Page 3 of A Perilous Passion

His body arched beneath her, his stomach muscles flexing against her belly in a thoroughly disturbing fashion. She fought against a peculiar lightheadedness, intensified by the friction of his chest against her breasts.

She didn’t realize what was happening until a smile blossomed on his face.

“Oh, how dare you laugh! It’s not at all amusing, being tumbled around in the mud with you.” She scrambled off, subjecting him to a quelling look that did no good at all.

He regained his feet in an instant, still chuckling.

She snapped, “You look ridiculous. Your hair’s plastered with silt.”

“And you look like you’ve been trying to catch a piglet in a muddy sty.”

She regarded him coolly and found herself distracted by the way his expression had transformed from a warning frown to a decidedly attractive grin. His brown eyes with their long lashes sparkled at her, giving her a tantalizing glimpse of a vibrant, virile man in the peak of health and humor.

Dazzled, she smiled back.

He said, “I can’t let you go home looking like that. I’ll fetch some grass to brush the sand off. I can’t do anything about the wetness except wring you out, and that would crumple your skirts, so best not.”

She stood self-consciously by a dune while he broke off handfuls of long grass, the sharp edges raising beads of blood on his palms. As he brushed at her skirt, she watched, fascinated, enjoying the play of the muscles across his shoulders, and his quick, sure movements. He was so very different from Justin, yet she could see how some women might be drawn to such a man.

“Turn round,” he commanded, straightening. She moved like an automaton, the stroking of his hands lulling her into compliance. If he attempted to brush her body any higher than her waist, she’d have to slap him.

Or…would she just give it a moment, to see what it felt like? She swayed at the thought.

“Sorry to keep bumping you. Don’t fall over. Are you dizzy?”

“A little faint, perhaps.”

“Let me steady you.” An arm came around her waist, and her mouth went dry.

Goodness! The man was emanating so much heat that she felt drawn to it, like a moth to a flame.

“Now you’ve dropped your reticule. Here, allow me.”

She reclaimed her bag in fingers that trembled. It was imperative she pull herself together. This man wasn’t Justin. She couldn’t possibly feel the same sort of stirrings she’d felt in her former sweetheart’s arms.

She licked her lips. “I must go. My family will be wondering where I am. Thank you for the loan of your coat.”

“I’ll walk you back.”

“No need, I assure you. Good day!” She gathered her reticule in one hand, her skirts in the other, and hastened away in what she hoped was a dignified manner. On reaching the firmer footing of the path, she broke into a trot. She could have gone faster, but she didn’t want the stranger to think she was afraid of him.

Her mother would be appalled at this new scrape. So her mother must never know. With any luck, Aunt Flora would be too distrait to notice her disheveled state.

Her skirts would dry out quickly in the hot August weather, but she’d need to douse her face in cold water to get rid of the heat in her cheeks. Because every time she thought of her encounter with the man on the beach, her face flushed hot and her heart beat faster.

But wait! They had unfinished business. He’d taken the contraband lace, which should, by right, be hers!

Well, she wouldn’t make a fool of herself by turning around and marching back to confront him. But at some point—and soon—she would seek him out to reclaim what was hers.

Chapter Two

Rafe Pomeroy, Earl of Beckport, followed the young woman all the way to the village green, where he watched her join a female in a matronly cap—her chaperone, presumably. Fortunately for him, neither woman seemed aware of his presence; although he had garnered a few odd looks from passers-by, on account of his thoroughly soaked trousers.

The last thing he wanted was to attract attention to himself here in Fortuneswell, the small Portland village where he’d come to hunt down smugglers. Here, he was ordinary Mr. Rafe Seabourne, a country squire who’d recently rented Dovehouse Farm, and was ostensibly in search of financing to get the place up and working again.

No one must know, or even guess, at his true identity or his real reason for going incognito. If they did, not only his life but the lives of countless Englishmen would be at risk.

For, he wasn’t just in pursuit of a smuggling ring—he was also after a traitor.