At her pleading tone, Hawk stifled an exasperated laugh. She was drawing a sensual pattern on his chest with a forefinger, gazing up at him with her wide, imploring blue eyes. Her persistence was unbelievable. And once again she had surprised him with her boldness, practically ravishing him and then asking him to teach her about lovemaking.
He shook his head mentally. No one had ever given him so much aggravation or put him on the defensive so easily as Skye Wilde. No one had ever tempted him as fiercely, either. It was all he could do to hold his own with her.
In fact, he had to admit his miscalculation just now. He’d had some thought of scaring her off with his aggressive embrace, but he should have known she wouldn’t scare easily. Nor would she back down once she’d set her sights on something.
At the moment she had her sights on overwhelming his good sense, not only with rational arguments but with the lure of her delectable body. And as usual with Skye, his feelings were a complex mix of amusement, exasperation, vexation, and desire.
Desire was strongest just now. She’d set him alight with her innocent eroticism—and that was after giving him the most peaceful night he could remember in years. And then the pleasure of waking up beside her this morning …
He’d awakened to find her close enough to kiss. He’d spent several quiet moments watching her, taking in her bright, sleep-tumbled hair, her lush lips that were slightly parted as she breathed in slumber. She’d looked tousled and drowsy, and soft—and beautiful enough to make him ache.
He was still aching now, even after she’d temporarily relieved his painful, carnal hunger. He wanted to be inside her again in the most desperate way.
A bloody dangerous sentiment.
Yet another part of him was urging him to ignore the danger. Skye was offering herself to him fully. What red-blooded male could refuse?
Hawk shut his eyes, trying to bolster his fading willpower. He couldn’t give in, of course. Complying with her request to tutor her would only compound his problem—what to do with an enchanting siren who didn’t understand the word “no.”
He had to exert better control over his lust, Hawk reminded himself. He was determined to focus solely on finding her uncle’s lover and nothing more.
Repeating that silent declaration, Hawk eased away from her embrace, then rose and went to the washbasin to clean his seed off his hand.
He could feel her gaze on his body, studying his backside, though. For all her curiosity, Skye was inexperienced with nudity, and her examination made his loins hard all over again.
“Do you mean to dally in bed the rest of the morning?” he asked curtly over his shoulder. “I thought you didn’t wish to be late in meeting Macky.”
When Skye made a soft exclamation of agreement and climbed out of bed with alacrity, Hawk hid a smile.
His only chance in dealing with her was keeping their relationship all business, but it would be damned hard.
Maybe impossible.
Particularly when she had the tactical skills of a Napoléon Bonaparte and the allure of a ravishing seductress all rolled into one.
Hawkhurst’s carriage made good time driving to Castlecomer and by late morning reached the town square, which was surrounded by lime trees and elegant Georgian houses.
The Fox and Hound, where they were scheduled to meet with Macky at noon, was a quaint inn with mullioned windows. Hawk hired a private parlor, where they dined on a tasty shepherd’s pie for lunch. As Skye kept one eager eye out the window, their loquacious host treated them to a display of charming Irish wit as he related that the town had been partially burned some two decades ago but rebuilt by a wealthy, noble benefactress.
Hawk dismissed the innkeeper when Macky arrived a half hour later. After quaffing half a tankard of ale to quench his thirst, Macky reported on what he had learned to date.
“Your hunch about quizzing local proprietors paid off, m’lord. As you instructed, I fabricated a claim that my wife’s friend was coming to Ireland soon and was eager for news of her long-lost relative, a genteel Englishwoman who settled somewhere in County Kilkenny some twenty-five years ago. I first made the rounds in Kilkenny and showed the miniature to every dressmaker and milliner I could find, with no results. But in Castlecomer, three different shop owners recognized the Widow Donnelly, who goes by the given name of Meg. I have little doubt it is the fugitive Lady Farnwell.”
“She is posing as a widow?”
“Yes. She has been living these many years past with a cousin, Bridget O’Brien, and her husband Shamus on a farm near the village of Clogh.”
“How far is Clogh from here?” Hawk asked.
“Not more than five miles. I scouted the O’Brien farm a short while ago but never approached, since I gathered you wished to make the first contact.”
“You did well, Macky.”
Skye felt her spirits soar at the welcome news. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Macky.”
According to Macky, Clogh was a thriving coalmining village but too small to boast an inn of its own, so Hawkhurst bespoke separate rooms at the Fox and Hound in Castlecomer before he and Skye set out north in his carriage once again, following Macky’s detailed directions.
Shortly after their departure, a drizzling rain began and slowed their progress over roads that were little more than rutted lanes. Although it was autumn, however, the countryside glowed a verdant green, and the farms they passed looked prosperous and well kept.