The Scoundrel’s Seduction Page 8
She couldn’t help her poor performance. She found his proximity overwhelming, diverting, utterly distracting.
Laurent stood over the chessboard, arms crossed, his lips pressed into a scowl. “I told you he was good. Ruthless, too.” He turned to the older man. “Give a lady a chance, Hawk.”
Hawk quirked a brow. “And ruin my reputation?”
Her breathing quickened. Oh, how she liked this playful side of this powerful man. There was something inordinately appealing about it.
Carter rose to make dinner—and ordered Laurent to join him because he needed to chop vegetables for the stew.
They wandered off, bickering companionably.
“Another game?” Hawk asked when the door had snapped shut behind them.
“You wish to see me desiccated in moments yet again? What a scoundrel you are,” she said.
He raised his brows. “Scoundrel?”
“Yes. Scoundrel.”
The edges of his lips tilted upward. “No one has ever called me a scoundrel before. Perhaps you mistake the meaning of the word.”
She gave him an imperious look. “Not at all.”
He looked puzzled, but he didn’t comment further. “A different game, then?”
She just looked at him. They fell into silence, staring at each other over the chessboard. Her heart pounded so hard.
How could this man make her feel safe? How could she believe him when he said he wouldn’t hurt her?
He killed your husband. Your husband!
She drew in a shaky breath, and he reached across the table and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers skimming the top of her earlobe and sending a deep shudder through her body.
Her husband’s body was not yet cold in its grave. Dieu, it probably wasn’t even in its grave.
“No,” she breathed.
He lowered his hand and tilted his head. “No, what, my lady?”
“You … cannot …” She shook her head. Her voice shook. “You said … you said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Is that what you think I would do? Hurt you?” His voice was low, silky smooth, and the timbre of it sent a warm, skittering sensation tumbling through her.
He wouldn’t hurt her physically. He was big and domineering, but she hadn’t forgotten the way he’d held her when he’d taken her from her husband’s home. He’d been strong as a rock but also as gentle with her as if she were something precious and breakable. Even though he’d thought her a traitor and probably deserving of death like her husband.
And now … did he still think that of her? She thought he probably did. Yet the way he touched her was like he was touching a fragile rose whose petals were on the verge of falling.
“Yes,” she whispered. Because he would hurt her if she allowed him into her heart. She had always dreamed of love and never attained it. She was older now and wise enough to know that she could never expect to get it—especially not from a man who’d killed her husband.
She was insane to be as intrigued by him as she was. And yet … the way he looked at her, the way he was looking at her now, made her want to touch him. To crawl into the strong hold of his embrace.
He glanced away, a frown drawing his brows together. Her fingers itched to smooth that deep furrow above his nose with the pads of her thumbs. Touching him … it would feel so good. She felt so safe in his presence; she couldn’t imagine how safe she’d feel in his arms.
Still, a part of her was appalled by the thought of touching him.
She’d known men who’d killed before. Men who were in armies, French and British alike, who’d taken lives because they had to. Because that was war.
It struck her like a blow to the chest as she gazed at him and he stared down at the chessboard. This was why Hawk killed, too. Not because he was a murderer by nature, or because he derived joy from the act. But because this was war. Somehow, the British must have caught on to the fact that Dunthorpe had been betraying them. They’d done the only thing that could be done to traitors of his ilk. They’d had him killed.
And it was true—Dunthorpe was a traitor. He was a horrible, evil man. How could she blame the English—Hawk, specifically—for ending his life? Dunthorpe had needed to be stopped. He’d been the direct cause of hundreds, if not thousands, of his countrymen’s deaths. He’d done far more to deserve a death sentence than her parents and brother had—as far as she knew, they’d only been selfish and stupid in the flaunting of their wealth. They hadn’t been true enemies of France. But Dunthorpe was a true enemy of England. She knew this with as much certainty as she knew the sky was blue.
She had forgiven Hawk, she realized. On the fourth evening after her husband’s death, she forgave his killer.
It was freeing, that realization. So very freeing. An enormous weight lifted from her chest, and she felt light for the first time in days. Years, perhaps.
Still, she shouldn’t allow this odd, simmering attraction she felt for Hawk to continue. He was still a spy, she was still French, and he still believed she was a traitor.
The only sane course of action would be to leave this place. Leave Hawk and this confounding attraction, leave London, leave England. Start again somewhere else, where she had no reputation, where she could be free …
“Hawk,” she whispered.
The air between them seemed to crackle. He looked up, meeting her eyes, his expression dark, hard, inscrutable. He searched her face as if he could read all her secrets from her expression.
“Please …” she begged, “please let me leave this place.” It was her only hope. Her only way to stop this … whatever was happening between them.
He gave a slight shake of his head. “You know I cannot.”
“Why?” And out of sheer desperation, she blurted the truth. Most of it. “I was not involved in Dunthorpe’s activities. I only suspected. That was why I returned early from Brighton. I knew he was planning something terrible—something big and something that would be devastating to this country. I came to London secretly, and I hid under the drawing room table because I’d seen a note with the meeting time and location written upon it. I thought if I hid there and listened to what transpired, I’d learn what he was planning.”
Hawk’s brows rose, and something like respect shimmered in his dark gaze. “That’s a dangerous game.”
She swallowed hard, pushing down all the desperation and pain and fear she’d felt. How could she explain her recklessness to Hawk? “I had nothing to lose. Nothing.”
“Not your life?”
“I didn’t care. Not just then. My life … it seemed insignificant compared to what he might have done.”
He stared at her, then slowly shook his head. “And you think this is enough for me to simply set you free?”
She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “Yes.” She wished it were, though she knew it wouldn’t be.
“No. I need more.” He leaned forward. “Look at me, my lady.”
She dragged her eyes up to his, knowing fear—and probably something even worse—shone in them. He didn’t react to the look on her face; in fact, his expression held no emotion whatsoever.
“If what you say is true, then I am sorry.” His voice was gentle but firm. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Because of that, you may never again be free.”
Just as his words sank in, the world around them exploded.
Chapter Six
The loud crack of gunfire shattered the peace of the drawing room. The walls shook. Glass splintered all around her.
Someone rammed into her. The chair toppled, and she landed hard on her side on the floor, the carpeting doing little to break the fall, with a heavy weight atop her.
“Stay down.”
Through her closing throat, she vaguely registered that the growling voice was Hawk’s, that he was on top of her, that he’d pushed her down behind the table.
The shot had come through the drawing room window. That by tackling her to the floor, he�
�d taken her out of the line of fire.
“Who?” she cried out, her voice hoarse as she gulped in air. “What—”
“Hush,” he bit out.
Another shot was fired, its retort jolting through her body as it echoed in the small space. “Damn it,” Hawk said tensely. His lips brushed her ear. “They’re close.” He moved off her, and she saw the glint of metal in his hand as he inched around the base of the table and aimed a pistol toward the window. He fired the weapon with another resounding boom. The sound of the gunshot ripped through her, and just like that, she started to shake.
He glanced at her, and his eyes softened as he noticed her trembling. She couldn’t contain it. He wrapped his arm around her waist. They half sat, half reclined in an awkward position on the carpet.
“Shh,” he murmured, gentle now. His fingers rubbed soothing circles on her back. “Can you crawl to the door? We need to get out of this room.”
“Oui … y-y-yes.”
Busy reloading his weapon, he continued to speak to her in a low voice. “Good. Stay here for now. Keep the table between you and the window. I don’t want them to see you.”
Another gunshot. She yelped, and he moved his hand from his gun to slip it around her waist again. He leaned close, his lips nuzzling her hair as she burrowed into him. He felt so solid against her. So big. So safe.
“Shh.”
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her wild trembling. “Hush,” he soothed. “You’ll be all right. Just do as I say and try to keep calm.”
She attempted a nod, but it came out as a random, jerky movement instead.
“All right.” He continued to use that quiet, soothing voice. “Stay here. I need to go to the desk. There’s another gun in the drawer.”
Another gunshot cracked through the air. Glass shattered somewhere inside the room. He paused but then spoke calmly, as if the world wasn’t going mad. Yet his entire body, everywhere she touched him, was as tense as stone. “When I return, you’re going to crawl to the door while I cover you.”
“They’re going to come in,” she said in a rush, her voice reed thin. “And when they do, they’re going to. …”
Another gunshot, and she flinched against him.
“Don’t worry. Some of those shots are from Carter and Laurent. They’ll be out there holding them for us.”
Trying to swallow down the enormous lump in her throat, she nodded.
And then he was gone, his presence deserting her as he crawled in the direction of the desk.
More gunshots—three of them in quick succession. One of the bullets whizzed very close to the table, straight through the tablecloth, making it flutter. Thank God it was on the opposite side of the table from where Hawk was.
So many shots. It was a true battle. Fought over what? she wondered. Surely it had something to do with Dunthorpe’s death. Were those his men out there? Was Francis attempting to kill Hawk in retaliation?
She wrapped her arms around her knees and curled herself into a small ball. It seemed an eternity before Hawk returned to her. During that time, two more shots were fired.
And when he returned, she saw his coat was torn at the shoulder, and the remains of the tattered shirt were covered with blood.
He saw where her eyes had gone and gave a low grunt. “It’s nothing. A scratch. The man has no aim to speak of. I was in his direct line of fire. You ready?”
Another gunshot. She heard scrambling noises outside, grunts, then shouts.
“We’re running out of time,” Hawk said. “We need to go. Now. Stay low.”
He took her by the arm and pulled her toward the door in a low crawl, keeping his body between hers and the gaping skeleton of the bow window that opened out onto the street, its curtains fluttering in the breeze. Cool spring air washed over her body.
Shouts sounded from the street outside the window and then a boom and a bullet zipped in front of Élise, inches from her nose. The shouting grew in volume—cries of pain and English words and curses her panicked mind couldn’t decipher.
A little stuttering moan flew from her mouth before she could stop it, but Hawk ignored it. He yanked her forward. Reaching up, he grabbed the handle and threw the door open, thrusting her behind it just as another gunshot sent chess pieces scattering to the floor behind them.
He jumped up, pulling her to her feet at his side as he closed the door.
“Hurry,” he snapped in a harsh command. He pulled her down the corridor toward the back door at a dead run. She nearly tripped over her skirts attempting to keep his pace, but as she reeled forward, he gripped her waist and hauled her back so she didn’t fall.
Seconds later, they burst into the mews behind the town house. He took less than a second to scan the street up and down.
“This way.” He led her behind two stables with a narrow dirt path between them. They emerged onto a small street, running full out, nearly knocking down a couple who gasped and stared at them wide-eyed. Élise could feel their gazes burning into their backs the rest of the way down the street.
They crossed the street at the corner; then Hawk opened a wrought-iron gate and led her between two houses with more mews in the back. There, he threw open a door to reveal a pair of horses already hitched to a small, black-lacquered and unmarked carriage. The driver—a man she’d never seen before, tipped his hat to them but didn’t descend to let them in. Hawk opened the carriage door and ushered her inside. In the blink of an eye, he had settled next to her, closed the door, and rapped on the ceiling.
The carriage lurched into motion. She looked at Hawk. “Who is that man? The driver?”
“One of us,” he said tightly. He snapped the curtains shut on both sides of them.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“That is not an answer!” She was still trembling, and her breaths were coming out in sharp bursts. She knew panic was written all over her face.
He took her shoulders, one in each of his large hands, and turned her to face him. “Trust me, Lady Dunthorpe.”
“Please … Please do not call me that.”
He seemed shaken by that request. “Then what should I call you?”
“My name is Élisabeth, but call me Élise. Everyone”—everyone who mattered—“calls me Élise.”
His lips pressed tightly together, but not removing that implacable gaze from her face, he nodded.
“Is Hawk your real name? I do not think it is. No parent names his child ‘Hawk.’ At least not proper English parents, which is certainly what you have. Your accent gives you away.”
He snorted, then shook his head. “A proper English education, perhaps, but not proper English parents.”
“So is it or is it not your real name? Hawk, I mean?”
He gazed at her in silence for a moment; then his decision clicked into place. She could see it on his face. His thumb brushed over her jawbone; then he said softly, “My real name is Samson Hawkins. So, yes, Hawk is part of my real name. It is what my colleagues have always called me.”
“Samson Hawkins,” she repeated. Then, “Monsieur Hawkins.”
“Everyone calls me Sam. Everyone who doesn’t call me Hawk, that is.”
She nodded and tried it: “Sam.”
His eyes darkened. That rough finger stroked over her jawbone again. “The way you say it … with your accent. It’s …” He looked away with a little shake of his head. “Never mind.”
Something caught in her throat. He’d saved her life tonight. He was so handsome. His touch was so gentle, and when he turned away with that brief flash of emotion in his expression, she melted inside.
“Where are we going?” she asked again, but this time her voice was gruff. She was still scared, but the fear had lost its sharp edge and was now a muzzy feeling that had spread into her limbs. She felt alone, bereft, frightened, and shaken. She wanted him to touch her, hold her, and continue to keep her safe.
His hands dropped from her shoulders.
She gazed up at him; then she gave a resolute sigh. “I suppose I’ll find out where once we arrive.”
He nodded. When he began to turn away from her, she said, “But I fear you will bring me to your superiors. Where there are more of you … spy men. Who won’t be as kind to me as you and Carter and Laurent have been.”
“No,” he said flatly. “I’m not taking you to them.”
Where then? But she knew he wouldn’t answer.
“What did those men want?” she whispered.
“You don’t know?”
“Well … I …” She shook her head and then tried to think through the muddle in her head. “Dunthorpe’s men? But were they trying to kill me or you?”
He slanted a wry glance in her direction. “Both of us, I think.”
She sat back, stunned. Then she said dully, “Even Dunthorpe’s men believe I am in league with you.”
The thought of that—of all the powerful enemies she’d earned—caused panic to boil up within her all over again. Not only those who’d been in league with Dunthorpe would hate her, but the population in general, whose admiration for him was legendary … and she’d had nothing to do with any of it. As Hawk—Sam—had said, she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now his words about her never being free began to make more sense.
She drew in a long, shaky breath. “They’ll kill me,” she said hoarsely. “They will not stop until I am dead.”
“Who won’t stop?”
His face was impassive again. There he was again, that cold, calculating Hawk. The Hawk who wanted nothing from her but information.
“The English,” she said.
“Which English?”
“All of them.” Her breaths came in short bursts as panic threatened to overwhelm her once more. “They’ve never loved me, but now they must hate me. Hate me.”
She blinked hard to try to focus her blurring vision.