Page 4 of A Perilous Passion

This traitor, whose identity Rafe was here to uncover, was a dangerous villain, in league with the French and using a local band of free traders to exchange messages with Napoleon’s admirals. Rafe’s informants told him the man planned to set up a series of hidden beacons along the coast—bonfires which would be set aflame when the nation’s defenses were at their weakest, signaling the perfect moment for a full-scale French invasion.

Curse the young woman who’d toppled him into the rill! Had she not, he would even now be sitting in the taproom at the Admiral Duncan, nursing a tankard of ale and eavesdropping on any suspicious conversations.

One day, someone would let something slip, offer up a small snippet of information that would give him all he needed to locate the beacons and round up the spy—and hopefully the free traders, too.

But now he was forced to retreat to Dovehouse Farm and change his clothes. It was a long walk for a hot day, but he was accustomed to walking.

A frown creased his brow as he strode back through the village toward the lane leading to the nearby village of Byroad. Normally he didn’t mind walking everywhere, even though a gentleman of his station usually rode his horse or was driven in a carriage. However, he’d developed an irksome sensitivity to any horse with which he was unfamiliar. New horseflesh—or more specifically, horsehair—made him sneeze, which was usually nothing serious.

Unless, of course, the untimely sneeze came during a sensitive military maneuver.

Anger lengthened his stride. Never had he felt as humiliated as in the moment that had destroyed his military career! His ambush had been so carefully planned, designed to capture a small band of French scouts before they could disperse. What secrets they could have told! What vitally important military information they might have imparted!

Yet Rafe had sneezed at the worst possible moment, all because a fellow officer hadn’t tied up his mount securely and the horse had strayed too close. The French scouting party had immediately scattered, and the maneuver had failed miserably.

As the commanding officer, he should have been the one to conceal and protect his men. Instead, he’d given away their position.

He couldn’t apologize, for that would have undermined his men’s respect for him. He’d already lost respect for himself. When the mutterings and sniggers had begun circulating among the other regiments, and even among civilians, he’d had enough. He’d resigned his commission and bid the army farewell.

The shame had followed him back to England, where he’d hidden himself away at Beckport House, unable to face anyone of higher status than a servant for fear of being treated as a laughingstock.

Until he’d struck on the idea of serving his country in another way entirely.

As a spy.

And, if Fortune favored him for a change, as a spy-catcher, too. If he could win back his reputation by crushing a ring of cutthroat free traders into the bargain, it was all to the good.

He drew a hand across his damp brow. He’d been so lost in thought, he hadn’t realized how hot he’d become. A cloud drifted across the sun but did nothing to cool the air. The sheep in the nearby pasture were huddled beneath the shade of a spreading oak, too hot to bleat, and even the rooks in the distant poplars were silent.

As he got closer to home, a weasel-faced man walked toward him along the road, touching his broad-brimmed hat in greeting as they passed one another. Was it his own suspicious nature, or had that man looked shifty? Any of the folk hereabouts could be involved in the smuggling and were worth investigating, especially if they might be in the pay of the traitor—the kingpin who posed the greatest threat of all.

Smugglers should not be underestimated. It took a particular kind of brazen courage to make rum runs under the very noses of the soldiers billeted at the fort overlooking Fortuneswell village.

Brazen, or desperate? He could understand why a man might defy the law to put bread on the table for his wife and children. But it never ended there, did it?

Thinking about smugglers reminded him of the young woman on the strand and the bit of lace she’d been after.

She’d said nothing condemnatory when she’d seen the lace, even though it had clearly fallen from an illegal consignment as it was brought ashore.

Did she know more than she let on about that consignment?

Or did her lack of disapproval of such illegal enterprise simply prove her to be capricious—a woman who cared nothing for the source of the lace, only that it would make some bonnet or gown look more fetching?

He wondered what she’d say if he asked her outright.

No, he mustn’t seem too curious—he didn’t want to give his game away.

Nor did he want to countenance the immediate stir of interest he’d experienced as he watched her walking disconsolately along the sand. A normal, healthy, masculine interest in a lovely young woman with a delightful figure.

But he had no time for libidinous pursuits. Indeed, such entanglements could prove dangerous to his cover and distract him from his mission. The very last thing he should be thinking about was female temptation.

Thank Moses—he’d nearly reached the farm. He needed a significant dousing of cold water to stifle the feelings aroused by that bronze-haired beauty.

He’d once had something of a reputation as a rake. But his shame at his departure from the army was so strong, and his determination to redeem himself so great, that nothing—and no one—on earth would be permitted to deflect him from his purpose.

If he ever had dealings with the young woman from the beach again, it would be to question, not to court.

Mayhap, one day, when his mission was ended and his reputation restored, he’d rejoin the social whirl of the ton, able once again to enjoy female company. But for now, his purpose was immutable.