Page 111 of A Perilous Passion

In an instant he was before her, thrusting his candle in her face. “What do you know of such things?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” she said, taken aback. “Why?”

“For your own safety, you must say not a word of what’s happened today. Forget you ever saw this cave, forget seeing the smugglers. And most important, forget seeing me.”

What on earth was he on about? But he looked so intent, she felt compelled to nod her agreement instead of demanding an explanation.

“Come, I’ll escort you home.”

The man was relentless. About all the wrong things. “There’s no need,” she assured him.

“I’ll be the judge of that. We were seen to enter the cave as lovers, so it would be advisable to keep up the pretense.”

She shook her head. His peremptory attitude was gnawing at her patience. “If you have any care at all for a lady’s reputation, Mr. Seabourne, you’ll understand why I cannot let you take me home.”

This gave him pause. After a hesitation, he rammed his low-crowned hat on his head, blew out his candle, and said, “I can well appreciate that. But under the circumstances, your safety, not your name—good or otherwise—is my main concern. If you won’t walk with me, I’ll follow behind you like a pet spaniel. You shan’t shake me off.”

More like a rat-catcher’s terrier.

She rolled her eyes, but he remained implacable. Turning her back, she put on her shoes and stockings, heaved a heavy sigh to let him know she was displeased, and accepted his arm. He helped her over the angled and slippery rocks, and pressed her hand close against his body as they walked back down the beach toward the rill.

He said nothing as they crunched over the sand but smiled at her warmly, still playing the part of her besotted lover. Yet she sensed anger behind the smile. Though, she felt it wasn’t directed at her.

She made no attempt at conversation, either. How could they chat about the weather or comment on the children’s games after they’d just shared such primal intimacy?

An intimacy that made a nagging yearning persist deep within her, a stirring of feelings that had awakened a physical curiosity to find out more about the act of making love.

Had the mysterious Mr. Seabourne made love to other women? Had he a wife, or a mistress? Perhaps several mistresses…

A sideways look confirmed that his dashing dark looks, fierce brows, and sculpted mouth were enough to attract the attention of the fairer sex, and that his superior physique could hold that attention, once given. Had any of them ever given him her heart? Charlotte might not know much about the physical expression of love, but she knew a great deal about the emotion.

When she’d chosen Justin to be the recipient of her heart, she had chosen the only man she could ever truly love.

A sigh escaped her. Exhilarating and intriguing as this little escapade had been, it was too brief a distraction from the issue of her broken heart. A heart that would never be mended, because she’d been forbidden from seeing Justin ever again.

She was still in a somber mood when they reached the cottage. Slipping her hand from Seabourne’s elbow, she said, “You’d best be off before my mama sees you.”

“I have no fear of anyone’s mama,” he stated as he held the gate open for her. When she stepped through, he remained where he was, gazing around, taking in every detail of the house, the garden, and their surroundings. “I’ll see you safely to your door,” he said, and then asked, “Are there any men-folk in the house?”

She frowned at the question, but he appeared genuinely concerned rather than impertinent. “We have an elderly manservant, Adam, but he doesn’t live in. Otherwise, it’s just Mama, Aunt Flora, and our maid Jenny. Why?”

“Unsatisfactory. Women should not dwell unprotected.”

She resisted the urge to tell him that compared to the kind of company Papa had kept, no one in Fortuneswell made her feel the least bit threatened. Indeed, until her meeting with Seabourne, no one but Justin had made her feel much of anything, at all.

“I assure you, we’re in no danger,” she said.

“You’re too young to know much of the world beyond your portals. Trust me, there is considerable danger.”

They reached the front doorstep. She turned to face him and snapped, “I wish you’d stop calling me young, sir. I’m already in my nineteenth year. It’s most provoking, as is your reluctance to explain to me why you are so interested in smugglers.”

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you that.”

He’d just reached for her hand, presumably to give it a parting shake, when the door was flung open, and her mother’s astonished voice said, “Great heavens, girl, whatever are you doing with Lord Beckport?”

Chapter Five

The next fifteen minutes were conceivably the most embarrassing of Rafe Pomeroy’s life. Worse, even, than the notorious Sneezing Incident.