Page 167 of A Perilous Passion

She sipped at the schooner of sack she’d been given, enjoying the wash of warmth as it trickled down her throat. Danger had—at least for now—been averted, and the relief was enormous.

She took another longer drink. The sweet wine was delicious. She wondered where Rafe had obtained it, and whether it might have arrived as contraband. That would be ironic, wouldn’t it? She was smiling at the thought when someone shook her shoulder.

She came back to earth to with a jolt. Rafe was kneeling before her, his face so close she could smell his cologne and see the swathe of dark stubble that shadowed his chin. He was hopefully no longer her enemy, so she allowed herself the pleasure of examining his face, admiring his rugged, masculine beauty, the sculpted lines of his mouth, and the fine creases that became dimples when he smiled.

He had two sorts of smile. There was the fleeting public one, which never reached his eyes, and was doubtless used to remind people he was an earl. But she’d also seen his private smile—a deep, heartfelt grin that lit his face like a wash of magical starlight.

She was a whisper away from tracing her fingers over the contours of that face and savoring those seductive lips with her own.

If only Justin weren’t observing them…

Rafe watched her for a long moment, his eyes darkening, then broke the spell by springing to his feet. “I think it’s time I returned Miss Allston to her bed,” he said crisply.

Justin sucked in a hissing breath, and her delicious imaginings came to an abrupt halt.

Rafe deserved a slap for that unfortunate choice of words, wretched man!

Had he been reading her mind? She flushed and prayed he hadn’t.

But he was right in saying she should return home. It was the dead of night, and she was at a remote farm, alone with not one, but two unmarried gentlemen. If Mama ever found out, she’d be sent to a nunnery.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Half past two. Don’t worry, your household will still be abed when we get there. I assume you let yourself out with a key this time and won’t be scaling the creeper to your window? It’s an awkward climb, as well I know.”

A strangled noise issued from Justin.

Oh lord. How was she going to explain that remark? Damn Rafe! He was being deliberately provoking.

“I can take her home, Seabourne,” Justin said curtly.

“Absolutely not. You won’t be safe until my letter reaches London, and even then, they’ll have to put the word out that you’re not a deserter. These things take time.”

Justin’s expression turned thunderous.

She gave him her fiercest stare. He mustn’t let himself be baited—not when his whole future hung in the balance. “Thank you,” she told Rafe before Justin could say anything. “You’re too kind. Justin is most grateful for your assistance, as am I. You’ve dug him out of a deep hole, sir, and we’re both indebted to you, are we not?”

There was a discernible pause before Justin replied, “Yes, quite so.”

She couldn’t blame him for being short-fused. But he’d soon learn to swallow his pride. He might not approve of Rafe’s manners or choice of words—nor did she—but he must surely admire the man’s generosity and courage. Their country’s cause was too important for them to be at loggerheads.

She stood up, smoothed her skirts, and turned toward the door. But before she reached it, Justin seized her hand and placed an ardent kiss upon it. Looking up, she saw a message of warning in his eyes. Smiling, she nodded her understanding, but he didn’t look reassured—particularly when Rafe draped her shawl about her shoulders and left his hands there moments too long for propriety, then offered her his arm.

She should be feeling a twinge of guilt at abandoning Justin. He’d come all this way to be with her, and she’d rebuffed his overtures and palmed him off onto somebody else. Once everything was settled, she’d find a way to make amends.

As a friend.

She matched her pace to Rafe’s as he strode along beside her on the road back to Fortuneswell, but he said nothing, only stared stonily ahead. In the moonlight, his face looked pale and cold as marble.

“Rafe?”

“Mr. Seabourne. And please keep your voice down.”

“I just wanted to say I cannot begin to express my gratitude—”

“It’s best we don’t talk. Anyone could be listening.”

There was a note of steel in his voice, so she reluctantly fell silent, and concentrated on the path, avoiding snagging branches and deep potholes.