Page 136 of A Perilous Passion

With a brief brush of her lips, he slipped away from her into the night, leaving her gaping after him.

She leaned back against the solid wall of the house and gazed up at the moon, sucking in breath after breath of cool air. Her body still thrummed like someone striking a chord on the pianoforte, while someone else’s fingers played pizzicato with her nerves. It took a while before she could trust her legs again.

Eventually she heaved away from the wall, let herself back into the house, and resisted the urge to run straight into the kitchen and break things.

Confound the man! He’d played her like a master, taking just what he wanted. He’d made her look a fool for responding to him so ardently, then said his farewell with an infuriating calm and strode off.

“God be damned to all men,” she muttered as she slipped back upstairs. Rafe, like Justin, had turned her world upside down. But unlike Justin, he’d left her of his own free will.

Which made the hurt all the greater.

Surely, it was the cruelest thing of all, to ignite a woman’s passion and then just say good-bye? Only a hard-hearted rake would do such a thing. Assuming Rafe had any heart, at all.

It was just as well they weren’t to meet again, as she couldn’t be responsible for her actions if they did.

Chapter Fifteen

How had Rafe let the woman get under his skin so easily?

They’d barely met a handful of times, yet his body craved Charlotte like a furnace starved of air. Truth be told, his heart was not safe, despite the wall of resolve he’d built around it after leaving the army. It was a wrench to leave her, but leave he must.

Still, there might be another time, another chance, in the future, if only he could keep his skin whole for the remainder of this blasted mission…and those to come. Lord knew when the war would end. Bonaparte was a formidable enemy, and lately France had been in a desperate state, making the pompous little tyrant all the more determined to consolidate his position.

The memory of Charlotte’s kiss swept his gloomy thoughts away in an instant, and his heart sped up. She was a well of sweetness, her lips the nectar of the gods, her skin like silken flame—and the memory of her breasts in his hands ignited a wildfire in his veins that had him gasping for breath.

Self-control. Whatever had happened to his? And the manners of a gentleman—had he forgotten those, too? One simply did not take advantage of untutored young ladies. Not even willing ones.

Especially not willing ones.

But what an absolute delight it was to be with her. She refused to be cowed by him, she had no fear of voicing her own opinions, and she’d dealt with his wayward behavior without fainting away or erupting in fury. Most women of his acquaintance would have done one or the other, had he thrown himself on top of them—twice—or climbed a creeper into their bedroom in the dead of night.

She was truly admirable, desirable, and lovable—and, yes, an enormous risk to his heart.

“Halt! Declare yourself. I’m an officer of His Majesty.”

He pulled up short, reaching automatically for his pistols.

As a lantern was shoved into his eyes, the voice advised, “Keep your hands where I can see them, if you please. My companion has a rifle cocked and ready, and I’ve just lit you up as a target.”

As the temporary blindness from the lantern abated, Rafe saw a flash of red with white webbing. A Redcoat. “I was just searching for a handkerchief,” he said mildly. “I’m Mr. Seabourne. Who are you?”

“Corporal Triggs, of the 12th Reserves, garrisoned at the fort. Why are you headed toward the heath at this time of night?”

Rafe glanced to one side. Moonlight glinted off a rifle barrel aimed directly at his chest. More soldiers had gathered quietly in the darkness, but Triggs was the only one with a lantern.

Rafe groaned inwardly. He hadn’t meant to come this way. His bed awaited him, not his duty. So, why had he turned his steps in the direction of the sea? Damnation. Charlotte Allston was making minced meat of his mind.

“The heath?” he said, deliberately slurring his speech. “Musht ’ave taken a wrong turn. Meant ta go home. Jusht come from the ball in Dorchester.”

“In your cups are you, sir?” inquired Triggs, his narrow eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Your hands moved quick enough just now. Let’s see what’s in them pockets of yours.”

Damn it! Things were about to go disastrously wrong.

Spreading his hands in a gesture of assent, Rafe straightened up and said in an authoritative tone, “I’d advise you begin with the left inside pocket of my jacket and examine the papers you find there. Assuming you can read.”

“You barefaced jailbait!” said a second voice.

He heard a metallic click, then felt a hard blow on his left shoulder from a rifle butt.