Page 113 of A Perilous Passion

His brisk stride had brought him to the lane close to the farm. Here, the scrubby trees grew close, shrouding the path, their full burden of leaves almost blocking out the salty wind from the sea. The farmhouse itself was shielded from prying eyes by a thick yew hedge, making it the perfect place for plotting and investigating.

Opening the gate, he swore softly at the overgrown brambles that caught in his sleeves and hair. Silent as a ghost, his lookout, Paynter, appeared, wished him a good evening, and vanished back into the shadows.

Rafe returned the greeting automatically, forgetting to ask if all was well until after the man had disappeared. His mind was still working feverishly on the problem of having his identity revealed to the Allstons. If it got out, people would immediately start wondering why a peer of the realm should leave his grand estates and live in obscurity in a small Dorset village. They’d think he was up to something. The smugglers, local men no doubt, would become doubly cautious, just as he would in their place, making it that much harder to catch them. Anything out of the ordinary looked suspicious to a man who knew he was breaking the law.

Most suspicious of all would be the traitor. Rafe and his superiors had reason to believe this man held considerable power, and could even be a member of the aristocracy. He could be someone Rafe knew, had played cards with, had conversed with over the port or brandy at his club. If so, the traitor would definitely want to know why one of the nobility was lurking incognito on a dilapidated farm between Fortuneswell and Byroad. And would take pains to discover the answer.

He should just turn around right now, go back into the village, and swear Mrs. Allston to silence, on pain of death. That wording was perhaps a bit excessive, but his mission was too important to let one provincial family jeopardize it.

He’d have to bully the mother. And Miss Allston, too. Although he suspected she wouldn’t be afraid of him, even at his most menacing.

Was there not something more subtle he could do to ensure they didn’t reveal his identity?

Coming to an abrupt halt, he let out a low whistle. Perhaps there was a way. An unconventional one—and highly improper—but it might just give the desired result. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could be done in daylight. He’d have to wait until darkness fell.

Yes, it could work.

And settle the problem of the Allstons, once and for all.

Chapter Six

Charlotte lay in bed staring up at the shadowy ceiling, her thoughts too busy for sleep. It had been a difficult day. In fact, it had been a difficult four days, ever since the stranger on the beach had been unmasked as the Earl of Beckport. Now he was Mama’s sole topic of interest, and it was impossible to avoid her questioning. He should have known, foolish man. It was like a red rag to a bull to tell her mother he couldn’t share his reasons for wanting to remain incognito.

Not that Charlotte could avoid speculating on what he was up to, either. He must be in some deep trouble. Could it be bankruptcy, love, or even murder? The aristocracy did occasionally kill one another in fights, and Rafe certainly seemed the sort of man who could hold his own in a duel.

His keen interest in the signs of smuggling activity intrigued her, too, but she’d said nothing to Mama on that score. Ha! If only Beckport knew about Papa’s involvement in free trading—that would surely stop him in his tracks.

Possibly due to the fact that Mama was being unbearable, Aunt Flora had decided to visit relations of her deceased fiancé, Frank Veale. It was a cruel blow—Charlotte had come to rely on her softhearted aunt as an ally. Flora had been kindness itself after Charlotte’s ill-fated attempt at elopement with Justin, but had been careful to hide her feelings from Mama. It must be tiresome for her to have her home invaded by her peevish older sister.

Closing her eyes, Charlotte finally managed to drift into a light sleep. It wasn’t at all restful, however, but punctuated by a most vivid and somewhat disturbing…dream. Justin was in her room, larger than life, overwhelming her senses with his hot, male body, vibrating with energy and virility. His arms enfolded her dream-self to his chest, and she grasped his shoulders and pulled him close, wanting to feel every inch of him.

Resting her cheek against his, she let his warm hand caress her derriere and the curve of her waist, which roused an insistent heat in her belly. Her hands slid wantonly over the silky skin of his shoulders, down his mounded biceps and sinewy forearms. How strong Justin had grown from his time in Wellington’s army! Much stronger than she remembered.

He was sinfully, deliciously naked, too, his hips pressed against her through her thin summer nightgown. His breath was labored, and he delved his hands into her hair, tugging and snagging it in his passion…

Enough to force her out of the dream with heart-stopping suddenness.

“Oh great heav—!”

A hand over her mouth stifled her cry.

She heard a muffled male curse, followed by the metallic clatter of something falling to the floor. Something that sounded ominously like a knife.

The blood froze in her veins.

Scrambled thoughts chased around her sleep-fogged brain—images of the two dubious-looking men on the beach, the broad shoulders of the intriguing Earl of Beckport, and the ghastly certainty she was about to die.

“Miss Allston, don’t be alarmed. It’s Beckport.”

Nonsense! The very idea was absurd.

She tried baring her teeth to sink them into the hand pressed over her face. But failed. The hand shifted slightly, the mattress dipping as he knelt on it, and she abruptly feared death was not the fate that awaited her.

Although it might still come…afterward.

“It’s me. Rafe. Calm yourself. I mean you no harm.”

It did sound like him. But…