Chapter Thirty
Having slept in late, it was well past noon the following day by the time Rafe settled down to work again. He sat hunched over his desk, writing a dispatch, while Jessop lurked, pale and disapproving, in a corner.
The young man was still seething after the peal Rafe had rung over him—first for deserting from the army, and then for embroiling Charlotte in his unrighteous activities. Didn’t he know she was too soft-hearted to refuse help to someone in trouble? Didn’t he know that she had a courageous soul and would risk life and limb for a cause she believed in?
Every time the pen squeaked, the young man sighed and shifted, until Rafe wanted to leap up and throttle him. The urge was only intensified by the knowledge Charlotte had once loved the boy and still cared enough about him to endanger herself by helping him.
Rafe bent determinedly to his task. Saints alive! What was he doing thinking about her when he was supposed to be capturing traitors?
He scribbled a rapid signature to his letter, then swiveled round in his chair and glared at his tormentor. “I hope you’re satisfied with the trouble you’ve wrought,” he said. “I’m now one man down, since I’ve had to send Goves to deliver the letter that will save your sorry neck. That means this dispatch will have to wait until he comes back.”
Jessop shot up from his corner. “Look here, Mr. Seabourne, or whoever you are,” he said. “I don’t like being spoken to with so little respect. I know I’m in your debt, but that doesn’t make me a lesser being. I come from a respectable family, you know.”
Good family, indeed, but hardly competition for Rafe’s own. Wouldn’t he love to tell Jessop his true identity? The boy’s face would be a picture! “I’d hate to think I’d saved a mere yeoman,” he replied. “But a man’s reputation is based upon his deeds, not the importance of his forebears. I’ve yet to be assured of the quality of your actions.”
“And I have yet to be assured of the value of yours,” retorted Jessop, taking an ominous step closer.
Gad, the young man was so quick to take offense! Little wonder he coped so badly in the army. Rafe began to despair of ever being able to put such a hothead to good use.
Ignoring Jessop’s jibe, he stood up and rang the bell for Hamblett to make some strong tea. After his valet’s departure, a taut silence fell on the room. Jessop stood rooted to the spot, while Rafe returned to his chair.
“If you can withhold your rancor long enough, Mr. Jessop, I suggest we start your espionage training.”
Standing to attention, Jessop said, “I’ve had full military training, sir.”
“For all of three, four months? One would hardly call that full. Ask the militia at the castle if four months is enough. Ask the poor recruit shot dead in an ambush if four months is enough. We are a covert force, Mr. Jessop, and depend upon skills that are out of the ordinary. I’ll teach you to listen, observe, and track, to decode and send secret messages, to speak French, and how to read your fellow man. Now, what’s your weapon of choice?”
The young man paled. “You mean to call me out?”
“Of course not, foolish boy. I merely intend to discover if you prefer pistol, sword, or knife. A knife is the best weapon for a spy.”
“If you continue to insult me,” Jessop blustered, “I shall walk right out of here and tell Charlotte how gravely she’s mistaken your character.”
An empty threat—Charlotte’s opinion of him couldn’t possibly get any lower.
“You’re overreacting, Jessop,” he said. “Don’t take offense at everything I say. Grow a thicker skin. I’m your commanding officer now, so don’t expect me to cajole you.”
Jessop adjusted his stance, forced his chin down, and tugged mulishly at his cuffs. He might be a decent fellow in normal circumstances, Rafe mused, but while he was such a slave to his own emotions, he was a liability.
“Sit down and calm yourself,” he ordered. “Let’s just accept that misfortune has brought us both together, and in order to please Miss Allston we must make the best of it.”
The youth stomped to the far side of the room and sank into a deep leather armchair. “I’d do anything to please her,” he said.
“She’s more important to you than king and country?”
“More important than life itself. You know what I’ve hazarded for her sake.”
“And do you know how much she’s hazarded for yours? She was horrified that you deserted and played hide-and-seek with the army all the way from the Borders to Portland.”
“How could you possibly know her feelings?” Jessop muttered. “You’re a stranger to her.”
“Not so much a stranger as you might think. No, don’t glower at me, sirrah—I’ve warned you to keep your emotions in check. If a man can’t keep a cool head, his enemy will exploit the weakness.”
“I’m not talking about spies or foes or free traders, Seabourne. I’m talking about love. Though I doubt you have enough depth of soul to feel that emotion.”
Rafe had to force himself not to step up and teach the pup a lesson he’d not soon forget. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. I will take pity on you, however, and say that you needn’t be jealous about me and Charlotte. She wouldn’t have me if I begged her. Nor will she take you, I might add.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Ah, but I do.” With regard to himself, it was an absolute certainty. “She has a level head, and she learned not to repine over your loss when she could do nothing about it,” he said. “Her heart has now healed. I’m sure you’ll find her the staunchest of friends, though.”
Jessop was instantly on his feet again, stalking back and forth.
“We shall be more than friends, Mr. Seabourne. You can take my word on that.”
“Just because you wish it, doesn’t mean it’ll happen. Life has a way of putting obstacles in the path of love. The greatest of them being our own stupidity,” he said, recalling with dismal clarity how he’d behaved last night.
“Obstacles are there to be overcome. That is their purpose—to make love sweeter because it has been dearly bought.”
Rafe barely resisted rolling his eyes. “Very poetic, I’m sure, but I’m a practical man. When there are too many obstacles, love is best abandoned, for it was clearly not meant to be.”
“That makes you either a fatalist or a cynic, sir,” Jessop replied, coming to stand squarely in front of him.
“Or possibly both,” Rafe answered. He was tiring of this conversation—it was making him think too much about Charlotte. “Why don’t you go outside for a breath of air?” he suggested. “I have work to do that requires my concentration.”
Without a word, Jessop spun on his boot and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Rafe stared at the door, wondering how Charlotte could ever have cared for such an irascible, immature fellow. Young Jessop had been fortunate, indeed, to win her love.
What would it feel like to hold her heart, to be in her every waking thought, to win her delectable body for one’s own?
It would feel like heaven.
Her image swam before him, the wayward golden-brown curls that kissed her porcelain skin, the warm hazel eyes, the tempting mouth, deliciously moist and ripe for kissing.
A stab of pain struck his very center, and he pressed a hand against the spot. Why did people always say love was a matter of the heart? It wasn’t there one felt it. It was in one’s gut—a deep, visceral agony that pervaded every thought, every action.
He smiled grimly at his own hypocrisy. He’d just told Jessop not to be a romantic fool and lauded himself as a pragmatic man. Moments later, he was feeling the acute pain of Charlotte’s loss himself, and waxing philosophical.
He’d have to assuage that pain before it corroded his courage.
Reaching into a desk drawer, he pulled out a sheaf of papers. All were in code, each one indicating the deployment of Napoleon’s fleet over a particular month. He was quickly absorbed in them, looking for patterns.
A good while later, the study door opened with a smart click. Assuming it was Jessop returning for another battle of words, he didn’t look up immediately.
A rock-hard blow struck his temple, sending him reeling from his chair. Before he could make a sound, a bitter-tasting gag was stuffed in his mouth, and a sack thrust over his head.
The darkness in front of his eyes was lit by swirling colored shapes and flashes of light as he fought to remain conscious. His body was being carried, by two men, he thought, moving at a rapid pace. His head lolled back, bouncing uncomfortably, and his limbs refused to move.
But he was still alive, thank God, even though he’d been a sitting duck. His attackers evidently didn’t want him dead. But where were they taking him, and to what fate?
His body felt colder, and a grid of light appeared through the weave of the sacking. He was outside. He made another effort to struggle, more effective this time, but his captors just tightened their grip and sped up.
The light disappeared, and he smelled the sweet, pungent scent of fresh hay. He was in the stable. He could hear the gentle snuffling of horses—his own, and one or two others presumably belonging to his attackers.
The two men lowered him to the ground, and he could feel the lumps of the hard dirt floor bruising against his flesh. More pain followed as powerful hands pushed him down and bound his hands and feet so tight they went numb. He intensified his efforts to move, arching his back and throwing himself violently about—but to no avail.
“Stay still, or you won’t like the consequences,” a rough voice warned as another, denser hood was slid over his head. Immediately, all light was snuffed out, and it became nearly impossible to breathe.
Fear sliced through him. If they knocked him unconscious, he’d be helpless. And if they didn’t take this sack off soon, he’d suffocate.
His chest constricted. “Can’t breathe!” he yelled through the thickness of the gag, but the only sound that came out was a muffled groan.
Each time he dragged in a breath, the cloth stuck to his nose. His breathing became more rapid, more frantic. And then there was no more air, and the world collapsed in a maelstrom of darkness.