This was not the hardened tart he had been expecting.
Far from it.
In the gathering dusk, her hair shimmered with a silver beauty. The sort of hair that made a man long to rip out the offending pins and allow it to flow over her shoulders.
And her eyes . . . so pure a green they reminded him of a mischievous kitten. One he suspected he would take great pleasure in making purr.
Strange, considering some of the most beautiful, most experienced women in all of London had not been capable of stirring even a vague interest lately.
Perhaps it was her body, he decided, allowing his gaze to slide down the slender form currently pressed against him.
For the most part his mistresses had been well curved in all the right places. The sort of women that made a man think of lust.
But for the first time in his thirty years, he realized that there was something rather enchanting in having such a slender female snuggled close to him. She felt fragile and as delicate as the finest crystal.
Or at least she did until she opened her mouth.
A rueful smile tugged at his lips as he rode into the dusty shadows of the stables and pulled his mount to a halt.
By the fires of hell, she was the most peculiar of females.
Not once had she revealed the fear or fury he had prepared himself to endure. Indeed, she had appeared little more than annoyed at being carted off by a stranger. Rather as if he was no more than a tedious interruption to her journey.
It was difficult to imagine that this practical, frighteningly sensible woman could have any nefarious dealings with Lord Doulton. Actually, it was damn well impossible.
But Biddles was never mistaken.
There had to be some reason for the nobleman to wish this woman dead.
And he intended to discover precisely what that reason was.
With a smooth motion he vaulted out of the saddle and reached up to tug Miss Dawson onto the ground next to him. Leading his restless horse into a nearby stall, he set about settling him for the night.
Out of the corner of his eye he kept a close watch on his captive. Not that she appeared ready to bolt. Instead she was taking a careful survey of her surroundings.
Sensible and practical.
And oddly kissable.
Strange.
“What is this place?” she at last demanded.
“Just a small cottage. It is barren and lacking in many amenities, but it is isolated enough so we can speak in private.”
The green gaze shifted to regard him with a frank speculation. “And that is all you desire from me? To speak in private?”
All he desired? Not bloody likely.
“Unless you change your mind about that first kiss.”
“I do not think so,” she retorted primly. He merely smiled, reaching for a brush. After a time she took a step closer. “That is a beautiful animal. What do you call him?”
“Brutus.”
“Brutus?”
“He attacks anyone foolish enough to turn their back on him.”
“Oh.”
Straightening, Hawksley shot his companion a warning glance. “If you attempt an escape, I would suggest you not try it upon this beast. He is ill-tempered and more likely to break your neck than take you to safety.”
With her odd habit she silently considered his words. “You intend to keep me here?”
“Only for a short time.”
“And then what?”
“That depends upon what you have to tell me.”
She once again fell silent as he spread out fresh hay. He did not even attempt to guess what might be passing through her mind.
Nothing that would be passing through an ordinary woman’s mind, he was certain.
“Do you know, when you first halted my carriage I assumed you were just a ridiculous dandy having a lark,” she murmured.
Hawksley gave a lift of his brows. “You did not consider the possibility that I might actually be a highwayman?”
The faintest hint of humor entered her beautiful eyes. “You do not have one possession, from that horse to your boots, which a highwayman could possibly afford. Indeed, the buttons on your coat alone could feed a family for a month.”
“They could all have been stolen,” he pointed out, just a tad annoyed by her sharp perception.
She should be shrinking in terror, not calmly assessing the worth of his property.
“Perhaps the clothing and even Brutus could have been stolen, although it is more likely they would have been hocked than kept.” She gave a shrug. “But not the ring.”
He glanced down at his hand. “Why not the ring?”
“From Oxford, is it not? Not the sort of jewelry to catch the eye of a thief. Not unless he happened to be one of the rare highwaymen who attended the school and possessed a sentimental nature.”
Hawksley’s lips twitched. Damn. The woman was downright freakish.
“I see. You have determined that I am no highwayman and no dandy on a lark, so what conclusion has that clever mind devised?”
She faced him with that calm poise he found so intriguing.
“There seem to be only two possibilities. Either you are a dangerous lunatic, or this has all been some horrid mistake.”
Chapter Three
He resisted the urge to laugh. In truth, her conclusions were not far from his own, Hawksley had to concede.
Oh, not so much that bit about the dangerous lunatic, although he had been accused more than once since his brother’s murder of becoming a ruthless bastard.
But maybe there had been a mistake made.
Or perhaps you simply hope there has been a mistake made, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. Perhaps you do not want this strange and fascinating angel to be involved in Fredrick’s death.
Startled by the ridiculous fancy, Hawksley sternly squashed the traitorous thought. Dammit all. This woman was here for one purpose and one purpose only.
And that was to discover what connection she had to Lord Doulton.
He folded his arms over his chest. “You are Miss Clara Dawson?”
She gave a startled blink. “I . . . Yes.”
“From Kent?”
“Yes.”
So. No mistake.
“Then you are indeed the woman I want.” He reached out a commanding hand. “Come along.”
Her lips thinned as she took a step back.
“No.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, now what?”
“I refuse to go anywhere with you until you tell me who you are and why I am here.”
Hawksley did not hesitate. With one motion he was moving forward and scooping her over his shoulder. Not a difficult task considering she was nearly tiny enough to slip into his pocket.
“Do you know, kitten, I begin to suspect you simply enjoy being in my arms,” he mocked as he carried her out of the stables and toward the cottage. “Why else would you continue to challenge me?”
A small hand smacked him in the center of his back. “Brute.”
“You have left me little choice.”
“Of course you have a choice,” she gritted. “You could do the honorable thing and return me to my carriage.”
Reaching the cottage, Hawksley pressed open the door and stepped inside. He cast a swift glance about the darkened interior, resisting the urge to grimace. While a poet might claim the aged timbers and uneven flagstones picturesque, he was quite certain the woman squirming in his arms would claim it shabby, damp, and not at all fit for a proper lady.
And she would not be wrong.
Although it was relatively clean, the only furniture was a rough table and chairs set by a large fireplace and a battered bench below the single window. There were no curtains, no pretty pottery or pictures hung upon the walls.
It looked precisely what it was. A convenient hideout for a notorious smuggler.