Read Online Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) by Alexandra Ivy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alexandra Ivy
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unshakable, she briskly tucked her handkerchief back into the sleeve of her gown.
“What are we to do now?” she demanded.
Hawksley carefully hid his smile. If nothing else, he had discovered her temper could be remarkably prickly when she felt she was being patronized.
“We are off to London.”
“Oh.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “We are not taking a carriage, are we?”
“Certainly not,” he assured her, not having forgotten her distaste for the sickening sway of a carriage.
Just for a moment she appeared relieved. Then, as she glanced over his shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps, her gaze widened.
“No. Absolutely not.”
Hawksley gave a low chuckle. Turning, he vaulted in the saddle of the waiting Brutus. With the same ease he urged the large stallion forward, reaching down to sweep the reluctant Miss Dawson off her feet and across his legs. “Do not be frightened, kitten. Nothing will happen to you while you are in my arms.”
His assurances were met with a glare, but thankfully Miss Dawson preferred to keep her sharp words to herself. At least for the moment, he acknowledged wryly. He was not foolish enough to hope he wouldn’t be due for a nice trimming as soon as they reached London. For now, however, she tightly wrapped her arms about his waist and clung to him for dear life.
With a surge of satisfaction Hawksley gave a shift of the reins and charged into the darkness.
Astonishingly having fallen asleep as they had galloped down the narrow lanes, Clara awoke to discover herself lying upon a strange bed in a strange bedchamber.
She should no doubt have been terrified, she ruefully acknowledged. Proper ladies did not find themselves awakening in strange bedchambers. Indeed, they did not awaken in any bedchamber but their own.
Not even if they had been kidnapped by a handsome ruffian.
As it was, however, it was rather a predictable end to the peculiar day.
Scooting to a sitting position, Clara ran a hand through her tumbled curls. A brief glance about the chamber revealed a stark simplicity to the narrow bed and square armoire in the corner. The washstand did possess a lovely pitcher and matching bowl, and the curtains were freshly laundered, but there was no mistaking the lack of feminine influence.
The chamber was functional, nothing more. But it was clean, thank the Lord, and not nearly as shabby as the previous cottage.
A suitable setting for her captor.
Her captor.
Clara leaned against the pillows with a faint sigh. She knew she should not be here. Despite her reputation of being an eccentric, she had always been careful to avoid the least hint of scandal. Indeed, anyone acquainted with her would be deeply shocked by the mere notion that she might do anything that was not rigidly proper.
How else could a young lady live on her own without causing social censure?
Unfortunately, at the moment she knew that she was not particularly interested in her reputation. Oh, she could perhaps convince herself that it was not as if she had much choice in the matter. Her captor had not politely consulted with her on his decision to halt her carriage, or carry her off to the cottage, or even to take her to his home in London.
She had been utterly at his mercy and in no way responsible for her current position.
Clara was too honest, however, to simply blame fate and a wicked pirate.
Throughout the ordeal she had made few genuine attempts to flee her captor. Or even to plead for her release.
And if she were to closely examine her heart, she would admit that when she had briefly assumed her kidnapper might put her in a carriage and send her on her way, she had not felt relief.
Instead she had been struck with the most amazing sense of regret.
Admit it, Clara Dawson, she chided herself. For years you have harbored a renegade dream of being shaken out of your dull existence. And now that you have, you are not at all eager to return to your cottage and the
“What are we to do now?” she demanded.
Hawksley carefully hid his smile. If nothing else, he had discovered her temper could be remarkably prickly when she felt she was being patronized.
“We are off to London.”
“Oh.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “We are not taking a carriage, are we?”
“Certainly not,” he assured her, not having forgotten her distaste for the sickening sway of a carriage.
Just for a moment she appeared relieved. Then, as she glanced over his shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps, her gaze widened.
“No. Absolutely not.”
Hawksley gave a low chuckle. Turning, he vaulted in the saddle of the waiting Brutus. With the same ease he urged the large stallion forward, reaching down to sweep the reluctant Miss Dawson off her feet and across his legs. “Do not be frightened, kitten. Nothing will happen to you while you are in my arms.”
His assurances were met with a glare, but thankfully Miss Dawson preferred to keep her sharp words to herself. At least for the moment, he acknowledged wryly. He was not foolish enough to hope he wouldn’t be due for a nice trimming as soon as they reached London. For now, however, she tightly wrapped her arms about his waist and clung to him for dear life.
With a surge of satisfaction Hawksley gave a shift of the reins and charged into the darkness.
Astonishingly having fallen asleep as they had galloped down the narrow lanes, Clara awoke to discover herself lying upon a strange bed in a strange bedchamber.
She should no doubt have been terrified, she ruefully acknowledged. Proper ladies did not find themselves awakening in strange bedchambers. Indeed, they did not awaken in any bedchamber but their own.
Not even if they had been kidnapped by a handsome ruffian.
As it was, however, it was rather a predictable end to the peculiar day.
Scooting to a sitting position, Clara ran a hand through her tumbled curls. A brief glance about the chamber revealed a stark simplicity to the narrow bed and square armoire in the corner. The washstand did possess a lovely pitcher and matching bowl, and the curtains were freshly laundered, but there was no mistaking the lack of feminine influence.
The chamber was functional, nothing more. But it was clean, thank the Lord, and not nearly as shabby as the previous cottage.
A suitable setting for her captor.
Her captor.
Clara leaned against the pillows with a faint sigh. She knew she should not be here. Despite her reputation of being an eccentric, she had always been careful to avoid the least hint of scandal. Indeed, anyone acquainted with her would be deeply shocked by the mere notion that she might do anything that was not rigidly proper.
How else could a young lady live on her own without causing social censure?
Unfortunately, at the moment she knew that she was not particularly interested in her reputation. Oh, she could perhaps convince herself that it was not as if she had much choice in the matter. Her captor had not politely consulted with her on his decision to halt her carriage, or carry her off to the cottage, or even to take her to his home in London.
She had been utterly at his mercy and in no way responsible for her current position.
Clara was too honest, however, to simply blame fate and a wicked pirate.
Throughout the ordeal she had made few genuine attempts to flee her captor. Or even to plead for her release.
And if she were to closely examine her heart, she would admit that when she had briefly assumed her kidnapper might put her in a carriage and send her on her way, she had not felt relief.
Instead she had been struck with the most amazing sense of regret.
Admit it, Clara Dawson, she chided herself. For years you have harbored a renegade dream of being shaken out of your dull existence. And now that you have, you are not at all eager to return to your cottage and the
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