“Perfectly.” And Althea winked.

Clarissa had to fight not to laugh as she turned again, alone with Hawk at last.

Instinct told her that this could be the most important half hour of her life.

Chapter Sixteen

Hawk linked arms with Clarissa and led her toward the woods and wilderness. He looked down at her, but her golden straw hat shielded her face and made her a woman of mystery—as if she wasn’t enough of a mystery already.

He’d not planned this unchaperoned walk, but now that it sat in his hands he could not reject the gift. He could use it to seek details about Deveril’s death, but he knew he simply wanted to enjoy this time with the woman he could not have.

It was perilous. He recognized that. Strange magic was weaving through this day, and he felt as if he were walking into a fairy circle, being slowly deprived of logic and purpose.

He would do no wrong, however. He had promised Van, and a promise like that was sacred. All the same, a stern chaperone would have been safer.

A yowl made him look back to see Jetta running after them like a thoroughbred. “Ah. A chaperone after all.”

“Do we need one?”

He glanced at Clarissa, catching a wickedly demure look that made him want to groan. What was he going to do if she had wicked designs upon him?

The cat arrived with a final yowl of protest. He picked it up, saying to Clarissa, “If you don’t think we do, Falcon, you are being naive.”

She blushed, but it only created a more devastating glow. “I am capable of saying no to anything I do not want, Hawk. Are you saying you would force me?”

“You have a mistaken idea of the role of the chaperone, my girl.” They strolled on, the cat now limply content. “Her role is not to prevent wolves from attacking, but to prevent maidens from throwing themselves into the jaws of the wolves.”

She turned her head so he could see her whole face, and her expression was decidedly wicked. “I have always disliked having a chaperone.”

He stroked the cat. “Jetta, I think you are truly needed here.”

Clarissa laughed, a charming gurgle of laughter that was new. A few weeks ago in Cheltenham she hadn’t laughed like that—relaxed and happy. Seductive.

He could vividly imagine her laughing like that in bed. Naked in a well-used bed…

He’d seen men bewitched by wicked women, often to the extent of besmirching their honor, once or twice to their complete destruction. Had they, too, felt careless as they fell, as if a few magical moments were worth any fate?

If he had any sense, he would return to the house now.

Instead, he went on with her, out of the sunshine and into the cool mystery of the woodland. Jetta leaped down to explore, and Hawk searched for something innocuous to say. “We played here a great deal as boys.”

“Knights and dragons?” she asked.

“And crusaders and infidels. Pirates and the navy— but we were always the pirates.”

The hat tilted, showing a glimpse of nose. “A criminal inclination, I see.”

An opening. He could not fail to take it. “Of course. Have you never played the criminal?”

He watched carefully, but since he could still see only her nose, it was hard to judge her reaction.

“Have you?” she said.

Yes, now.

How peaceful it seemed in this other world under the green shade, busy birdsong all around them. Jetta pounced into some ferns, then out again, thankfully without a trophy.

Hawk looked at the siren walking so demurely by his side and wished this was the innocent, unshadowed stroll it seemed.

“Not here. None of us wanted to play the true villains. We didn’t consider pirates villains, of course. The dragons, infidels, and navy had to be imaginary.”

She turned so he could see her complete smile. “But villains often have the best lines. I always asked to play the villain in school plays.”

“A villainous inclination, I see.”

“Perhaps.” There was laughter in it, however, not dark meaning. “I certainly preferred it to being the heroine. There are so few good roles for a heroine.”

“Shakespeare has some.”

“True. Portia. Beatrice. I played Lady Macbeth once—”

He could imagine that a hand tightened on her throat, sealing off any more words. Why? What was it about Lady Macbeth that could not be spoken? Like the distant rumble of cannons, speaking of death, he remembered the bloody dagger in the play.

“But is she a heroine?” he asked, watching. “She incites a murder…”

He was almost certain that Lord Arden had killed Deveril, but had Clarissa incited him to it? Pressed the dagger into his hands? It was not a picture he wanted to envision.

“She suffers for it,” Clarissa said.

“But some murderers benefit from their crimes.”

“Only if they’re not caught.”

She was getting better and better at tossing words around without showing her feeling. He admired it, but he wished for a little more transparency.

Exactly how had it gone? Planned assassination, or crime of the moment? It mattered. It mattered to him because he did not want her to be guilty in the tiniest degree, and it would matter if it ever, God forbid, came to the courts.

He knew he was dicing with that. By stirring this pot, he risked everything pouring out to destroy.

“It’s a difficult role for a schoolgirl,” he remarked, “but playing Macbeth would be harder still.”

“Oh, not really.” Her voice seemed normal again. “He’s caught up in circumstances, isn’t he? And anyway, schoolgirls love dark drama and tragedy. Every fifteen-year-old girl longs to die a martyr. We used to enact the story of Joan of Arc for amusement.”

She’d slid deftly away from the edge.

“You played Joan of Arc, while we played Robin Hood. Saint and thief. That probably reflects the difference between girls and boys.”

“Militant saint and honorable thief. We girls weren’t attracted to the kind of saint who spent her life in prayer and peace, just as none of you wanted to play the true villains.”

“We conscripted some.” He lifted a trailing branch out of her way. “The head groundsman here was unknowingly our sheriff of Nottingham. Avoiding him was a challenge, especially as he didn’t always approve of what we were doing and carried a sturdy stick.”

“And what about Maid Marian?” she asked with a look.

“Not until we were much older.”

She laughed again, that charming chuckle.

He suddenly stopped, and without question or apology loosened her bonnet ribbons so the hat flattened and hung down her back.

She looked up at him, unresisting.

Tempting. Demanding, even.

With difficulty he remembered his promise to Van. A kiss, perhaps?

No, even a kiss was too dangerous now.

“We did a play about Robin Hood once,” she said.

“Who were you? Robin? Maid Marian? The wicked sheriff?”

“Alan-a-dale.”

“The minstrel? Do you sing, then?”

It shocked him that there might be something significant about her that he didn’t know.

She smiled, a lovely picture of freckled innocence under the green-and-gold filtered light of the summer woods. Then she began to sing.

Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn a merry note Unto the sweet bird’s throat.

She began to back away, still singing:

Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall you see

No enemy but winter and rough weather. Come hither, come hither, come hither.

Hawk stood, almost breathless, caught by her sweet, strong voice and the invitation in her eyes.

No enemy but winter and rough weather…

If only that were true.

He walked slowly forward. “Shakespeare? I didn’t know he wrote about Robin Hood.”

“As You Like It. It’s mostly set in the forest, so we stole bits.”

“You have a lovely voice. And,” he added, “you issue a lovely invitation.”

“ ‘All the world’s a stage,’ ” she quoted lightly, “ ‘and all the men and women merely players…’ ”

He wanted to shoo her away, as she’d shooed away the duckling. You are in the company of predators. Flee, flee back to safety. Instead, his will crushed, he held out a hand.

A kiss. Just a kiss.

Her eyes still and thoughtful, she loosened the fingers of one lacy white glove and slowly pulled it off. Then she began on the other. He watched her unveil creamy, silken skin, a shiver passing through him.

Hands touched, hers cool and soft, and he drew her close, drew her hands to curl behind him. Dappled light turned her hair to a deep, burnished gold, and he loved the rioting wildfire of it. In every way, it suited her. The curve of her full lips and the look in her steady eyes were pure perfection.

She moved a little closer and raised her face expectantly for the kiss. The very boldness was a warning, but he couldn’t heed it now. He took the offered kiss that he needed.

Clarissa took the kiss that she needed.

As their lips blended and sweet satisfaction rippled through her, she didn’t regret anything, past or future. She sank into the spicy pleasure of his mouth and gladly drowned. She held back nothing, holding him tight to her so every possible inch joined with him, absorbed him.

When the kiss ended, she shivered. It was partly pleasure, but more the ache of drawing apart and the hunger for more. For eternity.

She waited for the words that would speak the message in his darkened eyes, in his hands that played gently against her cheeks, but then he stepped carefully away. “I wonder where Jetta is.”

She caught his hand. “Do we care?”

His fingers tightened on hers, but he said, “Yes, I think we must.”

He was right. If they wanted to be honorable, they could not keep kissing like that. But why would he not speak? She felt she might die of this restraint, but she would give him till they were almost back in the village. She would give him that much.