Page 40 of A Perilous Passion

At ten o’clock, when all was quiet in the house, Charlotte peered over the window sill. The sky was lit by the rising moon sailing amongst intermittent clouds, casting just enough light to see by.

The thick vines on the trellis looked horribly vertical. But if Rafe could do it, so could she. She was lighter, and there were bushes below to break her fall, just in case.

Heavens, what had the man done to her? She was supposed to be redeeming herself after her escapade with Justin, but instead, Rafe was making her do even more scandalous things.

Much more unladylike things. Her skirts had to be tucked right up, and her bent knees kept wide apart as she clambered down. It wasn’t until she reached the ground that she stopped to think whether she’d be able to get up again.

No matter. She’d worry about that when the time came.

It was critical she know that Rafe was safe. Her heart squeezed tight in her chest at the idea that he might not be. How she would miss his voice, the touch of those masterful fingers, and the intriguing brown of his dark-lashed eyes! Even though they weren’t supposed to meet again, the idea of its being impossible—for eternity—sent a wash of grief through her almost too intense to bear.

She tamped down the anguish and quickened her pace.

A tawny owl kee-wicked from the wood to her left and was answered by the ghostly hoot of another up ahead. All senses alert, she bent low and tiptoed past the houses, avoiding the busy tavern and taking a shortcut through the tumbled churchyard to avoid discovery.

It was full dark by the time she reached the outskirts of Byroad village, but the moon had now risen above the cloud, giving her more light to see her way. Following Thomas’s description, she located the ancient milestone almost hidden by a patch of rank nettles, which indicated she was nearing Dovehouse Farm.

Around the first bend, a small notice signaled the turnoff to the farm. A chill of fear skittered up her spine as she stepped between the arching trees of the lane. The moonlight cut off abruptly, and the shadows deepened, and sometimes—though she hoped she was imagining it—moved. She increased her pace.

When she reached the farm, it barely looked to be in use. Through the gloom, she could see a cow byre with a drunken roof, and a granary with a broken door. Grass pushed up between the cobbles in the yard, and the farmhouse itself hid like a castle keep behind the curtain wall of a tall hedge. In the stable, which seemed in better repair than some of the other buildings, a horse was tearing at hay.

Who else lived at the farm? She doubted he’d have brought a bevy of servants with him, as that wouldn’t have suited the status of Mr. Seabourne. It must be hard for one of his class to live like this, in constant danger, unprotected by position or wealth, and without the comforts that were his birthright. Having borne such trials and privations for king and country, it would be grim, indeed, if he’d come to grief at the end of a smuggler’s pistol.

Without warning, a gloved hand came hard over her mouth, pulling her back against a barrel-like chest.

Not Rafe’s.

Her heartbeat took flight.

A rough voice ground out against her ear, “What are you up to, my girl?”

“Mmmph!”

Numb with shock, she felt the cold steel of a blade against her throat. Struggling would doom her in a second, so she went rigid.

“Don’t scream,” she was ordered.

She nodded her understanding, and the hand over her mouth was removed.

“I’m…I’m just checking on Mr. Seabourne,” she rushed to say. “Someone was killed on the heath last night, and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t him.”

The knife edged away from her neck, and the air gushed from her lungs in relief.

“Name?” growled the voice.

How could she tell her captor without putting her family at risk? “Elizabeth Bettany,” she rasped, hoping she sounded convincing.

“Seabourne’s never said anything to me about any Elizabeth Bettany.”

“You know him?”

“Yes. Let’s go find out if he knows you. Walk in front of me. And don’t think about running off—this knife will punch a hole in your gasket quicker than you please.”

“He’s alive?” She forced her shoulders to relax and her madly racing heart to slow down.

“Aye,” said her captor. “He’ll prove that to you himself soon enough. But don’t expect him to thank you for disturbing him. He likes his privacy, does Mr. Seabourne.”

She wanted to say that she knew all about Mr. Seabourne, and exactly why he kept to himself. But who knew if she could really trust this man? Best remain silent.