Page 92 of A Perilous Passion

Right.

Culverdale stepped carefully onto the icy floor. She could just make out his features in the gloom—the glitter of sharp, intelligent eyes, the line of his thin lips, and the languid composure of his face. A composure that had fooled so many into thinking he was a harmless fop.

He bristled with menace. Perhaps her last hour had come. He had both hands free and was no doubt armed, while she had nothing but words to defend herself.

“I won’t keep you long, my dear,” he said, and she dared to hope he meant to release her, not to kill her. “I’ve urgent business elsewhere, but for the moment, they can manage without me. I aim to net a bigger prize than French brandy, Flemish lace, or Sevres porcelain. And you, my dear, shall be my bait.”

Her heart quailed.

Rafe.

She was sure he meant to use her to lure Rafe here, and into a trap.

She lifted her head. “I don’t know what you can possibly mean.”

He came closer and pressed his long, hard fingers under her chin. “Yes, you do,” he said, smiling. “It’s too late to play games.”

She licked her lips, which were threatening to crack in the icy air. “He won’t come,” she said defiantly. “He means to bring you down, and he won’t let any distraction get in the way. Especially a woman. You might as well let me go and stop wasting your time.”

“Oh, he’ll come. You can be certain of it. And I’m looking forward to his arrival enormously. Have you ever seen a man tortured? No? Then you shall absolutely watch.”

Bitter bile rose into her throat. This man had been to the royal court. He’d meted out justice in the village. He held the welfare of dozens of dependents in his hands. She’d even danced with him, for heaven’s sake!

How could he live such an outrageous lie?

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. She truly wanted to know. “You have everything you could possibly want—rank, privilege, wealth. Why throw in your lot with our country’s enemies? With a regime that has slaughtered countless innocents, including most of your fellow noblemen?”

His smile contained no hint of humor. “I welcome challenge,” he replied, “and I welcome change. The old order is dying, anyone can see that. What use have we for kings in their dotage, for fat princes who care only for their own pleasure? None, whatsoever. The new order in France is refreshing. It must happen here, as well.”

“I don’t necessarily disagree. But what of the bloodshed?” she countered. “You’re prepared to risk lives, even of innocent children?”

“Everything comes at a price.” He fetched a silk handkerchief from his pocket and made great play of stifling a yawn. “I tire of this discussion. Perhaps it’s time to gag you, so I can finish you off in peace. I have to occupy the time somehow until Beckport comes.”

She turned her head away as he seized her bound hands and flung her to the floor. But she’d barely time to register the fresh agony when, with a rush of air, a dark shape hurtled past and knocked Culverdale off his feet.

He gave a grunt of pain, and when she looked up, two men were grappling violently on the slimy surface of the ice. She tugged at her bonds, desperate to escape them, but it was useless. All she could do was watch as the men rolled over and over, clawing, striking and grabbing at one another.

She saw the glint of a knife in Culverdale’s hand. He struck at his assailant, but the man just swore and sent the weapon flying.

Her heart stilled at the curse. She knew that voice. Rafe!

But why was he wearing such ill-fitting clothes? Clothes that made him look a little like…Justin?

There was no time to puzzle it out. She must get herself free, or at least get close enough to distract or immobilize Culverdale.

But Rafe needed no help. He bore down on his foe with grim determination, trapping the older man’s flailing legs, countering every blow with iron strength, and finally pushing Culverdale’s head backward with the flat of his hand until the man’s neck creaked.

The traitor’s body went limp, but Rafe took no chances. He drove his fist so hard into the man’s face the whole body jerked. Culverdale’s head struck the ice.

Then all was still, except for the slow leak of dark blood from the traitor’s nose.

Rafe rolled the inert form away from Charlotte. “I’m sorry you had to witness that,” he said.

A swift step brought him to his knees beside her. He drew her to him, and she collapsed into the strength and safety of his embrace. “Oh, Rafe, thank God.”

“My darling,” he rasped. “Did that whoreson hurt you?”

She could force no more sound past the knot of emotion lodged in her throat, so she just shook her head against the sturdy column of his neck. His chest heaved as he held her closer still, and the moment spun out like a thread unraveling, until her fear and shock slowly ebbed away.