With an inward shrug, Hawksley slowly lowered his captive to her feet. He wasn’t here to entertain the lady or see to her comfort.
“There would be nothing honorable in allowing you to continue on to London,” he assured her, thinking of the murderous Jimmy still awaiting his prey.
She planted her hands on her hips to glare at him. It might have been more effective if the cloud of silver hair had not slipped from the tidy knot to float about her shoulders.
Holy hell.
“What on earth do you mean?”
Against his will his hand reached out to catch a strand of the silken silver in his fingers.
“It would be a sin against nature to have you harmed,” he murmured. “And I have need of you.”
“What need?”
He smiled wryly at her suspicious tone. “All in time.” Turning, he walked to peer out the small window. “First I must ensure we were not followed.”
“Who do you believe would follow us?” she demanded.
A swift glance revealed no angry cutthroats in the yard, but Hawksley kept his back turned as he carefully watched his prey in the reflection of the window. He had discovered that he could learn a great deal about others when they were unaware they were being observed.
“There are all sorts of nasty creatures roaming about,” he assured her.
Edging sideways, Miss Dawson kept a wary gaze on his back. “No, I believe you have someone specific in mind.”
“Why do you say that?”
A few more steps to the side. “People as a rule do not fear they are being followed unless they have reason to believe it might be so.”
Hawksley gave a short laugh. “Obviously you have never been to the stews.”
Her hand reached out to grasp the heavy candlestick from the mantle. “But you have?”
His lips twitched even as he took careful note of her courage. She was obviously not the sort of woman to hide in the corner and hope to be rescued.
Something he would do well to remember.
“Put it down, kitten, unless you desire to be tied to the bed,” he murmured, presuming there must be a bed somewhere in the loft. “Something I assure you would give me a great deal of pleasure.”
He saw her eyes widen as the candlestick was abruptly thumped back onto the mantle.
“How did you . . . Oh, of course. My reflection in the window. Blast. I should have taken that into consideration.”
Slowly turning, Hawksley flicked a glance over her tiny form. “Would you truly have hit me with that?”
“Would you truly have tied me to the bed?”
He smiled. “Touché.”
There was silence as they both measured one another, then the faint sound of hoofbeats had Hawksley spinning back toward the window. His hand instinctively reached into his pocket to grasp the pistol until the rider came into view. Only when he recognized the dark, swarthy gentleman with a long mane of pitch-black hair and hawkish nose did he relax.
Leaving the lethal weapon tucked in his pocket, Hawksley moved toward the door. Pulling it open, he paused to stab his captive with a warning glare.
“I will return in a moment. In the meantime do not even think of attempting to flee. If I have to chase after you, I shall be very displeased.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “You have already kidnapped me, hauled me about as if I were no more than a sack of flour, and are now holding me against my will in this filthy cottage. I do not give a fig if you are displeased.”
Hawksley was crossing the floor and wrapping his hands about her waist before he could halt his progress. Not that he particularly wanted to halt his progress, he realized as he easily hoisted her off the floor until they were nose to nose. He might as well accept that he would use any excuse, no matter how pathetic, to touch this woman.
“Let me put it this way, kitten. If I have to chase you, I will expect some sort of compensation for my efforts.” He gaze deliberately drifted to the soft lips.
Her eyes widened. “No. No kisses.”
“There are many pleasures beyond kisses,” he murmured, angling his head to gently nip at the lobe of her ear. Then for good measure he stroked his tongue down to the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. It was pleasant to know when his efforts were being properly appreciated.
Her head turned to allow him greater access before she abruptly decided she should be protesting his touch rather than encouraging it.
“What is that if not a kiss?” she breathed.
Slowly he angled her down his body until her feet touched the ground. He smiled deep into her eyes.
“A prelude.” Hawksley gave a tug on a silver curl. “Now behave yourself.”
He left the cottage before he could conjure yet another reason to snatch Miss Dawson off her feet and firmly closed the door behind him. Only then did he cross the yard to where Santos was leaping from a pure white stallion.
Hawksley knew little of this dark recluse known only as Santos. No one knew much. He was a pirate, a smuggler, and lethal when crossed. He moved through the underworld of London with smooth ease and was reputedly the son of an English duke and a Portuguese actress. No one was foolish enough to actually inquire if it was true. Certainly not Hawksley.
What he did know was that the man had proven to be an invaluable asset in his quest for revenge. And that he would trust him with his life, if not his valuables.
Santos flicked a black gaze toward the cottage. It belonged to him. Just one of a dozen hideaways he possessed outside of London.
“Any trouble?” he demanded.
Hawksley grimaced. “That depends on what you consider trouble.”
A dark brow arched in amusement. “Miss Dawson?”
“She is not precisely what I expected.”
“Does that please or disappoint you?”
Awry smile twisted his lips. “She makes my head ache.”
“Ah . . . She pleases you, then.”
Hawksley gave a short laugh. Only Santos could consider a woman who made his head ache as pleasing. No doubt he thought being shot at by Excise men a nice means to round out the evening.
“Did you discover Jimmy?”
There was a brief nod of the dark head. “Yes, he is still hidden just beyond Westerham.”
“It will not take him long to realize the carriage is never going to arrive,” Hawksley murmured. “Did you cover our tracks?” He glanced up to meet a steady black gaze. “Ah, of course you did, forgive me. Where is Dillon?”
“He will keep watch on the cottage. You need not fear any unexpected visitors.”
“And what of you?”
A faint smile touched the dark eyes. “I have some business in the area. I will not be far away.”
Hawksley did not inquire into the nature of the man’s business. He was fairly certain he did not want to know. Instead he turned back toward the cottage, not surprised to discover Miss Dawson standing with her nose pressed to the window.
At least she had not attempted to escape up the chimney.
“I do not know how long this might take. I sense Miss Dawson will not make this simple.”
“Women rarely do,” Santos murmured, stepping to his side. He seemed to still as a lingering slant of sunlight suddenly fell across the woman’s silver cloud of hair and delicate features. “M?e de Deus, is that her?”
Hawksley discovered a frown forming on his forehead.
“Yes.”
“Ah . . . anjo magnifico. Perhaps my business is not so pressing after all.”
The frown deepened. “Do not even consider it, old friend. For the moment she is mine.”