Page 171 of A Perilous Passion

Her heart plummeted.

He was rejecting her.

Again.

Pride urged her to tell him it didn’t matter, that she didn’t care. But she did care, and it hurt like nothing she’d ever felt before. Tears stung her eyes, and her teeth clamped together so hard she tasted blood.

The air was heavy with things unsaid as they walked back to the cottage. She felt Rafe’s presence behind her, forced herself to quash the need to take his hand, to embrace him, and taste just once more the heady wine of his lips.

By the time they reached the cottage, she was exhausted from her internal battle, and, though her feet felt like lead, she hurried away down the path.

Thinking of Orpheus and Eurydice, she didn’t look back for a last glimpse of him. She knew he’d be watching her from the shadows, and she couldn’t bear to let him see the despair in her face or the burning tears, which now coursed down her cheeks.

He must never know the damage he’d done to her heart and her soul.

Chapter Thirty

Having slept in late, it was well past noon the following day by the time Rafe settled down to work again. He sat hunched over his desk, writing a dispatch, while Jessop lurked, pale and disapproving, in a corner.

The young man was still seething after the peal Rafe had rung over him—first for deserting from the army, and then for embroiling Charlotte in his unrighteous activities. Didn’t he know she was too soft-hearted to refuse help to someone in trouble? Didn’t he know that she had a courageous soul and would risk life and limb for a cause she believed in?

Every time the pen squeaked, the young man sighed and shifted, until Rafe wanted to leap up and throttle him. The urge was only intensified by the knowledge Charlotte had once loved the boy and still cared enough about him to endanger herself by helping him.

Rafe bent determinedly to his task. Saints alive! What was he doing thinking about her when he was supposed to be capturing traitors?

He scribbled a rapid signature to his letter, then swiveled round in his chair and glared at his tormentor. “I hope you’re satisfied with the trouble you’ve wrought,” he said. “I’m now one man down, since I’ve had to send Goves to deliver the letter that will save your sorry neck. That means this dispatch will have to wait until he comes back.”

Jessop shot up from his corner. “Look here, Mr. Seabourne, or whoever you are,” he said. “I don’t like being spoken to with so little respect. I know I’m in your debt, but that doesn’t make me a lesser being. I come from a respectable family, you know.”

Good family, indeed, but hardly competition for Rafe’s own. Wouldn’t he love to tell Jessop his true identity? The boy’s face would be a picture! “I’d hate to think I’d saved a mere yeoman,” he replied. “But a man’s reputation is based upon his deeds, not the importance of his forebears. I’ve yet to be assured of the quality of your actions.”

“And I have yet to be assured of the value of yours,” retorted Jessop, taking an ominous step closer.

Gad, the young man was so quick to take offense! Little wonder he coped so badly in the army. Rafe began to despair of ever being able to put such a hothead to good use.

Ignoring Jessop’s jibe, he stood up and rang the bell for Hamblett to make some strong tea. After his valet’s departure, a taut silence fell on the room. Jessop stood rooted to the spot, while Rafe returned to his chair.

“If you can withhold your rancor long enough, Mr. Jessop, I suggest we start your espionage training.”

Standing to attention, Jessop said, “I’ve had full military training, sir.”

“For all of three, four months? One would hardly call that full. Ask the militia at the castle if four months is enough. Ask the poor recruit shot dead in an ambush if four months is enough. We are a covert force, Mr. Jessop, and depend upon skills that are out of the ordinary. I’ll teach you to listen, observe, and track, to decode and send secret messages, to speak French, and how to read your fellow man. Now, what’s your weapon of choice?”

The young man paled. “You mean to call me out?”

“Of course not, foolish boy. I merely intend to discover if you prefer pistol, sword, or knife. A knife is the best weapon for a spy.”

“If you continue to insult me,” Jessop blustered, “I shall walk right out of here and tell Charlotte how gravely she’s mistaken your character.”

An empty threat—Charlotte’s opinion of him couldn’t possibly get any lower.

“You’re overreacting, Jessop,” he said. “Don’t take offense at everything I say. Grow a thicker skin. I’m your commanding officer now, so don’t expect me to cajole you.”

Jessop adjusted his stance, forced his chin down, and tugged mulishly at his cuffs. He might be a decent fellow in normal circumstances, Rafe mused, but while he was such a slave to his own emotions, he was a liability.

“Sit down and calm yourself,” he ordered. “Let’s just accept that misfortune has brought us both together, and in order to please Miss Allston we must make the best of it.”

The youth stomped to the far side of the room and sank into a deep leather armchair. “I’d do anything to please her,” he said.