Realizing that signaled the end of their conversation, she pushed out a frustrated sigh and removed herself carefully from his supine form. Without his heat, without his caress, she felt lost, like a candle smoking forlornly after its brilliance has been snuffed out.
She pushed her feet into her slippers and pulled her woolen shawl closely about her shoulders. “As you wish, my lord. I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, and left the room.
After closing the door behind her, she leaned back against it, seeking comfort from its sturdiness. Her heart was hammering fit to burst.
She’d been just a whisper away from giving herself to him entirely. Thank heaven Rafe had more self-control than she did.
Admittedly, he’d said he would marry her. But how could she possibly ensure he honored that promise?
Especially given her checkered background…
If the Earl of Beckport married her without knowing her darkest secret, their marriage would be built on a lie. And when the story came out—as it surely would—she’d be damned by him, and they’d both be cast from Society by the ton.
It might not matter to her because she was nobody. But how could she wish such a fate on Rafe, a man who was risking his very life to redeem his good name and resurrect his tarnished reputation?
No, she couldn’t possibly put him through that kind of ignominy.
She had truly grown to love Rafe. Marrying him was her heart’s greatest desire. But she knew it could never happen.
Not in this lifetime.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Reaching for his walking stick, Rafe eased himself out of the chair in which he’d spent most of his waking hours for the past three days. His wound was healing cleanly, but the muscle around it was badly bruised by the impact of the ball, making it a struggle to stand.
Yet stand he did, and walk, as well. Every moment he remained in the Allston house brought the family closer to danger, and himself further away from catching his quarry.
Pain lanced through his thigh as he put his foot to the floor, but he gritted his teeth and started toward the door, determined to exercise the muscles.
Stiffly, he made his way to the window at the top of the stairs, which offered a view of the path and the world beyond the crumbling brick walls of the Allston’s cottage garden. Each step felt like a white-hot poker being driven into his thigh. But the pain would ease in time. It had to.
He approached the window, as he always did, on the shaded side, and peered out from behind the drape. It was many months since he’d dared reveal himself fully in a window, lest someone take a pot shot at him. If only he knew for sure that the traitors weren’t on to him, and that Culverdale had no idea he was being sought by someone other than the bumbling local militia.
Charlotte appeared below, looking divinely lovely, her unbound tresses catching the light like spun gold.
He sucked in a breath and his gut clenched. His fingers tightened on the drape as he watched her pace up and down in front of the house, engrossed in reading a letter.
It was unfair of him to blame her for what had happened the other night. She was innocent and untried. She genuinely didn’t understand what it meant to tempt a man beyond endurance.
The really difficult thing was, his interest in her now went way beyond simple flirtation. But to pursue her any further was to make a rod for his own back.
Yet, still he gazed at her, drinking in the sublime vision, barely remembering to breathe.
But as he watched her, he realized something was wrong. He’d learned to read people well—an essential skill for a spy. Charlotte was in distress; her shoulders were tight, her steps short and abrupt, and she gnawed at her lower lip.
She quickly folded up the letter she was reading, looked about her, and tucked it surreptitiously into her apron pocket. Fisting her hands, she marched back into the house, her face set.
He drew back. What was in that letter that had so disturbed her? And how had she come by it? There’d been no post today—he’d have heard it arrive. Having made the business of the household his own, he knew Charlotte had been to the village briefly this morning to visit a distressed widow by the name of Mrs. Scadden. Had she picked up the letter then?
Anything untoward that concerned her concerned him, too. He needed to know what was in that letter.
But how to find out without Charlotte’s knowledge? She certainly wouldn’t willingly divulge the contents of her private correspondence. Something to ponder…
By the afternoon, his leg felt strong enough for a careful descent of the stairs to join the family for luncheon. There, he declared himself fit enough to be hoisted onto a cart to travel, so Adam was dispatched to ask Thomas the Carrier to help get him home to Dovehouse Farm.
He used the meal as an opportunity to explain to Mrs. Allston and Flora as much as he dared about his mission. The less they knew, the less danger he was putting them in, but they deserved to be informed they should be on the lookout for trouble. The idea of the free traders putting this surprisingly resourceful family to the torture was untenable.
Flora had proved to be particularly helpful, with her medical knowledge. She’d even brought the potion-making doctor up to see him the morning after he was shot. The man had tidied and bandaged the wound very satisfactorily, giving Rafe a deeper respect for that occupation than he’d had hitherto.
Both of the older women were impressed when Rafe outlined his assignment, and they professed their gratitude that such a distinguished gentleman was risking his life in the service of national security. Therefore, they seemed to look more kindly on his association with Charlotte, especially when he sang her praises for being both level-headed and discreet when faced with a crisis. Though, he didn’t correct their belief that he’d been wounded in a duel.
During the conversation, his gaze kept straying to the hook on which she’d hung her apron. Was her letter still in the pocket?
No, she wouldn’t have left it in such an obvious place. She’d have hidden it somewhere in her room, if it was meant to be a secret. He decided to search her chamber for it when she was out. But this wouldn’t be an easy task with so many people dancing attendance on him, wanting to help him every time he took a step in any direction.
His moment finally came when she was sent into the garden to cut some wallflowers for an arrangement. He hobbled quickly upstairs and into her chamber, heart racing.
Making straight for the bed, he felt beneath the pillow, then tipped up the thick horsehair mattress—holding his breath—and prodded about beneath.
He found nothing.
He stamped softly on the floor in search of loose boards.
There were none.
Damn it! He was going to have to search the drawers. It felt wrong to be rooting through a lady’s small clothes, no matter how laudable the motive.
He approached the tallboy and had just pulled open the top drawer when he heard a sound in the hallway that sent his heart into his boots.
The chamber door opened.
Charlotte stood frozen with a hand on the door knob, her face a picture of astonishment.
Feeling like a schoolboy caught stealing cakes, he swung round and faced her in an agony of guilt, not knowing what to do or say.
“Are you looking for something?” she asked, and the ice in her voice made him feel even more wretched.
What could he possibly say to excuse the inexcusable?
All he managed was, “I didn’t expect you to come up so soon.”
Her glare was glacial. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you. I came to fetch some scissors—the stems of the wallflowers are rather tough. Perhaps you would favor me with an explanation of why you are here.”
“Forgive me, Charlotte. I was just…” He thought frantically. “I was just looking for a token to remember you by, as our paths may not cross again for a long time.”
She actually snorted. “Flim flam! You’re too unromantic for keepsakes—a pragmatic man who does not
hing without practical motive. Besides, if you really wanted a keepsake, you’re more than capable of asking for one.” She shook her head. “No. You were after something else. Please don’t insult my intelligence any further, Rafe. Tell me what it is.”
She was right, of course.
He’d been in the spy business too long, and clearly had forgotten how to have faith in people. If he asked her outright about the letter, he’d just have to trust the veracity of her answer. She had not, in any of their dealings to date, given him reason to doubt her. Well, other than concealing the truth of her parentage, which he’d yet to find hard evidence for.
“I was looking for the letter,” he confessed. “The one you received yesterday that so overset you.”
She blinked rapidly, then drew herself up. “Because you’re concerned for my welfare? Or because you think it’s some secret correspondence that proves me a traitor to my country?”
He held out his hands in supplication. “God, no. Please, it was foolish of me. I should have just asked you what it was about.”
He’d rather face a line of French riflemen than Charlotte’s accusing glare.
“I don’t see that my private letters are any of your business. Nor are they the business of the kingdom, the army, the navy, the militia, or anybody else. You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself, Lord Beckport.”
Ashamed barely covered it. If the floorboards could have given way beneath him, he’d gladly have fallen through the hole.
But a small part of his mind still nagged at him…
She still hadn’t told him what the letter contained. What was she hiding?
“I’m sorry. My mission is foremost in my mind and I feel I’ve lost valuable time. If you would only tell me what the letter is about, I can be easy.”
Her glare grew even more Arctic. “By what authority do you ask for the contents of my letters? Seriously, Rafe, we’ve taken you in, patched you up, and risked our own safety for you. I’ve even lied to my family to cover for you. And you repay me with suspicion? I’m not impressed, not impressed, at all. I thought we were friends, but I see that’s impossible, for how can there be friendship where there’s no trust?”
Agony sliced through his heart at her frosty condemnation. “Charlotte, please believe me, I am your friend. I do care for your welfare, and I hate to see you upset. If there’s anything I can do to alleviate the problem that letter has presented you with, you have only to ask.”
“Pray don’t trouble yourself on my account,” was the harsh response. “I think it best you leave my room before Mama discovers you here. She’s torn a strip off you once and won’t fail to do so again, no matter how important you are, or how heroic you’ve been. And this time, she’ll be more than justified.”
She swept past him to the tallboy and slammed the drawer shut, then angrily rattled things around on the dressing table before swiping up a pair of scissors, which she waved menacingly in the air.
As she was now firmly stationed between him and the tallboy, he had no alternative but to retreat. Her disapproval felt like a knife between the shoulder blades as he approached the door.
He hated that he’d upset her. It felt as if he’d just kicked a loyal puppy.
As he let himself out onto the landing, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. So much for that relationship.
Perhaps it was just as well they should part enemies rather than friends. He was grateful for all she’d done, but the delicious Miss Charlotte Allston had proved too a great distraction to him. He was making mistakes.
And mistakes cost lives.
But his heart couldn’t let her go like this. The enmity that had sprung up between them felt like a sword through his insides. The pain, coupled with his guilt, made him feel more wretched than he’d ever felt before in his life.
Was there anything he could do to make it up to her? To assuage the guilt?
Or to make him feel less miserable about letting her go?
Suddenly, it came to him. He could investigate Corporal Triggs’s allegation against her family. If he proved her innocent of wrongdoing, he could quell the rumors being whispered about her. But if he proved beyond doubt she was Abraham Cutler’s daughter, and involved in his criminal activities, Rafe would be absolved. He’d know he was right not to trust her.
Either way, his heart, given time, would surely mend.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Charlotte had absolutely no intention of missing Rafe. He deserved neither her care nor her concern. He’d been poking about in her personal things, for heaven’s sake! How could she possibly forgive such a trespass?
She called herself every name under the sun for having been foolish enough ever to like him, for being so blind to the flaws in his character. He’d thoroughly disappointed her. The feelings she’d developed for him must be delusions arising from loneliness and her vulnerability since Justin’s exile.
Justin.
It was thanks to him she had discovered Rafe’s duplicitous nature. For, it was a second letter from Justin that Rafe had seen her reading.
And yes, the letter had entirely overset her. In it, Justin had informed her he’d decided to desert from his regiment in Scotland. She was terribly afraid for him. Desertion was punishable by death.
It wasn’t the hardships that had spurred him to this desperate act—indeed, he proclaimed himself so strong now, she’d think him a bare-knuckle boxer when she saw him again. What had tipped the balance was the fact he was forced to take orders from fellows far stupider than himself.
To a clever man like Justin, that must have been infuriating. But surely not serious enough to risk deserting over? He should swallow his pride and, instead, strive to become an officer himself. An intelligent man could rise up the ranks, could he not, and one day be as successful as Wellesley or Moore? But if Justin deserted, he’d ruin his chances for any kind of normal life, and bring shame on his family. And if the army ever caught him, he’d be shot.
She was terribly worried he’d try to go home or attempt to visit her in Fortuneswell. He couldn’t know the place was crawling with militia and spies like Rafe and his men. But there was no return address on the letter, no way of writing him back to warn him.
For all she knew, he might already be dead. It was a very long way from Scotland to Dorset.
And then there was the matter of Rafe’s betrayal. Their mutual physical desire was undeniable. But he didn’t trust her. And that was insupportable in either friend or lover.
Thank God the letter was tucked into her bosom, safe from his prying eyes. He was the king’s man, duty bound to pass information of a deserter on to the authorities. She might be incriminated, as well, for keeping the letter a secret.
All these imponderables drove her outdoors, desperate for a breath of sea air. It was late morning, and although it was the first of October, it was warm for the time of year. Mama gave strict orders she should take Aunt Flora with her, and a basket so they could harvest some marram grass for flower arrangements. However, on arriving at the lane, which led to the coast, Flora opted to visit Mrs. Carboys instead. Charlotte was permitted to continue alone, so long as she didn’t wander out of sight, which meant no further than the derelict Oldfield Farm on top of the ridge.
All was quiet as she ascended the steeply sloping path, and soon she was at the top. A stiff breeze flapped her skirts about her legs, bringing a cooling calm to her fevered mind. In the distance, the enticing waves flickered silver and white, making her long to be on the strand picking up seashells, feeling the wet sand push up between her toes, and making sand fortresses like the children did.
The poor children of Fortuneswell! Rafe had told her about the traitor paying youngsters to light their illicit beacons, despite knowing the pyres would explode and kill them. Only a cruel and merciless enemy could hold the lives of innocents so cheap. How awful it would be if little Jesse Scadden or Annabel Embury were blown to smithereens!
Charlotte resolved to question al
l the children she came across to make sure they weren’t involved.
Her worries about Justin were pushed to the back of her mind as she pondered the issue of the children, the beacons, and the free traders who were helping the French, especially their leader, Lord Culverdale. She just couldn’t fathom such a vicious traitor. She tried not to think about what he might do to her if he discovered her identity. She almost wished Jenny had hit him a lot harder.
How did one stop such a man? How could he be caught and compelled to reveal his accomplices and the locations of the beacons? He might refuse to talk, at all, but go to the gallows laughing while some other vile creature stepped into his shoes and continued with the plot.
If only there were some way she could shed light on the man’s secrets. But she didn’t move in the lofty social circles to which he belonged, so there was no way to get close enough to do anything.
Unless…
What if she somehow let him know she was Abraham Cutler’s daughter, and pretended to want to help him?
The idea so distracted her, she wandered off the path unthinking and found herself in front of a dilapidated barn, overgrown with elder and hawthorn bushes.
She stopped and stared at it. What a superb place this would be to keep a secret lookout over the bay. One could see everything from this vantage point—from a fleet on the horizon to a small skiff nipping into shore ready to unload its cargo close to the cave she and Rafe had found.
At the memory of their shared moment in the cave—she with her skirts up around her waist and Rafe rocking back and forth between her thighs—a wave of heat swept over her so powerful it made her dizzy. She clutched for the wooden doorpost of the barn’s midstrey for support.
Good heavens. What was happening to her? How could the mere thought of being in that undignified position arouse such a blaze of excitement deep inside?
It was tragic that the one man who’d let her down so badly was the only man ever to inspire such elemental desire within her. The feeling of frustrated need threatened to break her apart.
A Perilous Passion Page 15