Page 62 of A Perilous Passion

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dusk had fallen and the lamps were lit. It had been a fine day, and it was still warm enough in Rafe’s study for him to fling off his jacket and undo the ties of his shirt. He was standing next to Goves, braced over his desk, poring over a map.

His bad leg still ached, but he could now keep his weight upon it for considerable periods of time. The rapidity of its healing had almost convinced him to believe in quack medicine. He had frequently doused the wound with Dr. L. E. Campaign’s nostrum, and always felt better for several hours thereafter.

He batted at a moth that flew across his vision, then pointed to a drawing on the map. “Here is where I found that first beacon.” He moved his finger. “Here is where the patrol found the kindling. If we assume it is the beginnings of a second beacon, we might be able to establish a pattern, and the likely placement of the rest.”

“Aye, if they’re equidistant, or perhaps on the highest points in the landscape.”

An unexpected sound made Rafe jerk upright. He snatched up his pistol and looked at Goves, who’d produced a dagger as if by magic.

“What was that?” Rafe whispered.

“It sounded like someone knocking softly on the front door,” Goves said incredulously.

“Who on earth could be calling at this time of night? Is Paynter about?” Rafe moved silently across to the shadows by the study door.

“I believe so, sir.”

He had to hope Paynter was doing his job properly and hadn’t fallen asleep. He’d flay the man alive if he had.

“Mayhap the caller is someone he knew, and let pass,” Goves suggested.

A thrill of anticipation tightened Rafe’s throat. There was only one person he imagined Paynter might allow to visit. But, surely, it could not be Charlotte who’d come. Not when he’d strictly forbidden her to do so.

Not when their parting had been so bitter.

And if it was Charlotte, he must remember she could not be trusted.

He was at the door in an instant. Ignoring the heaviness of his heart, he stood back against the wall, presenting as small a target as possible. With the reassuring touch of the pistol at his cheek, he called softly, “Who’s there?”

“Mr. Seabourne? It’s me.”

Charlotte’s voice. Damnation!

He lowered the pistol.

“I bring someone in dire need of your help,” she said. “Please let us in.”

He raised the weapon again and tipped his head back, resting it against the plaster of the wall with an inward groan. Oh God. She wasn’t alone. Was this the moment he’d been dreading? The moment when she betrayed him to her smuggler friends?

Or the moment he would betray her because of those friends?

Biting down on the pain that coursed through his chest, he schooled himself to stay calm and cautiously opened the door.

She stood on the threshold, her lovely face gilded by the light from the lantern she carried. She was accompanied by a fresh-faced, sinewy young man with a very wary look.

“Who the hell is this?” Rafe growled, pointing his pistol squarely at the man’s chest.

“I’ll explain when you let us in,” she replied tartly.

Lord, had the woman no fear? Didn’t she understand he’d never point a gun at someone if he wasn’t prepared to use it?

He squared his stance, blocking the doorway. “I thought I’d made myself clear that you’re never to come here,” he said, eyeing her companion. The fellow didn’t appear to be armed, but one couldn’t be too careful.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Charlotte said, her voice hardening. “Do you really want us to explain our business on your doorstep? Paynter let us through, so I don’t see why you can’t.”

After a brief hesitation, Rafe reluctantly uncocked the pistol and stood aside.