Page 114 of A Perilous Passion

Her eyes struggled to cope with the darkness, and her heart rammed so hard against her ribs it hurt. What did he want with her?

“I’ll remove my hand if you promise not to scream.”

Yes, it was, indeed, Beckport’s deep, clipped voice. She went limp with relief.

He lifted his hand, smoothed it reassuringly over her cheek, then struck a spark in his tinderbox and blew gently on the flame. Leaning across her, he applied it to her candle. Her bedroom filled with a warm, flickering light that accentuated the shadows beneath his high cheekbones and made his dark eyes glitter.

What in the name of all that was holy was he doing in her chamber, in the middle of the night, sitting on her bed?

Not naked.

Shockingly, she couldn’t decide whether that made her vastly thankful or more than a little disappointed.

Before she could decide, after stowing his tinderbox away he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and sank his head into his hands in an attitude of despair so poignant she immediately forgot her fears.

Hardly the behavior of a rapist or murderer. Thank heaven.

She blinked at him in surprise.

“What ails you, my lord?” she ventured hesitantly.

He shook his head and sucked in a breath of air. “You’d think,” he said, turning to her with a wry smile, “I’d have the good sense to bring a sharp knife with me rather than a blunt one, or at the very least, a pair of my valet’s sewing scissors.”

Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t worry. I’d no intention of harming you, my dear Miss Allston. I just wanted a lock of your hair.”

She stared at him in astonishment. “I believe the usual mode is to ask the lady to provide one, not to climb into her room in the middle of the night and cut one off while she sleeps. I presume you’ve climbed up the trellis, as nobody would have let you in.”

“There is, indeed, a well-placed creeper,” he replied in a low voice. “I could see your window was open. Most ill-advised, when there are desperate smugglers and so forth about.”

Mention of smugglers again. What would he say if she told him he was speaking to the daughter of one of England’s most notorious smugglers? “I’ll bear that in mind,” she whispered back. “But I think you’d better go.”

“Go?” He looked bewildered.

“Surely, you didn’t expect me to welcome you? I believe I’m insulted.”

He tilted an eyebrow. “Am I not to receive a slap for my audacity?”

“I’m not a violent person, sir. To slap you would be to make a noise and risk rousing the house. I’ve already tasted scandal and been punished for it. So, whatever reason you have for coming here, forget it and be on your way.”

His expression hardened. “Regrettably, I can’t do that. My presence here is to force you to say nothing of me being in Dorset, and to ensure your mother and aunt also keep silent.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And how would a lock of my hair help achieve that?”

“It would be all the proof I needed that I’d compromised you.”

The man truly was addle pated. His simply being here compromised her. Mama would be chasing him round the house with a poker if she knew. Or possibly Papa’s dueling pistol.

She shook her head. “I rather think you’d already done that by throwing yourself on top of me on the beach.” She grimaced. “And in the cave. But why would you want to compromise me?” She went for Mama’s most disapproving tone, and added, “I’ve done nothing to harm you. I’m most sorely disappointed in you.”

His eyes darkened, and his well-built form appeared to swell. She suddenly felt small and vulnerable in her thin nightgown, with just a sheet to cover her. Harsh words were probably not the best defense against a powerful man.

Once again, he surprised her. His head went back, and he gave a throaty chuckle.

“You have your mother’s skill at putting a man in his place,” he said. “Does nothing frighten you, Miss Allston?”

“I’m more puzzled than afraid. I believe my initial assessment of you was correct—you are a little touched in the head.”