“My thought as well,” Biddles swiftly agreed.
Together they moved across the room, Hawksley cautiously peering out the door before waving them through. Santos appeared next to them as they slipped through the silent house and out the French windows.
It was a distinct relief to Clara when they at last approached the wall and no disaster had befallen them. Logic might assure her that they had taken the necessary precautions to ensure a successful campaign, but she was discovering that adventures were not always about logic and strategy. There was far too much luck involved for her peace of mind.
On this occasion she was prepared for the feel of Hawksley’s strong hands encircling her waist and hoisting her upward. She scrambled over the wall and managed to land upon her feet.
Turning, she awaited Hawksley to join her. Oddly, only silence greeted her and she frowned. What the devil were they doing?
No doubt some stupid male battle over who would go over the fence last, she told herself with a roll of her eyes.
It was then that she heard the sound of footsteps stomping through the garden and the call of a rough male voice.
“I heard ye sneaking about, ye rotten thieves. Show yerself or I’ll blast a hole in yer head.”
Clara’s perfect brain froze in horror. Blessed Saints, they had been caught. And worse, the angry servant sounded more than a little eager to begin firing lead balls about the garden.
Think, Clara, think, she grimly commanded herself. If she did not do something swiftly, then Hawksley would take matters into his own hands. A thought that was enough to make her eye twitch.
She had to do something. But what?
A distraction, the voice of reason whispered in the back of her mind. That was what was needed.
Swiftly, she bent down and searched until she found two stones that fitted comfortably in her hands and darted down the alley. Along the way she managed to drop one of the stones painfully upon her toe but she never faltered. Reaching the corner of the property, she drew her arm back and tossed the remaining stone over the wall.
Luck for once was on her side and the stone landed with a loud splash in a nearby fountain.
“Hah, yer mine now, ye bloody sod,” the servant growled as he barreled toward the fountain.
Clara silently moved back down the alley, not at all surprised to discover the three gentlemen vaulting over the wall by the time she returned.
None of them spoke as they skirted the stables and headed down the block to where Hawksley’s carriage awaited them. They clambered within and Hawksley gave a rap on the ceiling to set the vehicle into motion.
Only when they were well away from the expensive townhouse did Biddles suddenly lean forward to where she sat next to Hawksley to grasp her fingers and lift them to his lips.
“We are in your debt, my dear,” he murmured, his gaze slanting toward the tense gentleman at her side. “I admire a woman with such quick wits. You are fortunate I am already wed, Hawk.”
Not about to be outdone, Santos snatched her fingers from Biddles’s grasp and brushed his lips over them in a lingering kiss.
“I am fortunate that I am not.”
There was a growl of irritation as Hawksley grabbed her wrist and tugged her fingers free. Then possessively he tucked her in the crook of his arm and glared at his two companions.
“You will both keep your lips to yourself unless you wish to be tossed from this carriage.”
Santos merely chuckled as he lounged carelessly in his seat. “You cannot keep her hidden away forever, Hawksley.”
Clara felt herself tugged even closer. Not that she was about to protest. As far as she was concerned, he could hold her in his arms for the rest of eternity.
“Actually, Santos, that has yet to be decided,” he warned in dangerous tones.
It was nearly an hour later when Hawksley escorted Clara to her dark chambers in the Hawk’s Nest.
The priceless canvases had been left in Biddles’s care with the hope that Lord Doulton would have no means of connecting him to the theft, and Santos had been charged with the task of planting rumors that the artwork had been smuggled out of England by an unknown band of cutthroats.
Such a flimsy tale would not fool Lord Doulton for long, but it might keep him from turning his suspicions toward Hawksley for at least a few days.
Halting in the shadows of the upper hall, Hawksley glanced down at the woman at his side.
As always when she was near, he felt that potent mixture of exasperation, pride, and gut-wrenching tenderness.
And of course, that damnable lust that clawed at him with ruthless determination.
Bloody hell, he had been a fool to insist she dress as a young lad. At the time his thought had only been to ensure that a casual observer would mistake her for a young male servant.
How the devil was he to know that the soft breeches would cling to her sweet bottom with such tenacious perfection? Or that the masculine coat would reveal the enticing curve of her breasts?
Or that the knowledge that Santos and Biddles were enjoying the same erotic view was enough to make him smolder with possessive anger?
Ignoring the small voice in the back of his mind that warned it was dangerous to linger here in the dark, he reached out to pluck the hat from her head and tossed it aside. In a heartbeat her satin hair tumbled about her shoulders.
“Biddles was right, you know,” he said softly, his fingers lingering of their own accord to toy with a silver curl. “You were magnificent.”
She grimaced, the emerald eyes still shimmering from her night of adventure.
“Actually, I was terrified,” she confessed. “I dropped the first rock upon my toe, and to be honest, the second barely made it over the wall.”
“You did what was necessary even though you were terrified. That is the true measure of courage.”
She shivered. “It was a near thing, was it not?”
His expression abruptly hardened. The fear he had experienced when he thought they might be exposed was still too fresh to be shrugged aside.
“Too near,” he muttered.
She regarded him a moment before she stepped close enough for her soft, feminine scent to weave about him.
“Oh no, Hawksley. Do not even consider it,” she warned.
“Consider what?”
“Locking me in this house.”
Against his will Hawksley discovered his lips twitching in amusement. It was a wonder that this woman had not yet been burned as a witch.
“Actually, I was considering an offer Santos made to have you tucked away in one of his cottages.” He fingers shifted to brush over the lush curve of her lips. His muscles hardened with a swift arousal. Damn. It had been days since he had allowed himself to be near her. And with good reason, he reminded himself sternly. He was not a chivalrous man. He was a rogue, a rake, and a pirate. He took what he wanted. And he wanted this woman with a force that was nearly blinding. “It would be far safer.”
Indifferent to the sudden danger shimmering in the air, she reached up to grasp the lapels of his coat. The movement brought her body next to his, and Hawksley bit back a groan of torment.
“You cannot send me away. I will not allow it.”
“Not allow?” he rasped.
“You have need of me, Hawksley. You know that.”
His hands cupped her face with a flare of compulsive desire. Damn and blast, but he had need of her.
Shrouded in her sweet heat and feeling the brush of her soft curves against him, Hawksley could barely breathe. He wanted this woman. He wanted her enticing innocence, her heat, her ready passion.
More than anything, he wanted to hold her in his arms and not feel alone for the first night in more nights than he cared to remember.