Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den)




A fierce anger flared through him. God above, it was bad enough that the man had committed murder. But to try and shift his guilt to Clara?

He was surely the lowest sort of . . .

His furious thoughts were brought to a slow end as a small voice in the back of his head whispered that he had not been so terribly different. Oh, certainly his crimes were not nearly so heinous, but had he not assured himself that lying to Clara was for her own good? That he was protecting her by hiding the truth?

When all along he was simply ensuring his own happiness. Grasping his treasure by any means possible.

He had been selfish and utterly indifferent to the pain he was bound to cause this woman.

“No, Clara, what he did, he did for himself,” he told her in low tones. “He was blinded by greed. Not an uncommon tragedy, unfortunately.”

“It is so horrible.”

He pressed his lips to the top of her tumbled curls. “It is over.”

“Over.” She leaned back to meet his searching gaze. “I can go home?”

Just as he was about to reassure her that he intended to take her home with all possible speed, a faint noise behind him had Hawksley smoothly spinning about, his pistol already lifted.

His arm lowered at the sight of Biddles and Santos as they strolled into the cellar.

With a smile toward Clara, the rat-faced gentleman moved to where Mr. Chesterfield still lay upon the dirt floor.

“It seems that we are too late, Santos.”

“A pity.” The smuggler moved to join them, using his boot to turn over the limp form. With a moan Mr. Chesterfield slowly opened his eyes and instantly cringed at the sight of the forms looming above him. Santos’s lips twisted into an evil grin as he pulled a dueling pistol from beneath his coat. “I had hoped to discover if these pistols are worth the enormous sum I was forced to pay.”

Biddles reached beneath his own coat, only to produce a lacy handkerchief that he used to dab at his pointed nose.

“We could tie him to the wall and have a bit of target practice, if you wish?”

Santos gave a small snort. “And what is the skill in that? Far better to loose him in the street and shoot him as he attempts to flee.”

Mr. Chesterfield’s groans raised an octave, his eyes wild. “No . . . I beg you.” Reaching out, he grasped the hem of Clara’s gown. “Beloved Clara . . . You cannot allow them to harm me.”

Without thought, Hawksley kicked the offending hand away. “Do not dare to touch her, you worthless sod.”

“Clara . . .” the villain pleaded.

Clutching Hawksley’s arm, Clara pressed her face into his chest. “Please, Hawksley, I just wish to be away from here.”

Swiftly he placed his arms about her, cursing himself for not having swept her from the horrid cellar the moment he arrived.

“Of course, my love.” He cast a swift glance toward his companions as he led her to the door. “Santos, would you be so good as to haul this rubbish to the nearest magistrate?”

“With pleasure.” His smile widened. “And if he should not wish to go?”

“We will discover if those pistols are worth their price,” he said in clipped tones.

Santos deliberately pointed the pistol toward his captive’s heart. “Indeed we will.”

Realizing all his scheming and skulking and bloody efforts were to come to naught, Mr. Chesterfield abruptly let out a wail of despair.

“Clara . . . I love you. I did this for you. All for you.”

Hawksley refused to allow Clara to even pause as he hustled her from the cellar and through the shadowed house. Not until they were upon the street did he at last slow their steps and turn his head to regard the gentleman following in their wake.

“Biddles, did you bring a carriage?”

“Yes, it is just down the street.” Without waiting he was slipping through the darkness. “This way.”

In silence Hawksley pulled Clara after the retreating form, his arm clutched tightly about her trembling shoulders.

Thankfully the carriage was not far, and bundling her inside, he unfolded a blanket to wrap about her before he slid onto the seat beside her. Once again pulled her into his arms.

With a quick word to his groom, Biddles joined them, and shutting the door they were on their way.

Only as they moved down the narrow street did Hawksley allow himself to relax his knotted muscles.

It was over.

Both Mr. Chesterfield and Lord Doulton would be forced to pay for their crimes, and Fredrick would at last be allowed to rest in peace.

More important, Clara was no longer in danger.

They could now look to the future with nothing at all to stand in their path.

Well, nothing beyond the fact that she had just discovered he had been lying to her since the moment they met, he ruefully acknowledged.

His teeth gritted in determination. He would not allow his stupidity to ruin what lay between them. Not when they so obviously belonged together.

“All will be well, kitten,” he murmured as he laid his cheek against the top of her head.

For a moment she willingly leaned against his strength, but as the carriage picked up speed she slowly pulled away to regard him with a faint frown.

“Where are we going?”

“I am taking you home.” His hand lifted to brush her still-pale cheek. “Where you belong.”

“No.” They were all startled by the sharp vehemence in her tone, and Clara paused to suck in a steadying breath. “I mean . . . I wish to go home to Kent.”

Hawksley flinched as if he had just been struck. God, he wished that he had been. No blow could be as painful as the thought that she would ever leave him.

“You are tired and upset, kitten,” he forced himself to say in placid tones, not wishing to battle with her when she was in such a fragile state. “We will discuss this in the morning when you are feeling more yourself.”

The emerald eyes flashed with a dangerous fire. “Do not talk to me as if I am a child, Hawksley.” She deliberately paused. “Or should I say, my lord?”

Damn.

He had hoped . . . what?

That being kidnapped by a raving lunatic would make his own sins seem trivial? Or that her potential brush with death would convince her that she must seize whatever happiness might be within her grasp?

It did not matter what he had hoped, he accepted with a faint sigh.

Clearly Clara remained furious at his seeming treachery.

“My dear, it is far too late to consider traveling such a distance,” he pointed out in what he hoped was a reasonable tone.

Her expression settled in those stubborn lines that were all too familiar.

“Then take me to the nearest hotel. That was where I was going anyway. I will catch the stage out in the morning.”

He battled back his flare of impatience. Clara had every right to feel betrayed. Who could blame her for wishing to put as much distance between them as possible?

Still, he could not allow her to flee. Not until he had an opportunity to plead for her forgiveness.

“I cannot allow you to go to a hotel without even a maid. ’Tis not safe.”

Her chin jutted upward. Never good.

“It is not your decision to make, my lord.”

“We must speak.” Reaching out, he grasped her cold hands in his own. “I will not allow you to leave without . . .”

She wrenched her hands free and turned to the silent gentleman in the opposite seat.

“Lord Bidwell, will you be so kind as to tell your driver that I wish to be taken to a hotel?”

The pointed nose twitched as Biddles gave a helpless lift of his hands.

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