Page 102 of A Perilous Passion

She read the words again, and yet again, daring them to take on any other meaning. No, it was quite clear. Her father had received a posthumous Royal Pardon.

“Oh my heavens, Rafe!” She threw herself into his lap and twined her arms around his neck. “Thank you! Thank you so very much!”

“I had to pull a few strings to arrange for it,” he said, nuzzling her hair. “But he was quite entitled to a pardon for the information he gave the crown, even if it wasn’t as much as planned, due to his untimely death. If anyone ever dares question us about your father, we have proof positive that he made amends before the end of his life. Enough to satisfy even the king.”

She sniffed back the tears that threatened and laid her head on Rafe’s chest. “Thank God. We can be married, after all,” she said with a sigh of joy and deep contentment.

“Yes. We can be married, after all,” he echoed. He raised her face to his and said, “Now kiss me, my love, and seal my complete happiness.”

“My pleasure, sir,” she said, and obliged.

He drank greedily from her lips, with a bruising pressure that required her immediate surrender. But that had happened long ago. She was his, utterly and completely. She opened to him and lost herself in the heat of his passion.

Long before she wanted him to, he broke the kiss and eased away from her. “There’s just one point on which I need to be reassured,” he said, gazing at her intently.

Instantly, her nervousness returned. “What might that be?” Hadn’t they just covered every eventuality?

“I need to know that, even in my most eager moments, I don’t make love like a common ploughboy.”

Her mouth dropped open in astonishment, but she quickly snapped it shut with an inward giggle.

She creased her brow and pretended to think about it for a moment. At length, she looked up at him and said seriously, “Honestly, I can’t be absolutely sure. Perhaps I need more experience on which to base my conclusions. Find me a ploughboy or two, and I’ll endeavor to make the comparison.”

He stared at her for a moment, utterly shocked. Then he threw his head back and laughed. And laughed.

She laughed with him until the whole coach shook with the sound of their merriment, and their tears of hope and joy mingled as they joined once again in an impassioned, exuberant embrace.

“I’ve never loved any woman as I love you,” he told her. “Nor did I ever expect to. Promise you’ll never leave me.”

“I never knew the true force of love until I met you,” she whispered. “I’ll never leave you. I swear it.”

And she knew she meant it, because he’d taught her something else as well.

The true meaning of happiness.

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Chapter One

August 1804, Dorset

Miss Charlotte Allston was just about to wade into the sea to examine a mysterious object when a tremendous force sent her crashing to the ground.

Flat on her back in the shallows, she gaped up at the summer sky, winded, struggling helplessly against the weight that smothered her. From the vise-like grip on her arms it had to be a man, an extremely strong one, pinning her down on the sodden sand. Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed fervently for someone on the beach to rush to her rescue.

But no one did.

A cultured voice commanded, “You’re not to do it, d’ye hear? There’s no problem that can’t be solved—life’s too precious to throw it away.”

Charlotte tried to focus on the face that now hung mere inches from her own, and failed. Fortunately, he shifted his weight, making breathing easier, but she still couldn’t muster enough air to scream. Why did no one come to her aid? Was her attacker carrying some fearsome weapon she had yet to see?

Suddenly, his words cut through her confusion. Life’s too precious… He thought she was about to drown herself. Great heaven, how could any sane person confuse wading on Chelney Beach with suicide? If she’d been going to do that, it would have happened months ago, after her failed elopement with Justin Jessop.

Barely had these thoughts crossed her mind than the man set her back on her feet, lifting her as if she weighed no more than a doll. He swiftly removed his coat and tucked it about her shoulders.

This wasn’t what one might expect from an assailant with evil intent. Shading her eyes against the sun, she stared at the man who’d so mistaken her actions. He was well-built, with a deep chest that taxed the buttons on his plain kerseymere waistcoat. Long legs with powerful thighs and calves swept down to his boots, adding a masculine grace to his muscular physique. Was he an out-of-uniform officer, perhaps? He had the stiff, upright bearing of one. Or a bare-knuckle boxer? This should account for the muscles.