Chapter Thirty-Two
Once again, Charlotte was walking at a rapid pace toward Dovehouse Farm. Luckily, Mama had fallen asleep after luncheon and Aunt Flora was out, so Charlotte left a note to say she’d just popped out again to look at some jacquard weave fabric she’d seen at the milliner’s. As an afterthought, she added a postscript saying she also had a mind to visit Thea, and that Mama should leave the back door unbolted, in case she returned home late.
Thanks to Jacky Scadden, Charlotte now knew roughly how to find one more beacon. She felt duty bound to inform Rafe as quickly as possible, but she wasn’t prepared to trust Thomas the Carrier with such vital information.
Deep down, she knew there was another reason she needed to go in person. Not just patriotism, nor a desire to punish those who used innocent children for their dirty work. The real reason was to please Rafe.
She was desperate to see him again and to rejoice in the pleasure of his satisfied grin when she gave him another piece of his puzzle.
As she came within sight of the milestone that marked the turning to the farm, she paused. Was she just setting herself up for even more heartbreak? Rafe would be thankful for her news, certainly, but what would he do after that? Deny, yet again, the power of the force that drew them together?
On her part, she knew it was love. She’d felt it before, with Justin, but not like this—not this gut-clenching certainty that there was only one person in the whole world that mattered, only one person whose company was more precious than gold, and whose disapproval or indifference could break one’s heart completely.
Damn Rafe for what he’d done to her! She could no longer see straight, think straight, or even walk straight. The bramble scratches on her arms were testament to that fact. Yet, each time she’d come closer to exploring what was between them, he’d pushed her away.
If she didn’t love him so much, she could very easily hate him!
How would he feel if, this time, she rejected him? Once she’d delivered her news, she would say farewell and make it clear she’d merely been doing her duty, and never wanted to see him again.
Let him see how he liked it!
But beneath the notion lurked the faint hope that, hearing her indifference, Rafe would realize how much he needed her and was going to miss her.
Steeling her nerve, she set off again at a swift pace and soon reached Dovehouse Farm. The house was strangely quiet, with no sign of Rafe’s lookout, Paynter.
Her heart sank. It had never occurred to her that he might not be in when she arrived. Rafe could be anywhere, so how was she to get her important message to him?
She ran around the corner of the barn toward the farmhouse, and in her haste, failed to notice a timber beam propped against the barn’s open midstrey. She collided heavily with it, sending it crashing to the ground with a crack like a musket shot.
Well, that should bring Paynter out of his hiding place. Or wake him up…
When she reached the house, she thundered on the knocker and waited.
Still nothing.
Fear prickled along the back of her neck. Was she truly alone here? A place that had formerly felt so safe now seemed to bristle with menace. Hearing the creak of a hinge, she ran back to the side of the barn and peeped round the corner.
Someone was in the stables. One of the doors was still swinging gently. But if it was Rafe or one of his henchmen who’d been there, why hadn’t they come out to see what the noise was?
Battling the urge to flee and hide, she crept out from the shadow of the barn and padded cautiously toward the stables.
Peering into the rich, warm darkness, it took her eyes a moment to adjust.
Good God.
“Rafe?” Oh lord! She yelled, “Goves! Hamblett! Paynter! Where is everyone? Help! Oh God, Rafe, speak to me!”
He was lying across the back of the horse, trussed up like a Christmas goose, with a bag over his head.
He wasn’t moving.
But the horse was. Her shouting and its unfamiliar burden were making it champ and toss its head.
Thinking quickly, she grabbed a nose bag from the wall and scrabbled about in the pungent darkness for the stash of oats. All fingers and thumbs, she somehow managed to pour a measure into the nosebag, then tugged the beast’s nose down and secured the bag over its head. After a couple of irritable snorts, the animal settled down to a wet snuffling and munching.
She spun back to Rafe.
Quickly, she removed the bag from his head. His eyes were closed, and there was no sign of life. He was gagged with a strip of cloth tied so tightly it bit into the edges of his mouth. She fought desperately with the knot until, at last, it came free.
Summoning all her strength, she dragged Rafe’s limp body from the horse. He thumped unceremoniously onto the ground, and she prayed he wasn’t injured in the fall, though, surely, that landing must have hurt.
He still didn’t move.
Refusing to despair, she slapped his face a few times, but his head just lolled from side to side. Seeing a bucket, she caught it up, raced to the horse trough to fill it, and threw the whole pail of water straight into his face.
Rafe made a choking, gurgling sound, and she fell to her knees, wiping the streaming water from his brow. Her heart, which had forgotten to beat for the last five minutes, leaped into life.
He wasn’t dead!
He gasped and coughed for a full minute, then sucked in a ragged breath. “In…my…boot.”
Though the effort seemed to drain him, she could sense his urgency. He wasn’t safe yet. Throwing wide the stable door to give herself more light, she dragged at his boots, and as they slid off, something fell to the floor with a clink. A small bottle she recognized as the one she’d given him for his horse affliction.
She held it out and he managed to take it from her, but croaked, “Other…boot.”
She shook the other one, and something else fell out with a metallic ring. Thank heaven. A knife!
After a brief struggle, she cut the bonds that held his feet, then his wrists. As soon as he was free, he put the bottle to his mouth and drank some of the liquid. After a shake of his head, he seized the knife, heaved himself upright, and staggered to the doorway.
“Shall I go for help?” she asked, hurrying to support him.
Hushing her with a gesture, he gasped out, “Ssh! They could still be nearby. They mustn’t know you’re alone.”
He took a step forward, but she grasped the back of his shirt. “Don’t go out there. You can hardly breathe and your hands are shaking. You’re in no fit state to fight anyone.”
“Damn it. The brutes tied the knots too tight. I just need a moment for the blood to flow back.”
She was frantic. There was danger on Rafe’s very doorstep, and she felt powerless. She had no weapon, no experience, and Rafe could hardly be expected to protect them when he could hardly stand.
Suddenly, a blast of anger flashed through her. How dare they? How dare the traitors or the smugglers or whoever the perpetrators were truss Rafe up so cruelly? If the reaction he had to horses were any more severe, he’d have suffocated by now. Thank goodness for the nostrum. Already he was breathing a bit easier.
The men who’d done this were obviously not simple free traders who provided goods to those who couldn’t afford them otherwise. They were decidedly not dashing heroes, defying the money-grasping edicts of the king and his corrupt customs officials.
They were merciless brutes who would have tortured and killed a good, courageous man.
A man she loved.
Suddenly, help was at hand. Paynter, one hand on the back of his head and a grim look on his face, came lumbering up. “Sorry, sir,” he croaked. “Half cracked my skull open, they did. You’re soaked, sir—and you, too, Miss. What happened? Where’s Hamblett?”
Rafe sucked down another choking breath. “I sent him on an errand.”
“Where’s the new recruit?”
“Young hot-blood stormed off.”
Her heart sank, and her anger heightened. This was all Justin’s fault. If he’d stayed where he was supposed to, Rafe might not nearly have died.
Rafe was right. She should never have brought Justin here. By doing so, she’d inadvertently put Rafe’s life at risk.
“You’d better get dry, the pair of you,” Paynter advised. “It gets cold quick this time of year, soon as the sun goes down.”
“I want to look around first,” Rafe said. He turned and ran his gaze over her damp clothing. “Paynter, scour the house for villains, then get a fire lit for Miss Allston to dry herself by. I’ll not have her mama tear me apart because I’ve let her catch a chill.” He gave her a weary smile.
“You are not chasing after those men with just a knife,” she said crisply. He’d been so close to death. How could he think to risk himself again?
He pursed his lips. “Paynter, may I avail myself of one of your pistols?”
The man handed Rafe a gun from his pocket, tipped his battered cocked hat, and marched off toward the house.
“Oh dear,” she said, seeing the man’s blood-soaked collar. “Do you think I should go and patch him up?”
Rafe slid a hand down her soggy hip and pulled her to his side, curling an arm about her waist. “Maybe later. Nothing really oversets you, does it? I’ve not yet seen you faint, or scream and cry, or ask for the smelling salts, despite all the trials you’ve been through. You really are a remarkable young woman, Charlotte Allston.”
She gave him a shaky smile. “I was wondering how long it would take you to recognize that,” she replied.
“I am rather dense, aren’t I?” he agreed. “I wouldn’t willingly accept your help, but it seems I’ve never stopped needing it. You are always there for me, at exactly the right time.”
Warmth stole through her veins at his praise. This was a precious moment, one she’d awaited for far too long.
Unfortunately, there was no time to savor it. Paynter emerged from the farmhouse to say it was free of felons, and that he’d laid out some kindling in the master’s bedchamber.
“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.