Page 142 of A Perilous Passion

When she reached the farm, it barely looked to be in use. Through the gloom, she could see a cow byre with a drunken roof, and a granary with a broken door. Grass pushed up between the cobbles in the yard, and the farmhouse itself hid like a castle keep behind the curtain wall of a tall hedge. In the stable, which seemed in better repair than some of the other buildings, a horse was tearing at hay.

Who else lived at the farm? She doubted he’d have brought a bevy of servants with him, as that wouldn’t have suited the status of Mr. Seabourne. It must be hard for one of his class to live like this, in constant danger, unprotected by position or wealth, and without the comforts that were his birthright. Having borne such trials and privations for king and country, it would be grim, indeed, if he’d come to grief at the end of a smuggler’s pistol.

Without warning, a gloved hand came hard over her mouth, pulling her back against a barrel-like chest.

Not Rafe’s.

Her heartbeat took flight.

A rough voice ground out against her ear, “What are you up to, my girl?”

“Mmmph!”

Numb with shock, she felt the cold steel of a blade against her throat. Struggling would doom her in a second, so she went rigid.

“Don’t scream,” she was ordered.

She nodded her understanding, and the hand over her mouth was removed.

“I’m…I’m just checking on Mr. Seabourne,” she rushed to say. “Someone was killed on the heath last night, and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t him.”

The knife edged away from her neck, and the air gushed from her lungs in relief.

“Name?” growled the voice.

How could she tell her captor without putting her family at risk? “Elizabeth Bettany,” she rasped, hoping she sounded convincing.

“Seabourne’s never said anything to me about any Elizabeth Bettany.”

“You know him?”

“Yes. Let’s go find out if he knows you. Walk in front of me. And don’t think about running off—this knife will punch a hole in your gasket quicker than you please.”

“He’s alive?” She forced her shoulders to relax and her madly racing heart to slow down.

“Aye,” said her captor. “He’ll prove that to you himself soon enough. But don’t expect him to thank you for disturbing him. He likes his privacy, does Mr. Seabourne.”

She wanted to say that she knew all about Mr. Seabourne, and exactly why he kept to himself. But who knew if she could really trust this man? Best remain silent.

He ushered her inside the farmhouse where, to her enormous relief, Rafe stepped through a side door, a half smile on his face.

When he saw her, the smile faded. “What in God’s Name are you doing here?”

She swallowed. He looked tousled and more handsome than ever. Thank heaven he was alive! “I needed to see you,” she said, gathering her wits. “I was concerned for your welfare.”

He scowled down at her. “I distinctly recall telling you we weren’t to meet again.”

“You do know the young lady, sir?” asked the man behind her in surprise.

“Yes, Paynter, I do. That will be all for now, thank you. I’d be much obliged if you’d scout around to make sure nobody followed this foolhardy young female.”

Damn him! She’d stolen out in the dead of night because she feared he was dead, and all he could do was loom in the passageway, glaring at her.

She felt the prickle of tears and spun round to follow the man called Paynter back out the door.

An iron grip fastened on her elbow. “In here, madam,” Rafe said. “We need to talk.”

Disappointment warred with joy. He was alive—frustratingly, annoyingly, arrogantly alive. He looked sturdy and strong as ever, the power and heat of him filling the gap between their bodies. She barely took in the detail of the room he drew her into—her eyes were trapped by his penetrating gaze.