Chapter Eight
As Charlotte waved her friends good-bye, she spotted a man in a long oilskin coat hurrying away down the lane.
Surely, she recognized that form, that confident stride?
Beckport!
She needed to catch him. There were so many questions she wanted to ask. He hadn’t told her everything last night, and she meant to find out what he’d omitted.
Seizing an umbrella from the old Delft vase beside the door, she picked her way over the puddles in the flagstone path and sped off in pursuit of the swiftly retreating figure. However, her much shorter stride couldn’t match his, so she called out, “My lord! Wait!”
He spun round, and before she had time to react, he had her securely in his grasp, and half pushed, half carried her behind a thick laurel bush growing amidst a hawthorn hedge. “Never call me that!”
Buried deep within its thick foliage, they were hidden from prying eyes, the only clue to their presence the umbrella she’d dropped in the lane, lying there like a collapsed crow. There was so little room behind the laurel, she found herself pinned in place, with Rafe’s legs pinioning hers, his hands pressed against the prickly hawthorn hedge on either side of her head.
Despite her shock at his dramatic reaction to her call, she couldn’t stop staring at the way the rain plastered his shirt against the superb musculature beneath his unbuttoned coat. His long hair was flattened against his head and hung in dripping tendrils over his brow. Raindrops glittered amongst his lashes.
Her heart leaped to life in delicious anticipation.
Of what, she couldn’t begin to guess.
Their mouths were very close. He hadn’t said a word, but there was something in his eyes that filled her with wild imaginings, and made her knees go limp.
What had happened to the sangfroid she’d mustered last night? Could she devise no clever speech, no disarming put-down? Not even a complaint at having been manhandled behind a laurel bush?
What was wrong with her?
His eyes darkened. What was wrong with him?
As if claiming a fundamental right, he bent his head and kissed her.
His face was cold and wet against her cheek, but his mouth was warm, and his tongue—which soon found entrance to her mouth—was so hot it seared her soul. There was no escape as he pressed his kiss deeper. Not that she wanted to escape.
His hands slid down to grasp her shoulders and his body angled forward, molding itself against her. Her thin muslin gown glued itself to her breasts as the rain soaked from his clothes into hers, but it didn’t matter.
What mattered was the sweet sensation uncurling deep in her belly that his kiss awakened. What mattered was the ache in her fingers that made her want to touch him, to smooth the damp cloth over his muscled chest and explore the masculine flesh beneath.
Sweet heavenly bliss.
Justin had never kissed her like this. With such single-minded intensity. He’d teased and stroked and tentatively experimented but always stopped short of taking what she was too shy to offer.
Beckport, however, knew exactly what he was about—exactly what he wanted to take…and what she wanted to give.
Suddenly, he pulled away from her, his chest heaving, and shook his head.
“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely. “I—I needed to make sure you wouldn’t call after me again, or cry out.”
She gazed up at him, her mind in a muddle. Why had he stopped kissing her?
“I wouldn’t have acknowledged you, but I feared you might make a scene. That wouldn’t do. Understand?”
She blinked. No, she didn’t understand.
“I seem to have silenced you.”
“What?” She finally came back to herself. “No, I was listening—honestly.”
And thinking about that kiss, and how good he smelled this close. All rainwater, sea salt, and freshly mown hay.
“Do you understand the kiss was necessary?”
She ran her fingers thoughtfully over her mouth and nodded dazedly. “Quite necessary,” she dreamily agreed.
Then words failed her again. It was far too hot in this dark, confined space, a miniature world containing just the two of them and the runnels of rain that found their way through the thick leaves.
“Miss Allston?”
A world in which she could be kissed thoroughly by an experienced man and no one need ever know…
“Charlotte?”
“I beg your pardon, my lord? I mean Mr. Seabourne. Oh, hang it. Whoever you are.”
His warm breath wafted her hair. “It wasn’t too clever to shout ‘my lord,’ after I swore you to silence last night. Please, I’m Mr. Seabourne, except when we’re alone. Completely alone and out of earshot of anyone else.” He leaned in closer to her ear and murmured, “When we’re alone, you must call me Rafe.”
She breathed in deeply, drowning in his delicious masculine scent. “And you must call me Charlotte.”
She felt him smile against her temple. “Charlotte,” he whispered. “Even so, I can’t be angry at you. You had every chance to share your knowledge of me with your friends, and you didn’t.”
She shook the tangled thoughts out of her head and came back to earth with a bump. “You were listening to us?”
“From outside the window. There’s a very convenient rhododendron—”
Not even a superlative kiss was enough to make up for such cheek. Annoyance prickled up her spine. “What right do you have to listen to my private conversations with my friends?” she demanded. “To spy on us?”
He recoiled at her use of the word. “I prefer to call it information gathering,” he said stiffly. “But that wasn’t what I was doing just now. I was checking you weren’t being watched.”
“But I was being watched. By you!”
“Please keep your voice down. Remember our situation. If you’d just let me explain, without interruption…” In a softer tone, he said, “But before I do, I want to thank you for defending me, and not simply accepting what the entire world believes—that I’m a coward.”
She was in no mood to be thanked. How horrible that he’d been listening to her private conversation! She ground out, “One might be tempted to think you are a coward, when all you seem to do is hide yourself away.”
He straightened. “That’s unfair, especially coming from an outspoken chit who does nothing but sit around all day sewing and musing about who’s available for marriage.”
“It’s raining,” she replied indignantly. “I couldn’t go out. Believe me, my life is far more interesting than that.”
He threw up his hands and appeared to rein in his temper. “Come,” he said after taking a deep breath. “Let’s not be at daggers drawn. I want to make amends.”
Her unruly mind immediately shot back to that kiss. He’d used what must be the flimsiest excuse for kissing anyone that had ever been dreamed up. Was that also what he had in mind for “amends”?
Before she could find out, she quickly said, “In that case, explain to me what you’re involved in that makes you so secretive.”
He regarded her for a long moment, as if actually considering her demand.
To her shock, at length he said, “Very well. If you swear you won’t tell a living soul what I’m about to divulge.”
“Of course I swear,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. He still hesitated, so she prodded, “Go on. I’m all ears.”
Finally, he told her. He explained that he feared the two free traders they’d seen at the cave might be watching her house. The only way to know was to watch it himself.
As he talked, she found herself struggling to concentrate on anything other than how gracefully his mouth moved.
She managed to comprehend that he was now satisfied no one in her household had given away his presence in the village, and that no one was watching her family with nefarious purpose in mind.
Except him, of course, she thought wryly. If climbing into a young lady’s bedchamber in the middle of the night wasn’t nefarious, she didn’t know what was.
Somewhere along the line he’d switched to the topic of his alleged cowardice.
“…the simple truth of the matter is that I try to avoid horses because some of them do occasionally make me sneeze, which was the case on the unlucky day of my last army maneuver against Napoleon. Because of an untimely sneeze, brave men could have died. As it was, vital intelligence was lost to our side. The shame of knowing I’d caused the debacle was unbearable, so I resigned my commission and left the army. If the ton wants to call that lack of courage, then so be it.”
By the end of his candid confession she felt truly horrified at the shoddy way he’d been treated by his so-called friends and peers. He’d done the honorable thing and been openly shunned for it.
“Can you do nothing when horses affect you? Is there no medicine you could take?”
“None that the army surgeons could think of—their skills lie elsewhere. And to be honest, I’m not that bothered by the affliction, despite what the gossips say. I can travel in a carriage or even ride, without ill affect—I just can’t predict when I’ll suffer and when I won’t. But I actually prefer to walk. You learn much more that way.”
She gave him a searching look.
His eyes hardened and he said coolly, “Don’t worry about sparing my feelings. I’m used to being laughed at.”
She clutched his arm. “I’m not laughing. And I don’t think you’re a coward. It must all be…challenging for you.” She tipped her head in consideration. “My aunt says there’s a visiting doctor in the village. Perhaps he has something that could help? Mama calls him a quack, but Aunt Flora puts great store in his potions and elixirs.”
“I’ve already looked for him, but he’s gone.”
“I see.” She chewed on her lip. “Well, I’ll hunt around under Aunt Flora’s bed. I know she bought several of his remedies. Perhaps there’s a tonic you could take to reduce the effect horses have on you.”
“Honestly, there’s no need. It’s only perhaps one in ten horses that make me sneeze.” He held her gaze and smiled at her.
It was a very disarming smile. It set her heart aflutter, and briefly, she glimpsed the charming aristocrat he must have been before he went incognito. With that devilishly attractive smile, his handsome features, and athletic body, he must have had all the ladies falling at his feet.
A body that was definitely still showing itself to advantage beneath the damp layer of his shirt…
She swallowed against the peculiar feeling in the pit of her stomach. Or perhaps a bit lower… “But none of that explains why you are concealing your true identity,” she reminded him.
After a brief flash of irritation—presumably because she remembered his promise—he gave her a penetrating look. “This is for your ears only, d’ye understand?”
She nodded. “I promise. I don’t want you climbing through my window again to ensure my silence.”
Not entirely true.
“I couldn’t sit idle after I left the army, and I hated the idea of English coin ending up in French pockets. So, I volunteered my services as a spy for the crown.”
She’d guessed it must be something along those lines, but it was good to know for certain. A trickle of rainwater found its way down her neck. She shivered. “Are you just spying in Dorset, or have you operated somewhere else?”
“Such as Essex, perhaps?”
She went cold. How—
What an idiot she was! He’d heard her mention Essex to her friends while eavesdropping, and she’d just piqued his curiosity further.
What would he think if he learned the truth about her?
What would he do? Nothing good, she was sure.
“I was thinking more of East Anglia generally,” she said, hoping she sounded more casual than she felt. “Do they have smugglers in the Fenland? Are the beaches of Suffolk too flat for concealment?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been there.”
She wilted gratefully against the hedge. “Anyway. I appreciate you confiding in me.”
“Can I rely on your discretion?”
“Of course.”
“Then you can rely on mine.”
Her gaze snapped up. There was a peculiar expression on his face—half smile, half frown. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded.
“Only that I know your secret.”
Nausea enveloped her. The heat of his body no longer warmed her, and she shuddered, feeling the blood flood from her face.
To her surprise, he reached for her and held her against him, one hand cradling her hair. “Don’t worry, I understand. I won’t tell a soul. Do your friends know about your attempted elopement?”
She fisted a hand in his coat. He knew about Justin. Not Papa. Justin.
Her bosom heaved in relief.
Beckport’s chin rested for a brief moment on her head, then he eased away again. “I’d better go.”
Yes, he’d better. For more reasons than one.
Her mouth felt dry, and she licked her lips to moisten them. His gaze followed the movement, and her heart flew to her throat.
He was going to kiss her again!
Half closing her eyes, she readied herself for another passionate onslaught.
Which didn’t come.
He raised her hand for a gallant brush of his lips, then helped extricate her from the laurel bush and bent to retrieve her umbrella.
As he handed it to her, he said, “I’m glad you’re safe. So long as you don’t go gallivanting about on your own again. For now, it would be best to avoid the heath. I have reason to believe the rumors of a highwayman haunting the place are true.”
There he went again, trying to curtail her freedom. But with Aunt Flora off visiting and Mama busily trying to elevate her standing within the village, the prospect of a greater freedom than she’d enjoyed in a long time beckoned.
“Then I hope you will avoid the heath, as well,” she said, tilting her chin at him. “If the highwayman shoots you, you’ll be no use to the crown.”
His eyes glittered with mirth. “I assure you, I’m considered an exceptional marksman. I always carry a brace of pistols,” he said, patting the deep pockets of his coat. “Although, they may now be too damp to fire. No matter. I can always club the highwayman with the butt.”
With that, he swept her a deep bow and strode off down the lane.
She stood beneath her umbrella and watched until he was out of sight. She couldn’t possibly go back to the cottage yet—the fire in her cheeks and the trembling of her hands were far too revealing.
She’d been ready to let him kiss her again—and was certain he wanted to—but he, it seemed, had a far tighter rein on his desires than she did.
How could she offer her lips to him in so wanton a manner? What must he think of her?
Even more mortifying was the fact that he knew about her forbidden relationship with Justin.
How distant those bitter memories seemed now! She could honestly say she regretted her scandalous behavior, defying her mother and setting herself firmly on the road to ruin with an elopement. She felt as if she had been a mere child back then, but had since become a woman.
Even so…it didn’t sit well that Rafe had pried into her past. He need only pry a little deeper and he’d discover she was living a lie for a very different reason.
He’d said he would keep her secret about Justin. But the secret of her father’s guilt was another thing entirely. If Rafe learned of it, surely he’d feel duty bound to expose her family, and hand them over for interrogation. A King’s Pardon promised—but never given—would be scant protection.
Mama—and Aunt Flora, who didn’t even know their dark secret—would be mortified.
And Charlotte would be utterly and irretrievably ruined.