Chapter Fifteen
How had Rafe let the woman get under his skin so easily?
They’d barely met a handful of times, yet his body craved Charlotte like a furnace starved of air. Truth be told, his heart was not safe, despite the wall of resolve he’d built around it after leaving the army. It was a wrench to leave her, but leave he must.
Still, there might be another time, another chance, in the future, if only he could keep his skin whole for the remainder of this blasted mission…and those to come. Lord knew when the war would end. Bonaparte was a formidable enemy, and lately France had been in a desperate state, making the pompous little tyrant all the more determined to consolidate his position.
The memory of Charlotte’s kiss swept his gloomy thoughts away in an instant, and his heart sped up. She was a well of sweetness, her lips the nectar of the gods, her skin like silken flame—and the memory of her breasts in his hands ignited a wildfire in his veins that had him gasping for breath.
Self-control. Whatever had happened to his? And the manners of a gentleman—had he forgotten those, too? One simply did not take advantage of untutored young ladies. Not even willing ones.
Especially not willing ones.
But what an absolute delight it was to be with her. She refused to be cowed by him, she had no fear of voicing her own opinions, and she’d dealt with his wayward behavior without fainting away or erupting in fury. Most women of his acquaintance would have done one or the other, had he thrown himself on top of them—twice—or climbed a creeper into their bedroom in the dead of night.
She was truly admirable, desirable, and lovable—and, yes, an enormous risk to his heart.
“Halt! Declare yourself. I’m an officer of His Majesty.”
He pulled up short, reaching automatically for his pistols.
As a lantern was shoved into his eyes, the voice advised, “Keep your hands where I can see them, if you please. My companion has a rifle cocked and ready, and I’ve just lit you up as a target.”
As the temporary blindness from the lantern abated, Rafe saw a flash of red with white webbing. A Redcoat. “I was just searching for a handkerchief,” he said mildly. “I’m Mr. Seabourne. Who are you?”
“Corporal Triggs, of the 12th Reserves, garrisoned at the fort. Why are you headed toward the heath at this time of night?”
Rafe glanced to one side. Moonlight glinted off a rifle barrel aimed directly at his chest. More soldiers had gathered quietly in the darkness, but Triggs was the only one with a lantern.
Rafe groaned inwardly. He hadn’t meant to come this way. His bed awaited him, not his duty. So, why had he turned his steps in the direction of the sea? Damnation. Charlotte Allston was making minced meat of his mind.
“The heath?” he said, deliberately slurring his speech. “Musht ’ave taken a wrong turn. Meant ta go home. Jusht come from the ball in Dorchester.”
“In your cups are you, sir?” inquired Triggs, his narrow eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Your hands moved quick enough just now. Let’s see what’s in them pockets of yours.”
Damn it! Things were about to go disastrously wrong.
Spreading his hands in a gesture of assent, Rafe straightened up and said in an authoritative tone, “I’d advise you begin with the left inside pocket of my jacket and examine the papers you find there. Assuming you can read.”
“You barefaced jailbait!” said a second voice.
He heard a metallic click, then felt a hard blow on his left shoulder from a rifle butt.
His temper boiled over. In the blink of an eye, both pistols were out of his pockets, one trained on Corporal Triggs’s forehead, the other at the head of the rifleman.
More clicks sounded in the still night, making his hackles rise. “If you value your sorry skins, listen carefully,” he said. “I’ll drop these two before any of you can fire a shot. It wouldn’t look good returning to barracks with a dead officer because you were too hasty in your judgment. I’m on the king’s business and carry proof of that. Stand your men down, Corporal, and I’ll show you.”
For a few seconds, all he heard was the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. He’d be damned if everything he’d achieved so far was to be lost in such ignominious circumstances.
He held Triggs’s gaze until the man looked away and ordered, “Stand down, men.”
Rafe’s shoulders relaxed, and he rubbed at the sore spot where the rifle butt had hit him. Uncocking his pistols, he replaced them in his pockets, spread his arms wide, and said, “Left breast pocket, as I said.”
Triggs retrieved the documents, and Rafe enjoyed watching his face change as he read them. The man handed the papers back, stepped away, and saluted smartly. “My apologies, sir,” he said, as Rafe nodded his acknowledgement. “We have orders to be particularly alert tonight, and we’ve already had some trouble. It seemed mighty suspicious, you being out here at this late hour.”
Rafe took Triggs’s elbow and turned him away from the rest of the detachment, who were talking amongst themselves in hushed voices. “Why are you on particular alert?” he asked.
“Two reasons. First, there’s reputedly a footpad haunts this heath. The horseless highwayman, the locals call him. Lord Culverdale just put a bounty on his head.”
Culverdale? Blast it! This was an unforeseen hindrance. “What’s the bounty?” Rafe asked, thinking quickly.
“A hundred guineas.”
“I’ll double that, if you capture the man alive, unharmed, and bring him straight to me.”
The corporal grinned broadly. “Aye, sir. Where can we find you?”
“At Dovehouse Farm. But be discreet.”
“Oh, we will.” Triggs would be for the chop if his superiors knew he was after bounty, rather than doing his duty.
“The second reason?” Rafe asked.
Triggs’s expression turned somber. “A few hours ago on the heath, we stumbled on a bevy of free traders. Private Maddox was shot and killed in the skirmish.”
Rafe tamped down the chill fury that assaulted him. So, the smugglers were murderers now. And arrogant enough to take on a detachment of soldiers.
This put a whole new perspective on things and made his mission all the more urgent. And Charlotte would be far less likely to condone the free trade when she learned of this killing.
“I’m sorry,” he told Triggs.
“Yes, sir. He was a good man.”
“We need to work together from now on, Corporal. I’ve been detailed to capture at least one of the smugglers for questioning. But it needs to be done by stealth. I know you must be baying for blood after tonight, but if you scale down your patrols so I can go about my mission unheeded, I’ll mention your name in my next dispatch.”
The corporal considered this. “Are we not to look for the highwayman, either?” The disappointment in his tone was obvious.
“Only for a few days. But the double bounty will still stand after that. I’ll clear everything with your commanding officer at the fort. What’s his name?”
“Colonel Vansittart, sir.” Triggs regarded him for a moment, lifting his lantern higher. “If you don’t mind me saying so, I’ve seen you walking in the village with a young lady.”
Rafe sucked in a breath. He’d been afraid of that. It must have been when he’d accompanied Charlotte home from the beach.
“I’ve been in the company of almost everyone in Fortuneswell,” he replied evenly. “I’m gathering information.”
Triggs continued to stare at him. “I understand, sir. But the young lady might be someone you wouldn’t want to know what you’re up to.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”
“Because her father was Abraham Cutler. Cutler ran contraband across Essex, using a network of taverns for dispersal.”
He was getting angry now. “Don’t be ridiculous, man. Her name is Allston.”
“They changed their name,” said Triggs, warming to his subject. “And moved out of Essex before the authorities—or the free trading gang—could catch them.”
He stared at Triggs in disbelief.
Charlotte? A fugitive from justice? Mrs. Allston, a smuggler’s wife?
Impossible.
“What is the source of your information?” he asked coldly.
“My own eyes, sir. I’m Essex born and bred. I clapped eyes on Cutler and his family about two years ago. That was before he fell ill. Word was, there was a pardon in the offing if he turned King’s Evidence, but he was killed before it could happen. He died a wanted felon.”
If this was true, Charlotte couldn’t have known. She must have been away at school, or living in a separate establishment. Cutler’s name was notorious among the magistrates. He’d been slippery as an eel, always avoiding getting caught, never any firm evidence against him.
No, there had to be some mistake. Charlotte and her mother—and her aunt—were gentlewomen. Mrs. Allston was so self-righteous, she would never have had anything to do with a smuggler, not even a wealthy, successful one, he was certain.
Unless… Unless Cutler had been a gentleman when he married her and turned to free trading later in life.
A dark mood descended over Rafe as a thought struck him. This would certainly explain Charlotte’s sympathy toward smugglers.
Had she known about her father’s activities, after all? Mayhap even helped him?
The notion had his head spinning.
Damnation! How much had he told her about his mission? Too much, by far. He’d violated the first rule of espionage—tell no one of your mission. And this was the result.
He was a complete fool.
Bile welled up in his mouth. If all this was true, he’d just landed himself neck-deep in dung.
But before he went off half-cocked and overreacted, he’d better make some enquiries first. Just to be sure of his facts.
“Thank you for the warning, Triggs,” he said, and took his leave.
He must return to Dovehouse with all speed to salvage what he could of his mission, before Miss Allston had a chance to ruin everything.
“I curse the day I met you, Charlotte Allston!” he growled as he marched off at a bruising pace.
A gulf of black despair threatened to consume him. Once again, he risked losing his career and becoming a laughingstock.
Well, that would be the very last time any such fate befell him.
From now on, he’d trust no one.
No one.