AllFreeNovel
Share Us
They had promised to meet tomorrow after the ball, but that felt years away.
Now.
His blood began buzzing, and before his mind could reason otherwise, his feet took him across the lawn, toward a side door he knew led to a servants’ staircase. Not a soul could see him go to her room. Even without Lady Arlington’s dire warning, Rafe would not do anything to cause Sylvia harm. She had already been through enough, and he refused to treat her like the other men in her life. Whatever happened between them needed to be her choice. But dammit, he hoped she would not turn him away.
Rafe was near the entrance when there was a rustling on the path that led to the stables. A figure appeared a few feet away. At this distance, Rafe could only make out the outline of a young man, possibly a boy. He spotted Rafe and froze in his tracks.
Rafe took a step forward. “Who is that?” But instead of simply making himself known, the boy turned and darted away. Rafe paused for a moment before instinct took over and he ran off after him. Every single castle servant was busy with the party. And none would run away from a guest into the night. Whoever this was didn’t work at the castle. And that made him very interesting. “Stop!”
But Rafe’s command only had the opposite effect. The boy was quick, but he was faster. And thankfully the moon was bright enough to provide some light. He lost his hat somewhere near the stables, but he would come back for it later. They reached the tree line, and the lad darted onto a walking path that led through the forest. Rafe followed the sound of snapping twigs. He could just make out the boy’s outline a few feet ahead of him. Another hard push and Rafe could grab his collar. He reached out, his fingers grazing the rough linen, but then the boy took a sharp turn and disappeared. Rafe slammed to a halt. A cool wind whipped through the trees, and the ancient forest let out an ominous groan. It appeared the long-anticipated storm was finally on its way. Rafe squinted into the dark woods. The trees were thicker here. The boy couldn’t be far. He then spotted a structure just off the path. Rafe took a few tentative steps toward it and was able to determine it was some sort of cottage. He could just make out a shadowed figure stealing inside. It had to be the boy.
Rafe considered calling out to arrange a truce, but the element of surprise had always served him better. He watched the house for several minutes and detected no more signs of movement. The wind whipped up even stronger, and telltale drops of rain sprinkled his cheeks. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Time to seek shelter. Rafe crept around the back of the cottage and found a door nearly rotting off the hinges. It opened easily, and he slunk through the doorway. What he wouldn’t give for his electric torch right now. It then occurred to him that he had absolutely no weapons—and this boy might be armed. Rafe made a fist. He regularly kept up with his physical training at a fitness club in London, but it had been years since he actually had to fight someone bent on harming him. Rafe abhorred physical violence. He could defend himself when necessary, but his weapons of choice were words. Manipulations. Even threats. And he was damned good at it. One didn’t grow up with a celebrated dramatist without learning how to put on a show. So that was what he would do.
Rafe had entered a storeroom at the back of the cottage and headed toward the doorway, which he guessed opened into the main living space. Years of dust and stale air filled his nostrils, and he suppressed the urge to sneeze.
Outside the wind howled and the thunder grew louder, which conveniently muffled his footsteps. Just as he entered the main room, lightning flashed, filling every corner with a burst of brilliant white light. In that second, Rafe was taken by surprise, and the boy, who had been waiting for him by the doorway, seized his chance. All it took was a quick, well-placed hit on the head, and Rafe pitched forward into the darkness.
Chapter Thirteen
Rafe stumbled blindly until a pair of hands pressed him down onto a chair. He could hear someone shuffling around him, and when he finally regained his alertness, his wrists were bound behind his back while his head throbbed. Rafe immediately flexed his hands and ran his fingers as best he could along the rope. Damn. It was double knotted. This boy had proven to be a worthy opponent. Rafe could get out of it, of course, but it would take some time, and the boy might notice his fidgeting. He slowly opened his eyes, which felt sensitive even in the room’s low light. A decent fire crackled in the hearth, and the boy crouched before it, staring at the flames. Rain battered the cottage’s windows, and cool gusts of wind escaped from under the rickety door. Most of the room’s few pieces of furniture were covered in dust sheets. Rafe noticed his wig on the floor beside him. The false mustache had also fallen off. Or perhaps it had been removed.
“I have to hand it to you,” he began with all the geniality he could muster under the circumstances. “It isn’t very often that someone takes me by surprise. So a point to you there.”
The boy rose, and Rafe blinked. His eyesight must be worse off than he realized, or it was simply a trick of the light. Otherwise…
The figure turned around. “I suppose that makes two of us, then.”
Rafe could think of very few, if any, occasions when he had been rendered completely speechless. But as Sylvia Sparrow stood before him in a pair of trousers, he found himself at an utter loss for words. One side of her face was illuminated by the firelight, and a few dark strands had escaped from under her cap. He could only stare, agog, as she tossed her cap aside and ran a hand over her pinned hair.
Rafe’s gaze then immediately fell on her trousers, which fit rather snugly around her waist and hips. It had been the way the fabric clung to her perfectly heart-shaped bottom as she crouched by the fire that gave him the first indication that perhaps the boy was not a boy at all. But he never would have guessed it wasSylvia.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped, suddenly feeling unmoored, as if the floor were tilting underneath him.
Sylvia crossed her arms and ignored the question as her eyes traveled down the length of his form. “What are you supposed to be? A pirate?”
Rafe lifted his chin. “Charles the second, actually. And don’t change the subject.”
Her eyes flickered back to his face. “Does your head hurt? Is that why you’re so irritable?”
“My irritation is in no way related to my head injury, I assure you.” But Sylvia moved toward him and gently ran her fingers through his hair. God, that felt good.
“There’s a bit of a lump but no blood. Luckily, you have a hard head. You bent the pot I used.” She gestured to the object in question, which indeed was now concave.
Rafe snorted. His mother had often said as much during his notably rambunctious childhood. Sylvia then moved before him again.
“Now that that’s settled, perhaps you could be so kind as to untie me.”
She eyed him warily. “I’d rather not.”
“This is absurd,” he protested, pulling against the rope. “Sylvia—”
“Why were you following me?”
Rafe heard the fear underlying her sharp tone. He needed to tread carefully here. He had already underestimated her once. “I didn’t know it was you. I saw someone acting suspiciously. I followed them.”
Sylvia narrowed her eyes. “Butwhy? Why wouldn’t you get someone else to do it?”
Frustration flared within him. The Honorable Rafe Davies may be a charming rogue, but he certainly wasn’t a coward. He had served in the navy, for God’s sake. Did she truly still think so little of him? “There wasn’t time,” he said through gritted teeth.
