Page 2 of A Perilous Passion

“If I were mad, I would hardly be likely to own it,” he said.

Probably true. She really should stop arguing with him, brush down her sandy skirts, and return to Aunt Flora before she was missed. “You can apologize to me and be on your way,” she suggested.

There was a hiss of breath. “I should prefer you not to talk to me as if I were a child, when I quite clearly am not.”

He certainly wasn’t. As he spoke, his powerfully male body became taller, more formidable—which made her feel a bit like a feisty sheep standing up to a wolf.

“Look,” he said, grasping her elbow, “why don’t you just tell me why you walked into the sea, and then we can both go home.”

She tried to shake him off. “You’re impertinent, sir, and no gentleman. If I tell you, will you stop pestering me?”

He nodded, watching her with disturbing concentration.

“Very well. I noticed something strange in the water and was wading in to see what it was. Satisfied? You can take your hand off me now.”

The fingers tightened. “What did you see? Point it out.”

Why was he so interested in such an unimportant thing? Definitely no gentleman, and most certainly addle pated. What a sad waste of a handsome face and striking physique.

She relented. “I thought it might be a piece of cloth, trapped by a rock and waving in the billows, or it may just be seaweed. It’s out there.”

Still holding her captive, he shaded his eyes and peered out to sea, then suddenly released her, strode into the shallows, and pulled out the object she’d seen. He splashed back toward her, his trousers soaked to the knee, and she stepped forward to see what he’d picked up.

“Oh, it’s lace. How lovely! I can think of a hundred uses for it already.” Lace was scarce and expensive due to the war with Napoleon, and she happened to know that most of it was brought in by smugglers, keen to avoid the weighty customs duties.

Yes, she knew rather more about such goings-on than she would ever let on to a stranger. Or even a friend.

It looked like Brussels lace—the very best money could buy—yet the stupid fellow was crumpling it in his great fist.

“You’ll ruin it!” she exclaimed, reaching for the lace.

He held a finger to his lips, then thrust the piece inside his waistcoat and peered around him, intent as a hound on a scent. “We must go from here,” he said. Catching her by the arm again, he jerked her into a running walk and headed back up the beach toward the path that led inland.

“Let go of me at once! Where are you taking me?”

“Back to the village. It’s not safe for you here on your own. Haven’t you heard the stories about the horseless highwayman?”

She had, as had everyone who lived on this part of the Dorset coast. She countered, “But it’s broad daylight, and we’re on the beach, not the highway.”

His square chin was determined, the full lips pressed into a stubborn line. This was a man used to being obeyed. Without slackening his pace, he said, “It’s for your own good. How do you know the footpad doesn’t mark his victims by day, then follow them and watch until nightfall, waiting for his moment to strike?”

This gave her pause for thought. Then her foot slipped into one of the freshwater rills that laced the beach, and her anger returned.

“How do I know you’re not the footpad?” she queried, hauling him to a stop so she could balance on his arm and shake the water out of her shoe. “You could be abducting me even now, planning to have your evil way with me.”

Jerking her back into motion he said, “You’ve been reading too many Gothic novels, by the sound of it. I think they’re ridiculous, responsible for spoiling many a young mind. You should try Swift, or the wonderful studies in human absurdity written by Miss Burney. So much more realistic.”

He was striding along so fast, she had to struggle for the breath to respond. “Not only do you manhandle me in a most ungentlemanly manner,” she said, panting, “but now you’re recommending suitable reading material. What kind of man are you?”

“The kind that has your best interests at heart, believe me.”

“I don’t believe you. Let me go!”

She yanked so hard on his arm it pulled him off-balance, and they both fell with a thump into the icy trickle of a rill.

Well, at least she was on top now. But that didn’t make it any better. To get off would involve an undignified scramble, and parts of her anatomy would come into even closer contact with parts of his.

Oh dear.