Page 178 of A Perilous Passion

“Go, Charlotte,” Rafe said. “Light the fire and dry off quick as you can. I’ll have a scout around to make sure the coast is clear, then I’ll see you home.”

She looked down at herself, at her splashed and dusty gown and pelisse, and muddy shoes. Her clothes needed to be washed before she went back. Mama would never believe she’d got into this state visiting Thea.

Satisfied that Rafe now had Paynter to protect him, she hurried into the farmhouse and made her way upstairs.

She’d never visited Rafe’s private rooms before but resisted the urge to explore. Only one door was open, and she saw immediately that a fire had been laid in the hearth.

She found the tinderbox and lit the kindling and shavings, watching the hungry red flame etch the curling slivers of wood. After adding some slender branches to the fire, she looked around the room.

Spartan was the best word to describe it. The few furnishings were basic but practical, the narrow bed looked angular and hard, and there was no decoration anywhere.

What a contrast this must be from what Rafe was used to. She began to appreciate what hardships he’d submitted himself to in order to serve his country the best way he could, hoping to come out of this assignment with honor and his reputation restored, after the ignoble end of his army career.

Her heart swelled and soft tears moistened her eyes. He’d nearly died this afternoon. She was a fool to care for a man who led such a dangerous life, but she couldn’t help herself. The Earl of Beckport was everything good and right.

But he wasn’t for her. He’d said so himself. Several times.

She had to remember that. And pull herself together.

Looking around, she spotted a ewer and basin on top of an upended trunk, holding enough water to sponge her clothing. She deftly stripped off her pelisse and gown, balanced herself against the room’s only chair, and tugged off her stockings and shoes.

A soft footfall in the doorway made her look up.

Rafe stood there, his hair hanging in damp tendrils over his brow, his damp shirt crumpled between his hands.

My word.

So that was what he looked like bare-chested.

Her throat constricted, and she just stared, her shoes dangling forgotten in her hand. It occurred to her—too late—that perhaps she should have locked the door before undressing.

But then she wouldn’t have seen…this.

He came into the room, his gaze holding hers captive, and she flushed at the heat she saw there. The man looked to have made a miraculous recovery. And in his half-naked, unkempt state, he was utterly and completely desirable.

She was alone with him, standing in his bedchamber wearing nothing but a damp, figure-hugging chemise and light corset.

She really should have locked that door…

He stopped within arm’s length and looked her up and down with shameless appreciation. She quivered. For once, completely at a loss for words.

“I thought I told you to stay away from Dovehouse Farm,” he said in a softly, menacing tone.

She tilted her chin, took a deep breath, and said, “If I had, you might be dead by now.”

He took a step closer, and she fought the urge to retreat. The bed was right behind her, cutting off her escape.

“You know what happens to willful young women who put themselves at risk, and won’t listen to the advice of their betters?”

“No.” The word came out in a squeak, and she cursed inwardly.

His lips curved up roguishly. “They have to be taught a lesson.”

When he scooped her up in his arms and laid her on the bed, she had a deliciously wicked idea what that lesson would be.

And hoped with all her heart that she was right.

Chapter Thirty-Three