Page 173 of A Perilous Passion

The light disappeared, and he smelled the sweet, pungent scent of fresh hay. He was in the stable. He could hear the gentle snuffling of horses—his own, and one or two others presumably belonging to his attackers.

The two men lowered him to the ground, and he could feel the lumps of the hard dirt floor bruising against his flesh. More pain followed as powerful hands pushed him down and bound his hands and feet so tight they went numb. He intensified his efforts to move, arching his back and throwing himself violently about—but to no avail.

“Stay still, or you won’t like the consequences,” a rough voice warned as another, denser hood was slid over his head. Immediately, all light was snuffed out, and it became nearly impossible to breathe.

Fear sliced through him. If they knocked him unconscious, he’d be helpless. And if they didn’t take this sack off soon, he’d suffocate.

His chest constricted. “Can’t breathe!” he yelled through the thickness of the gag, but the only sound that came out was a muffled groan.

Each time he dragged in a breath, the cloth stuck to his nose. His breathing became more rapid, more frantic. And then there was no more air, and the world collapsed in a maelstrom of darkness.

Chapter Thirty-One

After her late night, Charlotte couldn’t stir herself to do anything useful. In truth, everything seemed utterly pointless. Rafe had dealt her a blow like the Dolorous Blow of Arthurian legend—slashing open a wound she feared would never heal.

She sighed for what felt like the thousandth time and gazed at the ivy rustling against the window frame. A pair of flycatchers had made their nest in it in the spring, and she missed watching them raise their young, and the way the tiny speckled birds twisted, turned, and swooped on the wing after flies.

Now the birds were gone. The joys of summer were over, and so was her affair with Rafe.

“Charlotte? You’re wool-gathering again.”

“Forgive me, Mama. I slept poorly.”

“So did I,” said Aunt Flora. “I thought to try Dr. Campaign’s nostrum for sleeplessness tonight. Perhaps you should, too.”

“Gladly,” Charlotte said. “Assuming it doesn’t taste foul.” A night of blissful oblivion was just what she needed.

“I don’t have any here, but I can obtain some with great dispatch. I’m a…a rather special customer, and I receive express service.”

Mama said accusingly, “Do you mean to say you’ve entered into correspondence with this quack doctor?”

“I don’t care to hear you call him that. He’s a physician and a pharmacist of many years standing, and numbers amongst his clients many of the nobility.”

Bravo, Flora! Her aunt didn’t stand up to Mama nearly often enough.

“He has gulled you, Flora, make no mistake,” was Mama’s reply. “You only imagine that his remedies work because you are so impressionable.”

“Nonsense! Didn’t you see how quickly Lord Beckport—I mean, Mr. Seabourne—recovered from his injuries? No infection, no gangrene, no fever. It is a testament to Ephraim’s—that is, Dr. Campaign’s—skill.”

Mama stared open-mouthed at Aunt Flora. “Ephraim?”

“Gracious, is that the time?” Flora said with a gasp, glancing at the mantel clock. “I’d quite forgotten—there’s something I really have to do.” She almost ran from the room.

Mama stared at the closed door for a full minute without speaking. Then she said, “Well! What do you make of that?”

There was only one explanation Charlotte could think of. “Perhaps Aunt Flora has developed a tendre for this…itinerant physician.”

“Good lord. Well, it might explain why she bought so many of his nostrums.”

“Mama!”

“I really don’t know what to think,” said Mama, spreading her hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “I was relying on her to drum some sense of propriety into you. But all this time, she’s been corresponding with a man of questionable repute beneath our very noses!”

If only Mama knew what else had been going on beneath her very nose… But no, Charlotte would not think about Rafe. The memory of his coldness last night was like a sliver of ice piercing her heart. “I’m not sure ordering medicines counts as corresponding,” she ventured.

“But she used his first name. Didn’t you hear? I don’t call any gentleman by his first name. Of that, I’m certain.”

“If there is something between the two of them,” Charlotte said, “would it be so very dreadful? She’s a handsome woman, and not exactly in her dotage.”