The Falcon and the Sparrow (10 page)

“Are you ill, Miss Dawson?” The admiral frowned and motioned to the door.

Dominique squeezed by, trying to avoid brushing against him. “Nay, Admiral.”

“Because if you are sick, I do not want you around William.”

“I assure you I am well.”
So kind of you to be concerned.

The admiral breezed past her with a “Humph” and led her the short distance across the hall to his study. The oak door stood like a giant sentinel, staunchly guarding the grand treasure within. Dominique had come to loathe it, for every time she had tried to gain entrance, it seemed to be laughing at her, taunting her, as if it enjoyed keeping her from the one thing that could save her brother’s life.

Until now.

After retrieving a key chain from a pocket within his coat, the admiral opened the door with ease. And just like that, Dominique entered in after him, giving the barricade a smug look as she passed. He lit a lantern perched upon an oak tambour desk stationed against the far wall, and the room instantly became a trove of treasures. Rows of books lined the shelves that guarded the sides of the room. Atop them stood vases, odd statues, and bric-a-brac from distant lands—China, Egypt, and India, from the looks of them. A plush
Winston carpet did little to warm the wooden floor before a marble fireplace that sat frigid and empty. The room reflected every bit its master: dark, cold, and mysterious.

Tossing the key onto the desk, where it landed with a clank, the admiral began sifting through a pile of documents as if she were not there. Dominique’s eyes locked upon the iron key. It lay attached to a gold chain, on the other end of which was clasped a pocket watch. She took a step forward. Her fingers itched to grab it. She shifted her gaze between it and the papers on the admiral’s desk—papers stamped with the seal of the British Admiralty. She must get either those documents or that key, and this might be her only chance. If only she were two feet taller and one hundred pounds heavier. Then she could knock the admiral unconscious, grab what she needed, and flee this unnerving house.

And save her brother’s life.

She gazed across the room, searching for something with which to strike the admiral, wondering if she possessed the courage. A brass candlestick sat on a small table between two chairs in the center of the room. If she could reach it unnoticed, if she could knock him cold before he turned around…

She eyed his towering figure and broad shoulders, and her resolve weakened. Perhaps she should try another approach. If she could play the coquette, feign affection for him, perhaps get close enough to him to distract him so she could steal the key or shuffle the documents beneath her dress…

Sacre bleu
, was she daft? She had no idea how to flirt with a man, and the idea of doing so terrified her more than assaulting him did. Suddenly she felt his eyes upon her, and she froze as their gazes locked. Did he know what she’d been thinking?

He narrowed his eyes. “Quit dawdling, Miss Dawson, and come in. Have a seat.” He waved a hand toward the set of stuffed leather chairs flanking the small table—chairs of inquisition. She imagined chains popping out of nowhere to wrap around her hands and feet, and she hesitated, trying to quiet her fitful breathing before she slid into one of them.

Above his desk, a massive falcon sculpted from iron hung
on the wall. Its beady black eyes pierced her like arrows, as if the creature knew she was an enemy.

“Do you like my falcon, Miss Dawson?”

Dominique nearly jumped off the chair, unaware the admiral had turned and was staring at her again. “Oui. I mean yes. ’Tis most imposing.”

He glanced aloft, his chin upraised in pride. “A gift from the officers on the HMS
Rampage
when I was their captain.”

Dominique pressed her clammy hands together in her lap. “Why a falcon, may I ask?”

“A nickname they gave me. The iron Falcon. I suppose it has stuck with me through the years.” A shadow of a smile graced his lips.

“It suits you.”

The admiral chuckled. “I’ll warrant you did not mean that as a compliment, Miss Dawson.” she opened her mouth to respond, but he waved her silent. “But I shall accept it as one.”

Dominique supposed she meant it as neither a compliment nor an insult, but simply a statement of fact. As far as she knew, falcons were harsh, strong predators, and that certainly matched her impression of the admiral to this point.

Leaning back onto his desk, he crossed his arms over his blue coat and regarded her. A tiny purple scar etched the top of his right cheek. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? A sword wound, perhaps. He scowled, flattening the scar into a point that made him look all the angrier, and Dominique could see how his imperious gaze would surely make a person confess to anything—even things they had not done.

Yes, I’m a spy sent here by Napoleon to steal your precious naval secrets!
The words screamed within her head. She shifted in her chair, uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny, but finally determined to meet his gaze with her own. Unfortunately, her eyes landed on his chest instead, and memories of the night in his bedchamber filled her mind. Her breath caught in her throat.

Something flickered in his gaze. Concern? Desire? Did he know where her thoughts had taken her? Was she that obvious? Oh, the
shame. Heat rose up her face, but it was he who averted his eyes to the open door as if looking for an escape. He began fingering one of the gold buttons on his coat and then shifted his stance. Dominique wondered what had caused his sudden discomfiture. Surely it wasn’t her.

He swung around to face his desk and opened a drawer. “About your pay, Miss Dawson.”

With his back to her again, Dominique realized this might be her one and only chance.

Oh Lord, please give me strength and please forgive me for what I am about to do.

When she grabbed the candlestick, it slipped in her slick hand, and she clutched it tighter then rose and ever so slowly crept toward the admiral—silent as a mouse save for the thundering of her heart.

With his back still to her, he muttered something about the agreed fifteen pounds a year, but his words jumbled together in muted tones beneath the mad rush of blood roaring through her head.

She halted behind him, knees quaking. Her fingers gorged with blood. Gripping the candlestick with both hands, she hefted it as high as she could. Then, squeezing her eyes shut, she tensed her arms, readying herself to swing with all her might.

C
hase went through the motions of searching through his desk drawer for the coin purse he’d set aside for Miss Dawson, all the while wondering why he suddenly felt like a schoolboy with his first crush. Preposterous. Why, he was grown man—a once-married man. An admiral, for the love of nelson. And she was naught but a feeble girl who refused to stand up for herself. All he wanted to do was ask her if he could escort her to the ball tomorrow night. It was a simple question, but every time he gazed at her creamy skin and full pink lips and allowed his eyes to rove over the curves of her delicate frame, the words refused to form on his lips. Why? ’Twas a brilliant plan, really. He could temporarily appease his sister, divert any schemes she had at matchmaking, and leave the party early with Miss Dawson—who no doubt would not protest separating from his company.

He heard her moving behind him, soft steps matching the rhythm of her deep breathing, but he didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want her to see the effect she had on him, not until he could clear his mind and his vision of the sweet innocence sparkling in those amber eyes.

Well, was he a cowering pup or a man? He steeled himself to face her.

“Ah, here it is.” He grabbed the purse and swung around, instantly barreling into a warm, soft body. The satchel plunged to the floor in a violent jangle of coins.

A woman screamed. Something heavy crashed to his desk then clanked to the floor. Chase stumbled backward. Streaks of blue and white flashed across his vision. He reached out and grabbed Miss Dawson before she could tumble to the floor.

He held her trembling body close to his, uninterested in what had caused the clumsy collision. The aroma of sweet lilacs teased his nose. She moaned. Chase enfolded her in a strong embrace, pressing her soft curves against him and relishing the feel of a woman in his arms again. She was so small, so slight, and a longing to protect her welled up within him, a feeling so intense it frightened him.

A fist struck his chest, jerking him back to his senses.

“Let me go!” she writhed in his grasp.

He held her tighter. “Be still, Miss Dawson; you nearly fainted. I do not wish you to fall.” But truth be told, as she continued to struggle, he was enjoying her lithe movements against him.

“I will not fall,
tu imbécile
!” small palms pushed against his chest with more force than he thought possible. She kneed his right thigh, sending a dull ache through his leg.

“As you wish.” Chase released her.

She took a bumbling step backward, swayed, and held a hand to her forehead. Tiny ringlets of chestnut hair dangled to her shoulders, and her face, drained of color, appeared ghostly. He grasped her elbow to steady her and led her to the chair. She slid into it, avoiding his gaze.

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Did you call me a fool, Miss Dawson?”

She cast him a smoldering glance, which caught him off guard and pleased him at the same time. So she did have some fire within her, after all.

“My apologies, Admiral,” she said, her voice quavering.

Chase’s heart dropped in a sudden aversion to her quick redress.

“But you
were
behaving a fool.” she lifted her chin.

“Indeed?” He smiled. “Well, this fool was merely trying to save you from falling and breaking a bone in my house.” He cocked his head. “What use would a bedridden governess be to me?”

The word
bedridden
slipped off his tongue before he realized the unintended implication, especially in light of her recent visit to his bedchamber. He cleared his throat, hoping she hadn’t picked up on the innuendo, but the shudder that ran across her shoulders proved otherwise. Yet strangely, her reaction of innocence delighted him. He could not begin to count the women who had shamelessly thrown themselves at him since his wife had died, Lady Irene among the worst of them. How refreshing to find a woman untainted by the licentiousness that ran rampant in society.

The memory of her curves folding against him sent a sudden rush of heat through him. “Nevertheless,” Chase began, unbuttoning his coat, “I must admit I enjoyed our dance, Miss Dawson.”

Her face blossomed into a deep maroon that matched the rug beneath her feet, and Chase enjoyed watching the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

“It was not my desire to fall into your arms, Admiral. I pray you do not read any more into it than was intended.”

“Then pray tell, what
was
intended?” Chase shrugged off his coat and tossed it onto a chair. “You place yourself quite often in the most unintentional and inappropriate situations, Miss Dawson.” He gave her a sideways glance. “A lesser gentlemen would get the wrong impression.”

“I did not need your help.” she sniffed and pressed a hand over her stomach. “I did not ask you to hold on to me.”

Chase flattened his lips against a wave of guilt at where his thoughts were taking him and felt a bit like a giant ogre.

Turning toward the desk, he picked up a candlestick from the wooden floorboards and held it toward Miss Dawson. “Yours?” A million thoughts scuttled through his mind. How did it get on the floor? They had not been close enough to the table to knock it from its perch. Miss Dawson must have been carrying it. But why? Out of all the reasons barking for attention in his mind, the only reason that made sense was that she intended to strike him with it.

Impossible.

“It is…I was…bringing it to you”—she pressed the backs of her fingers to her nose—“to show you…to tell you—” Her eyes
shifted over the room, scanning his desk intently but never landing on him.

“To tell me what?” Chase flexed his jaw in irritation.

“It is similar to one my mother used to own.” she blinked furiously and looked down.

“Hmm.” Her unwillingness to look at him during this painfully concocted tale made the hairs on the back of Chase’s neck stir. “So you felt the need to sneak up behind me with it?”

Her sharp gaze finally found his. “How was I to know you were going to swing about so violently?”

“I always swing violently, Miss Dawson.” He offered her a playful grin. “ ’Tis what admirals do, you know.” He set the candlestick down and leaned back on his desk. “Do you expect me to believe that you were so desperate to show me my own candlestick that you rushed up within inches behind me?”

Sebastian appeared in the doorway and straightened his pristine black waistcoat. His gaze drifted from Chase over to Miss Dawson. “I thought I heard a scream.”

“Nothing to concern you, sebastian. Miss Dawson and I were discussing candlesticks and improper intentions.”

The butler raised one incurious brow, bowed, and marched back into the dark hall.