced. “That hardly seems fair.”
His nose flared as his gaze lowered to her mouth. A nerve in his jaw twitched, as if he were waging a mighty battle.
“Neither is the manner you have bewitched me, kitten,” he husked. “’Tis monstrously unfair.”
His tension brought a faint frown to her brow. “Hawksley?”
“Ah, Clara, I promised myself I would not do this.”
“Do what?”
“This . . .”
Framing her face, Hawksley slowly lowered his head. Clara’s heart came to a perfect halt as the lips neared. Oh, thank God. Thank God.
Then, a breath away he paused, and she instinctively realized he was offering her the opportunity to pull away.
It was what she should do, no doubt. After last eve she could no longer plead ignorance as to what a mere kiss could lead to. But even her much vaulted logic was impervious to the fierce pleasure his touch could offer.
And why should she deny herself, she silently demanded?
For six-and-twenty years she had quietly endured the rude slights and direct cuts by gentlemen. She had pretended that she did not yearn to feel the warmth of a man’s arms about her or to experience the secret delights that other women took for granted.
Now, this beautiful, wonderful pirate desired her.
Her. Miss Clara Dawson, aging spinster and village oddity.
Logic and common sense be damned.
She wanted him. He wanted her.
What else mattered?
Suddenly frightened he might come to his senses and turn away, Clara threw her arms about his neck and tugged his head downward.
Just for a moment she thought he might resist her silent plea, and a familiar sinking sensation rushed through Clara’s stomach. No, not again. Surely she was not to be rejected yet again.
She had thought Hawksley different.
Special.
Then with a rasping sigh Hawksley dropped his head downward and claimed her mouth in a kiss that seared away any lingering doubt as to his willingness. Catching her breath at the jolt of sizzling excitement, she clutched at his neck, her eyes sliding shut as she savored his demanding touch.
This was what she wanted. What she had wanted since the first moment she had laid eyes upon him.
His kiss deepened, his tongue stroking over her mouth.
“Let me taste of you, kitten,” he whispered.
Uncertain what he desired, Clara tentatively parted her lips and stiffened in surprise when his tongue plunged into her mouth.
Oh my. This was . . . delicious.
With a moan she arched forward, her tongue touching his to match the slow, steady rhythm. If someone had told her about such a thing she would have shuddered in horror. And she did shudder, only horror had nothing to do with it. Instead an intense flare of anticipation clutched at her.
She wanted to be closer to him. To feel the heat of his bare skin next to her own.
Once again seeming to read her mind, he shifted to wrap his arms tightly about her. She heard him growl deep in his throat and then suddenly he was plucking her off the seat.
Never breaking the kiss, he turned her in his arms, tugging her until she was straddling his legs, her knees bent and the thick dress hiked up well past her knees.
Clara abruptly pulled back to meet the smoldering blue gaze. In such an intimate position she could easily feel the thrust of his hardened erection. It pressed firmly against her cleft, creating a rash of thrilling sensations.
Holding her gaze Hawksley allowed his fingers to trail down her spine, easily slipping the buttons loose from their hooks.
“Am I frightening you?” he whispered in ragged tones.
“No.” Her fingers trailed through the raven hair, delighting in the satin tresses. He was so unbearably gorgeous. So perfect. “I like your touch.”
He gave a husky chuckle. “A good thing, considering that I cannot seem to keep my hands off you.”
As if to prove his point he gave her gown a sudden tug, pulling it off her shoulders along with the thin shift beneath. He seemed to freeze as he regarded her bared breasts, an odd expression upon his countenance. Then with exquisite care he cupped the small mounds in his hands, simply holding them for a long moment before his head dipped and his lips closed over one tip.
Clara’s eyes slid shut as she felt his tongue rasp over the sensitive nipple, coaxing it to a hard peak. Dear Lord, the pleasure was nearly unbearable. It was a struggle to recall to breathe as he tugged and teased her with merciless expertise.
“Does this please you?” he murmured, stroking his mouth to tantalize her other breast.
She moaned, besieged by a dark longing she did not understand. Shifting on his lap, she pressed herself against the jut of his manhood.
“Do not stop,” she pleaded.
“Do you wish more? Shall I teach you of passion?” he muttered, his voice thick.
She clutched at his shoulders. “I am not certain I can bear more. I feel as if I might shatter.”
He leaned back, his lids half lowered and a dark flush upon his cheeks.
“Will you trust me?” he demanded, easily holding her bewildered gaze.
She gave a slow nod, rather surprised to discover that she did trust him. Perhaps it was not utterly logical, but there was something about him that assured her that he would never deliberately harm her.