Page 6 of A Perilous Passion

She closed her eyes and scrubbed the dress harder, the muslin heavy with the weight of water. No, she absolutely would not weep at the thought of those slender fingers curled around the trigger of a rifle, the golden hair pummeled by the dismal rains of Scotland, nor that poetic soul tortured by the loud barks of command from superior officers. It was too tragic, it really was.

Bother! In her distraction she’d ripped the delicate fabric of her gown. Now she’d have to mend it. If the rent was extensive, she might be able to conceal it with some embroidery, or maybe a frill of lace.

Curse that stranger on the beach! Why had he taken the lace? It was her lace. She’d found it. Of what use would it be to a man? He couldn’t give it to anybody without first getting it cleaned, starched, and pressed, a complex process no man was likely to understand.

Which might explain his response when he’d seen it. Not that of a man coming across a treasure. The discovery had troubled him, and he’d hidden the lace away in his pocket, as if from prying eyes.

Suddenly, she gasped. He must be a smuggler himself, and feared to alert suspicion!

Not that she’d betray him. He could trust her. She knew not all smugglers were inherently evil. Ironically, as a girl she’d even dreamed of joining the adventurous profession—well before she’d learned of Papa’s involvement in it. She’d often pictured herself galloping full tilt along the shore, the wind in her hair, outrunning the revenue men with a bundle of lace bouncing against her saddle on one side, and a small keg of cognac at the other.

“Charlotte? Oh, what have you done—put a finger through your gown? I’ve never known such a clumsy child. All that money spent sending you to finishing school was a complete waste. You have fingers like a laborer’s.”

“It’s only a little hole, Mama. I can mend it.”

“Give it to me. I’ll make a better job of it than you will in a month of Sundays. Now, go out and find Flora and tell her I need her back here this instant.”

At that, Charlotte’s thoughts headed off down a different road entirely. One that most certainly did not involve Aunt Flora. Perhaps the handsome stranger was out and about. It was a lovely day, after all, not one a man would wish to waste indoors.

She could ask him to give back the lace.

She grabbed a shawl and hurried out before her mother could change her mind about letting her go alone.

Mama would be furious if she knew what she had in mind, but Charlotte was mercifully too much an adult to warrant a beating. In fact, if anyone ever raised the birch to her again, she would snap it in front of their eyes and throw the pieces into the fireplace.

Her mouth twisted as she recalled the treatment she’d received from Mr. Hampney, the tutor employed by her mama to remove her childhood stutter. Mr. Hampney would burn in hell, if there was any justice in the world.

Charlotte’s pace quickened as her mind traveled back to the frightened, stammering child she’d once been. According to Mama—who was a minor baronet’s granddaughter—no young lady of breeding could be permitted such an impediment, which was why the elocution teacher had been employed.

Thankfully, his frequent use of the cane on his pupil hadn’t terrified her into stammering more, but rather, had simply made her determined to improve herself in order to be rid of him. As a result of this horrid experience, her young self had vowed never again to be cowed by threats or bullying.

From any quarter.

Which firm resolve had served Charlotte well in life, as it had turned out, even if it didn’t exactly earn her the admiration of her mother.

Beyond the heath, the dark cliffs of Portland rose up, crowned by the gray walls of its castle, recently refortified and enlarged in fear of a French invasion. Spread out below, well within sight of the fort, lay the beach, hemmed in at either end by tumbled rocks and flattened slabs of limestone, looking just like ruined cities shattered by the sea.

She barely took in the sight of the bent-backed cockle women, or the swarm of children freshly released from Mrs. Carboys’ Dame School.

Because she spied the very gentleman she sought.

He stood stiff and erect by the water’s edge, watching the antics of the children and occasionally dusting his sleeve and straightening a cuff.

Anticipation balled in her stomach. Was he waiting for someone? Could that someone be her? Flushing, she realized she must make it look as if she’d happened along by chance, so he didn’t get any inappropriate ideas. All she wanted was the lace.

Today he wore serviceable moleskin trousers, battered Hessian boots, and a forest green coat, clothing that made him look like a country squire. But the military bearing and his cultured accent hinted at a different background. The man was a conundrum. She was bored in this small village, she was heart-sore missing her banished sweetheart, and she needed a diversion. Here was the perfect solution to her ennui.

Stopping just behind him, she gave a little cough.

Immediately he swung round, and she knew a moment of alarm at his fierce expression. Upon recognizing her, his look softened, but only for an instant. He said sharply, “So, you’ve ignored my advice about walking out unchaperoned. You feel equipped, do you, to protect yourself against highwaymen and smugglers?”

She said, “A very good day to you, sir. How delightful to see you again. I’ve come to reclaim the lace I found yesterday.”

“Have you, indeed?”

“I have. Return the lace, and I’ll take your advice and head home forthwith. Although, I could point out there are plenty of people abroad, more than a match for a single felon, should one choose to attack me.”

He gave a disparaging sniff. “All I can see are old women and children. And surely you must recall that no one helped you when I threw you onto your back yesterday.”