As if sensing her distress the stranger tugged her downward, settling her across the hardness of his thighs and clamping a firm arm about her waist.
Clara discovered her new position somewhat of an improvement. At least her head was not dangling downward and her stomach threatening a revolt. But she had to admit she was not entirely pleased with her awareness of the hard muscles that pressed into her legs.
It did not seem entirely respectable to be so conscious of the warm sensations that flushed through her body.
Barely given time to catch a glimpse of the two gentlemen who were seated on horses and pointing guns at her poor driver, she felt the horse taking off with a sharp leap. Clara bit her lip, ridiculously glad of the strong arm that kept her from tumbling onto the ground. She might be furious at being hauled off in such a manner, but falling from the huge beast seemed a somewhat worse fate just at the moment.
In silence they thundered down the narrow lane, and then without warning the man tugged on the reins and they were angling toward the shallow ditch before plunging straight into the trees.
Out of necessity the galloping nightmare was forced to slow its pace, and Clara took her first breath since being hoisted onto the horse.
She had not fallen and been trampled to death.
That had to be a good thing.
As her heart slowed to something approaching bearable, her simmering anger was allowed to resurface. Blast it all, what was this man doing? She was never going to get to London.
“I really must demand that you halt, sir,” she said in the sort of stern tones that frightened even the old squire in her village.
Casually reaching out, her captor knocked aside a twig that threatened to hit her legs.
“Eventually.”
“This is no longer a jest. You will find the law takes a very dim view of kidnapping young ladies.”
He bent his head so that his lips brushed her ear. “Then I must make certain that I am not caught.”
Clara suddenly realized that it was not only the hard muscles beneath her that could cause that peculiar heat to stir within her. The wide chest pressed against her back and the tickle of his soft breath seemed equally capable of accomplishing the same feat.
Perhaps sensing her distraction, he tightened his arm about her waist.
“You have not fainted, have you?”
Clara frowned at the insulting question. “I never faint.”
“You are being remarkably quiet.”
“I am thinking.”
“Gads. A most worrisome notion.”
“I could be screaming,” she reminded him in tart tones.
“True enough,” he agreed, his lips still touching her ear. “Why are you not?”
She turned her head to regard the thicket that surrounded them. In the gathering gloom little could be seen. Nothing beyond trees, brush, and emptiness.
Maybe an inquisitive grouse.
“There is no one about to hear me, and it would only annoy you. I do not believe you are a violent man, but it seems best not to overly provoke you.”
She felt his chest expand, as if he had abruptly caught his breath. Then the faintest hint of laughter whispered through the silent air.
“Do you know, I begin to suspect you are an utter lunatic.”
Clara stiffened as he unwittingly hit a sensitive nerve. Having been called odd, peculiar, and outright daft most of her life, she should perhaps be accustomed to such accusations.
She was not.
“I am an eccentric, not a lunatic.”
“Is there a difference?”
She grimly turned her head to stab him with a condemning glare.
“It is bad enough you have kidnapped me for God knows what nefarious purpose. Is it also necessary to insult me?”
His eyes narrowed, as if he was belatedly realizing just how deeply he had offended her.
“Forgive me,” he said, his voice soft. “This is my first kidnapping, I fear. And you are not at all what I expected you to be.”
“What did you expect?”
“An older woman.” His gaze drifted slowly over her upturned countenance. “And one not near so lovely.”
A portion of her annoyance faded. Mostly out of shock.
Gentlemen, whether they were ruffians or not, never found her lovely.
Annoying, strange, and sometimes frightening, but never lovely.
“You think me lovely?”
“Shall I tell you how lovely?” His arm tightened about her waist as his head lowered until she could feel his lips lightly touch her neck. “Your hair shimmers like moonlight on water. Your eyes are the purest green I have ever seen. And your skin is so soft it makes me wish to explore you from head to toe.”
Clara decided she quite liked the small shivers that were racing down her spine. What was not to like? There was heat and tiny flutters of excitement and an undeniable urge to tilt her head so he could have better access to the curve of her throat.
She also decided that such sensations were no doubt quite dangerous.
She could almost feel her well-honed intelligence melting to mush.
A deliberate strategy on his part, no doubt.
“You are attempting to distract me,” she accused.
“I was,” he agreed without apology. His tongue reached out to touch the pulse beating at the base of her neck. His tongue! Clara barely resisted the urge to squirm, feeling his lips continue up her throat to stroke the curve of her cheek. “Now that I have begun, however, I am quite willing to continue if you feel so inclined.”
Clara swallowed. If she was perfectly honest with herself, she would have to admit she was not nearly as opposed to the thought of him continuing as she should be.
She had never before experienced such a sharp physical attraction. It clutched at the pit of her stomach and raced through her blood. A heady mixture.
Unfortunately, the gentleman creating the delicious sensations was not all suitable for a proper lady. Not even one who had been on the shelf for so long that she had grown more than a tad moldy.
“Certainly not,” she forced herself to say.
She felt his lips curve in a smile against her skin. “Why? It could be pleasurable for the both of us.”
“No doubt, but I will not have my first kiss given to me by a ruffian.”
“Your first . . . Bloody hell.” The gentleman gave a sudden cough as he abruptly straightened. Almost as if she had just told him she had the pox. “You must be jesting?”
“Why should I jest about such a thing?”
“Good God,” he muttered, “what sort of female are you?”
Turning her head, Clara offered a dark frown. Despite his undoubted skill to make her heart flutter, she found him more than a bit annoying.
“I happen to be a proper woman who does not allow—”
“Never mind,” he rudely interrupted, his attention focused over her head. “We have arrived.”
Hawksley had not given a lot of thought to his role as kidnapper.
After all, how difficult could it be?
He would send out his accomplices to locate Miss Dawson’s carriage while he waited in the trees to ambush it. Once he had captured the woman, he would carry her off to an isolated cottage. After that it would be a simple matter to learn her secrets.
A nice, straightforward plan that left little room for mistakes.
Unfortunately his nice, straightforward plan had not included Miss Dawson.
Angling his horse toward the crumbling stables, Hawksley shifted to study the pure line of his captive’s profile.
My God, she looked like an angel, he acknowledged with that shocking flare of awareness that had plagued him since first clapping eyes upon her.