Page 71 of A Perilous Passion

Her image swam before him, the wayward golden-brown curls that kissed her porcelain skin, the warm hazel eyes, the tempting mouth, deliciously moist and ripe for kissing.

A stab of pain struck his very center, and he pressed a hand against the spot. Why did people always say love was a matter of the heart? It wasn’t there one felt it. It was in one’s gut—a deep, visceral agony that pervaded every thought, every action.

He smiled grimly at his own hypocrisy. He’d just told Jessop not to be a romantic fool and lauded himself as a pragmatic man. Moments later, he was feeling the acute pain of Charlotte’s loss himself, and waxing philosophical.

He’d have to assuage that pain before it corroded his courage.

Reaching into a desk drawer, he pulled out a sheaf of papers. All were in code, each one indicating the deployment of Napoleon’s fleet over a particular month. He was quickly absorbed in them, looking for patterns.

A good while later, the study door opened with a smart click. Assuming it was Jessop returning for another battle of words, he didn’t look up immediately.

A rock-hard blow struck his temple, sending him reeling from his chair. Before he could make a sound, a bitter-tasting gag was stuffed in his mouth, and a sack thrust over his head.

The darkness in front of his eyes was lit by swirling colored shapes and flashes of light as he fought to remain conscious. His body was being carried, by two men, he thought, moving at a rapid pace. His head lolled back, bouncing uncomfortably, and his limbs refused to move.

But he was still alive, thank God, even though he’d been a sitting duck. His attackers evidently didn’t want him dead. But where were they taking him, and to what fate?

His body felt colder, and a grid of light appeared through the weave of the sacking. He was outside. He made another effort to struggle, more effective this time, but his captors just tightened their grip and sped up.

The light disappeared, and he smelled the sweet, pungent scent of fresh hay. He was in the stable. He could hear the gentle snuffling of horses—his own, and one or two others presumably belonging to his attackers.

The two men lowered him to the ground, and he could feel the lumps of the hard dirt floor bruising against his flesh. More pain followed as powerful hands pushed him down and bound his hands and feet so tight they went numb. He intensified his efforts to move, arching his back and throwing himself violently about—but to no avail.

“Stay still, or you won’t like the consequences,” a rough voice warned as another, denser hood was slid over his head. Immediately, all light was snuffed out, and it became nearly impossible to breathe.

Fear sliced through him. If they knocked him unconscious, he’d be helpless. And if they didn’t take this sack off soon, he’d suffocate.

His chest constricted. “Can’t breathe!” he yelled through the thickness of the gag, but the only sound that came out was a muffled groan.

Each time he dragged in a breath, the cloth stuck to his nose. His breathing became more rapid, more frantic. And then there was no more air, and the world collapsed in a maelstrom of darkness.

Chapter Thirty-One

After her late night, Charlotte couldn’t stir herself to do anything useful. In truth, everything seemed utterly pointless. Rafe had dealt her a blow like the Dolorous Blow of Arthurian legend—slashing open a wound she feared would never heal.

She sighed for what felt like the thousandth time and gazed at the ivy rustling against the window frame. A pair of flycatchers had made their nest in it in the spring, and she missed watching them raise their young, and the way the tiny speckled birds twisted, turned, and swooped on the wing after flies.

Now the birds were gone. The joys of summer were over, and so was her affair with Rafe.

“Charlotte? You’re wool-gathering again.”

“Forgive me, Mama. I slept poorly.”

“So did I,” said Aunt Flora. “I thought to try Dr. Campaign’s nostrum for sleeplessness tonight. Perhaps you should, too.”

“Gladly,” Charlotte said. “Assuming it doesn’t taste foul.” A night of blissful oblivion was just what she needed.

“I don’t have any here, but I can obtain some with great dispatch. I’m a…a rather special customer, and I receive express service.”

Mama said accusingly, “Do you mean to say you’ve entered into correspondence with this quack doctor?”

“I don’t care to hear you call him that. He’s a physician and a pharmacist of many years standing, and numbers amongst his clients many of the nobility.”

Bravo, Flora! Her aunt didn’t stand up to Mama nearly often enough.

“He has gulled you, Flora, make no mistake,” was Mama’s reply. “You only imagine that his remedies work because you are so impressionable.”

“Nonsense! Didn’t you see how quickly Lord Beckport—I mean, Mr. Seabourne—recovered from his injuries? No infection, no gangrene, no fever. It is a testament to Ephraim’s—that is, Dr. Campaign’s—skill.”