It Takes a Hero (20 page)

Oh, dash it all, spying. She was spying like the worst sort of schoolgirl, but she didn't care. If anything, life with Mrs. Wortling had taught her there were worse transgressions than eavesdropping.

Besides, if Rafe Danvers was going to run around Bramley Hollow kissing every woman in sight, Rebecca knew it was her moral duty to make sure every likely suspect was warned that their heart was about to be used and toyed with most scandalously.

Not that she thought Lady 'Victoria cared a whit about those things, the deplorable flirt. She was probably only clinging to Rafe because he'd praised Rebecca earlier.

But whatever was Rafe doing with her? Could he really believe that Lady Victoria was capable of penning the
Miss Darby
novels?

Rebecca sniffed. She could hardly see what the earl's daughter had done during the evening that would lead him to such a conclusion.

Then another thought occurred to her. Perhaps he wasn't looking at Lady Victoria as his potential windfall, but as a financial savior in another realm.

As an heiress and bride.

What if she'd done too good of job showing him the house, and now he wanted to keep it? If Rafe decided not to sell Bettlesfield Park, he'd need a dowry the size of Lady Victoria's just to make it habitable.

Rebecca chewed her lip. Lady Victoria the mistress of Bettlesfield Park? She'd level it down to the last stone with the colonel's cannon before she'd let that happen.

She glanced out the tall arched window and past the far meadow, where she could spy the distant roof of Bettlesfield Park.

She always forgot how close Finch Manor was to her former home. Why she could skirt across the meadow and have her writing desk this very night, and Rafe would never have a chance to lay his hands on it.

When she glanced back over toward the palm, she couldn't see him or Victoria.
Good riddance
, she thought. Knowing Victoria and her lack of good judgment, she'd probably lured the man into a secluded corner. Like she'd done with Lieutenant Habersham all those years ago.

Rebecca glanced once more around the room to make sure no one was watching and then eased the garden door open, making her way into the garden. If she was quick, she would be back to Finch Manor before the tea cart arrived and anyone missed her.

In the meantime, Victoria could have Rafe Danvers and all his wiles to herself. Not that Rebecca cared.

Most decidedly not.

Not even if he…

Swept her into his arms and devoured her mouth with his sweeping kisses… Caressed her shamelessly with his skilled touch, made her…

"
Woooof
. " She slammed into the solid wall of a man's chest, the air in her lungs swooshing out.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she began, "I was in a hurry and thinking of… of—" she stammered until she glanced up and realized just who was blocking her way.

Rafe.

"Lost in thought or composing another one of your letters?"

"I hardly see that it concerns you," she replied, trying to dodge past him, but he moved effortlessly into her path again. "Besides, what are you doing out here? I thought you were occupied elsewhere."

"With Lady Victoria?" he asked. "Nice of you to send that pampered little chit into my arms just to distract me."

Victoria had been in his arms? Why that…

"I never—"

Rafe stopped her with a hearty laugh. "Unfortunately, I'm not all that fond of flirts." Leaning closer to her ear, he whispered, "I like a little bit of chase to my pursuits."

Rebecca couldn't help but wonder where that put her in his realm of preferences. Right now she'd be willing to risk a mad dash and a chance to prove him wrong.

"What has you in such a hurry, Miss Tate?" he asked, slanting a glance over his shoulder at the distant roof of Bettlesfield Park. "Did you lose something?"

Her gaze shot to his. She saw the truth there as if it were spelled out on parchment. Dear lord, he'd found her desk. He already had it. Now all he had to do was open it and he'd…

She spun around, heading back to the house.

Rafe caught her in two strides, and held her fast. "Like I said, I like a bit of a chase."

She shook at his unwanted grasp, but he had no intention of letting her go.

Not until he had some answers.

"Unhand me," she whispered. "Or I'll… I'll…"

He smiled, wolfish arrogance challenging her to do her worst. "Why don't you tell me what's inside your desk?"

She clamped her mouth shut.

He could hold her until the sun rose because she wasn't going to tell him anything. He could berate her, he could threaten her, and she wouldn't tell him a thing.

But Rafe Danvers had more dangerous means of persuasion in his arsenal. His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, sending traitorous, tempting tendrils of desire through her limbs.

She tugged her arm again, but he still held her, still teased her with his touch. She sent him a scathing glare, hoping he had no idea of the turmoil he was causing.

"A ha' penny for your thoughts," he whispered.

"They involve the investigation of your untimely demise."

"My demise?" he asked, faintly amused. "That doesn't sound very practical of you, Miss Tate."

"I think it would be very practical."

"Ah, but there would be consequences, repercussions when you were caught," he advised.

She already was. More than she cared to admit. "How about if we settle for your hasty return to London?"

"I could be gone tomorrow if you'd like—"

"Delighted in fact." She tugged again at his grasp, with no success. She couldn't struggle or call for help, for she'd cause a scene. And a scene right now was not what she needed. "So does that mean you're giving up?"

"I never give up."

He wouldn't
, she thought grimly. Why couldn't he be like the rest of the inconstant, faithless men in the world?

"And right now I see no reason to," he was saying. "Especially when something seems to be keeping me here." His lips curled into a dangerous smile. "I imagine you could answer all my questions. Solve all my problems."

"No, I doubt it."

"I could be persuasive,
mi amor
," he said in that sultry, Spanish tinged lilt of his.

"Don't flatter yourself," she told him, lying through her teeth and hoping he couldn't tell. "Your charms are rather like your manners, lacking on all counts and easily forgotten."

"You seemed quite engaged this afternoon." He pulled her closer.

Rebecca's heart began to pound anew, her senses reminding her just how engaged she had been. How close she'd come to…

"There should be no secrets between us." His breath teased her ear, his arms winding around her waist, pulling her to him.

No secrets? Her entire life was an enormous tangle of them. And this was just the man to unwind them. Strip her bare. Literally if she let him pull her any nearer to him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the handle of a small trowel left by a gardener on the fence post. She reached for it with her free hand and caught it up.

"Unhand me, sir, or I will be compelled to use this," she said, bringing around her newfound weapon.

He looked at it, one brow quirking upward. "What do you intend to do with that, Miss Tate? Dig me an early grave?"

She frowned down at the dull edge and realized it presented about as much danger to a man like Rafe Danvers as a newborn kitten.

Heavens, it wouldn't even frighten Miss Alminta.

"Please, let me go," she pleaded. "I can not help you. I will not help you. I—" Her words stopped short when inside the orangery there came a strident cry of outrage.

"Tell me where it is, Posthill, you doddering idiot," Major Harrington railed, "or you'll see us both consigned to hell!"

Rafe let her go as she straightened up, his body instantly tensed and poised, a warrior at the ready. He pulled her behind him and started down the path at a fast clip.

As he thundered toward the house, Rebecca wondered at him. Who was this man who'd invaded her life, her heart in such short order?

Friend or foe, right now she needed a hero. And it seemed he was the only one willing to help her save her uncle.

And perhaps, if she could find a way to trust him, to trust her heart, he might even save them all from the danger and folly that had followed her and her uncle for far too long.

«
^
»

What else is there in life worth living for but secrets and those willing to reveal them to us?

Lady Lowthorpe to Miss Cecilia Overton

in
Miss Darby's Daring Dilemma

"T
ell me where it is," thundered Major Harrington. "Can you not see that our very lives are at stake?"

Rafe had gained the doorway to the orangery just ahead of Rebecca.

"Oh, dear," she gasped. "Oh, no, this cannot be."

What it was about, Rafe didn't know, but he'd seen enough desperate men in his life to know that Harrington was beyond angry, beyond agitated. It hadn't escaped his notice that the man had been nervous and cagey all night, and while he had at first thought it was just part of the major's character, now he could see that something was erupting inside the man, spilling forth at the poor witless colonel.

Rafe's simple trip to the seemingly innocent village of Bramley Hollow had cast him neck deep in trouble. Seven Dials was starting to look positively bucolic.

"Listen to me, Posthill, you've got to pull yourself together," Harrington was saying. He had the colonel by both shoulders and was shaking the older man like a terrier with a rat. "Tell me where it is. Think man, use your wits, whatever you have left, for our very lives depend upon it."

"Unhand me, you knave," Colonel Posthill said, jerking away from Harrington. For a man who was supposed to be fragile of mind, Posthill looked very capable—dangerously so. "This is all your fault," he shouted at the major, prodding him in the chest with a stubby finger. "None of us would be in this predicament if you and the others hadn't cheated Richard like a pack of thieves. You brought this on yourself, you arrogant, greedy—"

"Why you—" Harrington shot back, his temper rising to the forefront. "I'll not stand for being called such names, not from any man, and certainly not from some disgraced half-wit."

"Half-wit! How dare you!" The colonel caught up a rake and broke it over his knee. Tossing aside the tongs, he held the ragged handle like a sword, driving the edge up and under Harrington's wagging chin so he had the man propped up like a puppet. "You pompous windbag!" he seethed. "I should have seen you court-martialed when I had the chance. I should have told them the truth, told them that you and Codlin—"

But the colonel didn't have time to finish his damning statement. Harrington moved quickly and decisively, dodging the impromptu weapon, and throwing a facer that sent Posthill sprawling backward onto the paving stones.

"Uncle!" Rebecca cried out as she rushed to her guardian's side. "How dare you!" she raged at Major Harrington. "You know he isn't well, you know he wouldn't, couldn't have harmed you."

"He was about to kill me," Harrington said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "You all saw it—he was trying to murder me."

"Bah!" Rebecca spat at him. "My uncle isn't capable of such a thing. Murder, indeed!"

Rafe didn't think that was entirely the truth. The colonel had looked quite capable.

And what had Posthill said just before Harrington stopped him?
I should have told them the truth, told them that you and Codlin
—

The hairs on the back of Rafe's neck rose, while his gaze pinned on Harrington. He hadn't believed the man's denials before but now it would be impossible for the major to dodge the connection.

And from all the signs of it, a most dangerous one.

He glanced down at Rebecca, crouched beside her uncle's still form. A cold dread filled his gut as he realized the threat encompassed her as well.

Rafe had braved all sorts of peril that should have left him dead and he'd never really been afraid. But now as he gazed at Rebecca, he knew only too well the icy stranglehold of fear. A cavalier attitude about one's own life was one thing, but now his life included her.

He could try and deny it all he wanted, yet suddenly Rebecca Tate's welfare rose above all his concerns.

Not now
, he told himself.
Not her
. But like the tide of trouble rushing through Bramley Hollow, Rafe suspected he could no more outrun the danger swirling around her as he could ignore the way her kisses ignited his untried heart.

Rebecca smoothed her uncle's wrinkled brow. Beneath her gentle ministrations, the colonel stirred and moaned.

"He's cracked," Harrington said, pointing a finger at his adversary.

Mrs. Harrington rushed to his side, to be joined seconds later by Charlotte. "Basil, you're injured," his wife said, plucking a handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbing it against his bloody knuckles.

He pushed aside her fussing, winding the cloth around his hand with military efficiency. "You saw what he did," he was saying. "The colonel went unhinged for no reason. He's a danger to the public and should be locked away. And if you don't see to it, Miss Tate, I will. Your uncle is a dangerous man."

"To whom, Major Harrington?" Rebecca asked, struggling to her feet. She faced the tall man, a David in muslin against a colossus in a scarlet coat. "He only fears his enemies. And those of England. Which are you?"

Rafe had to admire her mettle and nerve, but knew that while she might have the spirit to fight Harrington, she was in over her head.

"How dare you," the major sputtered. "Why you impertinent little bitch. And here I was risking my own neck and trying to warn your uncle and this is how the lot of you repay me? He tries to kill me and you dare insult me. Why I ought to—"

Rafe tugged her out of harm's way even as the major drew his arm back, then he stopped the man's hand in mid-swing.

A quick glance assured him that Rebecca, teetering on her heels, was in good hands. She'd been caught by a grinning Cochrane.