Page 172 of A Perilous Passion

“She’s more important to you than king and country?”

“More important than life itself. You know what I’ve hazarded for her sake.”

“And do you know how much she’s hazarded for yours? She was horrified that you deserted and played hide-and-seek with the army all the way from the Borders to Portland.”

“How could you possibly know her feelings?” Jessop muttered. “You’re a stranger to her.”

“Not so much a stranger as you might think. No, don’t glower at me, sirrah—I’ve warned you to keep your emotions in check. If a man can’t keep a cool head, his enemy will exploit the weakness.”

“I’m not talking about spies or foes or free traders, Seabourne. I’m talking about love. Though I doubt you have enough depth of soul to feel that emotion.”

Rafe had to force himself not to step up and teach the pup a lesson he’d not soon forget. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. I will take pity on you, however, and say that you needn’t be jealous about me and Charlotte. She wouldn’t have me if I begged her. Nor will she take you, I might add.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Ah, but I do.” With regard to himself, it was an absolute certainty. “She has a level head, and she learned not to repine over your loss when she could do nothing about it,” he said. “Her heart has now healed. I’m sure you’ll find her the staunchest of friends, though.”

Jessop was instantly on his feet again, stalking back and forth.

“We shall be more than friends, Mr. Seabourne. You can take my word on that.”

“Just because you wish it, doesn’t mean it’ll happen. Life has a way of putting obstacles in the path of love. The greatest of them being our own stupidity,” he said, recalling with dismal clarity how he’d behaved last night.

“Obstacles are there to be overcome. That is their purpose—to make love sweeter because it has been dearly bought.”

Rafe barely resisted rolling his eyes. “Very poetic, I’m sure, but I’m a practical man. When there are too many obstacles, love is best abandoned, for it was clearly not meant to be.”

“That makes you either a fatalist or a cynic, sir,” Jessop replied, coming to stand squarely in front of him.

“Or possibly both,” Rafe answered. He was tiring of this conversation—it was making him think too much about Charlotte. “Why don’t you go outside for a breath of air?” he suggested. “I have work to do that requires my concentration.”

Without a word, Jessop spun on his boot and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Rafe stared at the door, wondering how Charlotte could ever have cared for such an irascible, immature fellow. Young Jessop had been fortunate, indeed, to win her love.

What would it feel like to hold her heart, to be in her every waking thought, to win her delectable body for one’s own?

It would feel like heaven.

Her image swam before him, the wayward golden-brown curls that kissed her porcelain skin, the warm hazel eyes, the tempting mouth, deliciously moist and ripe for kissing.

A stab of pain struck his very center, and he pressed a hand against the spot. Why did people always say love was a matter of the heart? It wasn’t there one felt it. It was in one’s gut—a deep, visceral agony that pervaded every thought, every action.

He smiled grimly at his own hypocrisy. He’d just told Jessop not to be a romantic fool and lauded himself as a pragmatic man. Moments later, he was feeling the acute pain of Charlotte’s loss himself, and waxing philosophical.

He’d have to assuage that pain before it corroded his courage.

Reaching into a desk drawer, he pulled out a sheaf of papers. All were in code, each one indicating the deployment of Napoleon’s fleet over a particular month. He was quickly absorbed in them, looking for patterns.

A good while later, the study door opened with a smart click. Assuming it was Jessop returning for another battle of words, he didn’t look up immediately.

A rock-hard blow struck his temple, sending him reeling from his chair. Before he could make a sound, a bitter-tasting gag was stuffed in his mouth, and a sack thrust over his head.

The darkness in front of his eyes was lit by swirling colored shapes and flashes of light as he fought to remain conscious. His body was being carried, by two men, he thought, moving at a rapid pace. His head lolled back, bouncing uncomfortably, and his limbs refused to move.

But he was still alive, thank God, even though he’d been a sitting duck. His attackers evidently didn’t want him dead. But where were they taking him, and to what fate?

His body felt colder, and a grid of light appeared through the weave of the sacking. He was outside. He made another effort to struggle, more effective this time, but his captors just tightened their grip and sped up.