A knowing gaze slashed in his direction. “And when you have your information?”
“That remains to be seen.”
An expression that Hawksley did not care for settled on the too-handsome features.
“Yes . . . it does.”
With one last glance toward the window, Santos moved to swing himself atop his horse, barely hitting the saddle before he was reeling his mount around and charging toward the trees.
Hawksley watched his departure before striding back toward the cottage and the woman waiting within.
No, not the woman.
His woman.
At least for the moment.
Clara was in a decided quandary.
As a rule, she had discovered that her logical approach to life kept most troubles at bay. She did not impulsively leap into decisions or allow her heart to lead her into foolishness. Indeed, her days were carefully planned, with few opportunities for surprises to occur.
Most maidens would no doubt find her existence tedious.
There might even be a few occasions when she found her existence tedious.
But her current situation did not lend itself to her usual sensible approach. Kidnappings rarely did.
And certainly her kidnapper defied any sort of logic.
How was she to reason with a man who utterly aggravated her one moment and the next made her heart leap with shivering excitement?
No closer to an answer, Clara turned from the window. Her captor was returning, and his expression was once again set in those grim lines.
More aggravation and less heart leaping, she acknowledged with a faint sigh.
As if to prove her point, the gentleman entered the cottage and shut the door with far more force than necessary. Walking across the floor, he stood before her with his arms crossed and his gaze narrowed.
She crossed her own arms and met his gaze squarely. “Who was that?” she demanded, referring to the dark, rather frighteningly beautiful stranger. “Is he an accomplice of yours? Does he know I am being kept here against my will?”
“You ask a great number of questions,” he retorted.
Clara shrugged. “So I have been told.”
“Well, from now on I shall be the one asking the questions.”
“That does not seem entirely fair,” she protested.
“I rarely play fair.” He took another step closer. “You might as well have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”
Clara glanced over her shoulder at the small bench directly behind her. Then her head swiveled back to discover the impossibly blue eyes watching her closely.
“You want me to sit there?”
His brows drew together. “Is there a problem?”
“I am not convinced the bench is entirely clean.”
He regarded her for a long moment, as if not certain he had truly heard her correctly. Then, glancing toward the heavens, he reached into his pocket to remove a handkerchief.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, moving to dust the bench with a bristling impatience. “Now are you satisfied?”
“Actually I believe you missed a place just—”
Strong arms grasped her shoulders and pressed her downward. “Sit.”
Clara pursed her lips. There had been dust. And now it was no doubt staining her best carriage gown.
“You need not growl at me,” she said.
Again his eyes lifted to the heavens. “How old are you?”
“Six-and-twenty. Why?”
“I was just curious as to how you lived to such a great age without being throttled.”
“More luck than skill, I expect.”
His gaze shot back to her countenance, then without warning he gave a short, reluctant laugh. Clearly he found her brilliant ability to annoy others a source of amusement.
Ah well, at least the grim features had softened and the air of danger crackling about him lessened to a muted tingle.
He was once again the handsome ruffian who made odd things flutter within her.
“Enough,” he murmured. “You possess information I need.”
Clara sighed. He was certainly persistent. Like a fly that refused to be shooed away.
“I cannot imagine what it might be. Not unless you possess an interest in mathematics or riddles.”
He shifted back on his heels and peered down the long length of his nose.
“What is your relationship to Lord Doulton?”
This was the information he desired? “Lord Doulton?”
“Do not pretend you do not know of him.”
She stiffened. She did not care for his tone. It sounded decidedly accusing.
“Of course I know of him,” she said tartly. “My governess insisted I learn all the names of the titled families as well as their tedious heirs, although I could never comprehend why. It is not as if I shall ever have need to move among society.”
“What is his connection to you?”
“There is none. He is not related to me, nor have we ever met.”
The thin nose flared. “You are lying.”
Clara surged to her feet, an angry heat flushing her cheeks. Why . . . the . . . the . . . She was too angry to conjure an appropriate insult. He had just branded her a liar. Her. Miss Clara Dawson, who never lied.
If her father had not insisted that good manners were essential no matter what the situation, she would have stomped on his toes.
“I do not lie, sir,” she gritted. “Why should I?”
His eyes narrowed. “That is what I intend to discover.”
“There is nothing for you to discover.”
“There has to be something.”
Clara forced herself to suck in a deep breath. His tenacity was becoming less a source of annoyance and more a source of downright harassment.
“Why? Why do you presume I have something to do with this Lord Doulton?”
There was a silent beat before he stabbed her with a glittering gaze.
“Because he wants you dead.”
Clara’s heart stopped beating and then an odd buzzing entered her ears.
“What did you say?”
“He has hired a gang of ruffians led by a very nasty bloke named Jimmy Blade to ambush your carriage and murder you. There must be some reason why.”
Clara swayed in shock.
Dead? Someone wanted her dead?
No. It was not possible. She opened her mouth to protest but no sound came out. Instead a wave of darkness slammed into her. She thought her knees might have buckled, but it was impossible to determine. The darkness had taken hold and she thankfully knew no more.
Hawksley muttered his way through his favorite list of curses as he snatched up the unconscious Miss Dawson and carried her to the loft. It was a long list, but he went through it twice more as he carefully tucked his captive on the mattress tossed on the floor and covered her with his caped coat.
He did not want to miss one.
Returning down the narrow flight of stairs, he tore his way through the cupboards, shifting aside the inevitable bottles of brandy until he at last discovered the small flask of whiskey. Taking several long pulls, he waited for the fiery spirit to settle his rattled composure before collecting a glass of water and returning to the loft.
Damn and blast.
The woman had scared the hell out of him when she had so abruptly fainted. It had occurred so quickly he had barely managed to take a step forward before she had toppled backward, banging her head on the bench before crumpling onto the floor.
Just for a moment he had been terrified the blow to her head had killed her. Although there was no blood, she had been shockingly pale as she lay in a motionless heap. Dropping onto the floor beside her, he had nearly swooned himself when he felt the steady pulse.
It was then he had gathered her in his arms and taken her to the loft.