Page 105 of A Perilous Passion

“Turn round,” he commanded, straightening. She moved like an automaton, the stroking of his hands lulling her into compliance. If he attempted to brush her body any higher than her waist, she’d have to slap him.

Or…would she just give it a moment, to see what it felt like? She swayed at the thought.

“Sorry to keep bumping you. Don’t fall over. Are you dizzy?”

“A little faint, perhaps.”

“Let me steady you.” An arm came around her waist, and her mouth went dry.

Goodness! The man was emanating so much heat that she felt drawn to it, like a moth to a flame.

“Now you’ve dropped your reticule. Here, allow me.”

She reclaimed her bag in fingers that trembled. It was imperative she pull herself together. This man wasn’t Justin. She couldn’t possibly feel the same sort of stirrings she’d felt in her former sweetheart’s arms.

She licked her lips. “I must go. My family will be wondering where I am. Thank you for the loan of your coat.”

“I’ll walk you back.”

“No need, I assure you. Good day!” She gathered her reticule in one hand, her skirts in the other, and hastened away in what she hoped was a dignified manner. On reaching the firmer footing of the path, she broke into a trot. She could have gone faster, but she didn’t want the stranger to think she was afraid of him.

Her mother would be appalled at this new scrape. So her mother must never know. With any luck, Aunt Flora would be too distrait to notice her disheveled state.

Her skirts would dry out quickly in the hot August weather, but she’d need to douse her face in cold water to get rid of the heat in her cheeks. Because every time she thought of her encounter with the man on the beach, her face flushed hot and her heart beat faster.

But wait! They had unfinished business. He’d taken the contraband lace, which should, by right, be hers!

Well, she wouldn’t make a fool of herself by turning around and marching back to confront him. But at some point—and soon—she would seek him out to reclaim what was hers.

Chapter Two

Rafe Pomeroy, Earl of Beckport, followed the young woman all the way to the village green, where he watched her join a female in a matronly cap—her chaperone, presumably. Fortunately for him, neither woman seemed aware of his presence; although he had garnered a few odd looks from passers-by, on account of his thoroughly soaked trousers.

The last thing he wanted was to attract attention to himself here in Fortuneswell, the small Portland village where he’d come to hunt down smugglers. Here, he was ordinary Mr. Rafe Seabourne, a country squire who’d recently rented Dovehouse Farm, and was ostensibly in search of financing to get the place up and working again.

No one must know, or even guess, at his true identity or his real reason for going incognito. If they did, not only his life but the lives of countless Englishmen would be at risk.

For, he wasn’t just in pursuit of a smuggling ring—he was also after a traitor.

This traitor, whose identity Rafe was here to uncover, was a dangerous villain, in league with the French and using a local band of free traders to exchange messages with Napoleon’s admirals. Rafe’s informants told him the man planned to set up a series of hidden beacons along the coast—bonfires which would be set aflame when the nation’s defenses were at their weakest, signaling the perfect moment for a full-scale French invasion.

Curse the young woman who’d toppled him into the rill! Had she not, he would even now be sitting in the taproom at the Admiral Duncan, nursing a tankard of ale and eavesdropping on any suspicious conversations.

One day, someone would let something slip, offer up a small snippet of information that would give him all he needed to locate the beacons and round up the spy—and hopefully the free traders, too.

But now he was forced to retreat to Dovehouse Farm and change his clothes. It was a long walk for a hot day, but he was accustomed to walking.

A frown creased his brow as he strode back through the village toward the lane leading to the nearby village of Byroad. Normally he didn’t mind walking everywhere, even though a gentleman of his station usually rode his horse or was driven in a carriage. However, he’d developed an irksome sensitivity to any horse with which he was unfamiliar. New horseflesh—or more specifically, horsehair—made him sneeze, which was usually nothing serious.

Unless, of course, the untimely sneeze came during a sensitive military maneuver.

Anger lengthened his stride. Never had he felt as humiliated as in the moment that had destroyed his military career! His ambush had been so carefully planned, designed to capture a small band of French scouts before they could disperse. What secrets they could have told! What vitally important military information they might have imparted!

Yet Rafe had sneezed at the worst possible moment, all because a fellow officer hadn’t tied up his mount securely and the horse had strayed too close. The French scouting party had immediately scattered, and the maneuver had failed miserably.

As the commanding officer, he should have been the one to conceal and protect his men. Instead, he’d given away their position.

He couldn’t apologize, for that would have undermined his men’s respect for him. He’d already lost respect for himself. When the mutterings and sniggers had begun circulating among the other regiments, and even among civilians, he’d had enough. He’d resigned his commission and bid the army farewell.