A Daring Passion

by Rosemary Rogers

  Carlos remained indifferent. “You will find the means. After all, he is for once not guilty.”

  “Of course he is not guilty, but how to prove him innocent?” Philippe clenched his hand as he thought of his brother stuck in a rat-infested cell surrounded by cutthroats and lunatics. For all his sins not even Jean-Pierre deserved such a brutal fate. “By God, the authorities must be worthless lobcocks to believe for a moment Jean-Pierre could concoct such a scheme. The fool cares for nothing beyond the cut of his coat, bedding his latest paramour and paying outrageous sums of money on what anyone with even a modest eye for art would consider worthless tripe. Certainly he has not the wits to dabble in politics.”

  “No one has ever claimed that the king is the most brilliant of gentlemen.”

  “True enough.” Lost in his dark thoughts, it took Philippe a moment to realize that the carriage had inexplicably slowed and was coming to a halt. “What the devil is the matter now?” Yanking open the window, Philippe glanced upward to ensure his groom had not come to some injury, before his narrowed gaze moved to discover the vague outline of a horse and rider standing in the center of the road before them. “Damn.”

  Pulling in his head, Philippe reached into his pocket to touch the dueling pistol he always carried.

  Easily sensing Philippe’s sudden tension, Carlos straightened, a dangerous fire burning in his dark eyes. “Trouble?”

  “It seems we are about to be introduced to the local bandit.”

  Far from worried by the news, Carlos slowly smiled. “Entertainment. Good.”

  Philippe chuckled at his bloodthirsty friend. “Hold, Carlos. I do not wish him dead. At least not yet.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “If anyone is to have noticed the coming and goings on this road it will be the resident highwayman. I wish to question this scoundrel before you put a bullet through his heart.”

  With a sigh Carlos reached down to flip open the trap door that Philippe had installed in the floor of the carriage, a clever addition that had saved their lives on more than one occasion.

  Philippe waited until Carlos had slipped from the carriage, knowing that his cunning friend was plotting to circle around the highwayman and take him from behind. It would be Philippe’s task to keep the scoundrel distracted until Carlos was in position.

  Keeping the pistol in his pocket, with his finger on the trigger, Philippe waited until the carriage stopped, then stepped out onto the road and walked toward the head of the horses.

  “Stand and deliver.” The highwayman was gruffly commanding as he waved a small pistol toward the offended groom.

  Swann gave a snort of disgust. The groom possessed a rabid dislike for thieves and cutthroats and was always happy to shed the blood of any who crossed his path.

  “Get out of my way, you pathetic worm, or I’ll rip out your heart and…”

  “That will be enough, Swann,” Philippe drawled as he stepped toward the middle of the road.

  “Bloody hell, I am well able to handle a half-grown rapscallion without your assistance.”

  “I haven’t the least doubt in the world, but it does not seem entirely fair that you should have all the fun.” Philippe kept his gaze upon the highwayman, who had shifted the pistol in his direction. Seated upon a dappled gray, the bandit sported a brilliant crimson hat and flowing cape, and he had possessed the sense to wrap a muffler around his lower face. Still, Philippe sensed that beneath the gaudy costume he was a small, nervous sort of man. A cold smile touched his lips. “There is nothing like a bit of target practice to relieve the tedium of a journey.”

  “Aye, but now you have ruined the gloss on your boots and I shall be the unfortunate soul who will have to spend endless hours polishing them,” Swann groused.

  “We all have our crosses to bear.”

  “Some of our crosses are greater than others,” the groom muttered.

  “That is enough,” the highwayman snapped, waving the gun in a dangerous fashion. “Put your hands in the air before I lodge a bullet in your heart.”

  “Good God.” Philippe gave a sudden laugh at the high-pitched voice. “I believe it is no more than a babe, Swann.”

  “Young enough to still be sucking his mother’s teat. A fine welcome to England, eh?” Swann readily joined in Philippe’s amusement. “Being robbed by a brat still wet behind the ears.”

  The villain sucked in an outraged breath. “I am old enough to pull the trigger, sir.”

  Overhead the clouds parted to reveal a slash of moonlight that bathed the frozen landscape in a silver mist. The chilled air stirred the crimson cape, making it appear like a river of blood swirling around the slender form.

  Philippe’s smile never wavered as he moved forward with a slow, deliberate step. A part of him was aware that Carlos was creeping through the shadows, and that Swann was behind him with a loaded pistol tucked out of sight, but his concentration was centered on the pistol pointed at his heart.

  “Ah, but being old enough to pull the trigger is considerably different from being willing to pull the trigger,” he taunted, his pulse perfectly steady. He had courted danger too often to be unnerved by a half-grown brat who dared to interrupt his journey. “It is no easy thing to take a man’s life, not even a man who might very well deserve to be in the grave.”

  “Stay back,” the boy warned.

  Philippe took another step and reached up to grasp the bridle of the lad’s mount.

  “You see?” He was close enough to see the dark eyes of the highwayman widen with sudden fear. “You should never hesitate. Once you actually begin to consider the cost of murder, you are always lost. You must allow instinct to rule if you intend to kill hapless travelers.”

  “Move back.”

  “Had you shot when I first appeared I would already be dead on the ground and you would be happily picking through my pockets.” He pretended to consider for a moment. “Of course, it’s more likely that Swann would already have put a hole in your head, but…you comprehend my meaning.”

  “I said to move back,” the villain commanded.

  “Or?”

  Without warning there was a loud explosion as the boy did as he had threatened and pulled the trigger of his pistol. The bullet flew harmlessly past Philippe’s head and he regarded his adversary with a lift of his brows. By God. He had underestimated the lad’s pluck.

  “Damnation, the bastard is out of his wits,” Swann snapped. “Stand back, sir, while I…”

  “You will tend to the horses, Swann. I shall deal with our feral urchin,” Philippe commanded as he narrowed his gaze. “A brave, but foolish, gesture, mon enfant. Unless you have another loaded pistol hidden about your person?”

  The brat threw the pistol at his head. “Damn you.”

  Philippe ducked and gestured toward the lurking shadow beside the road. The encounter was all very diverting, but he was still hours away from a warm bath and his favorite brandy.

  “Carlos.”

  On cue the large man leaped toward the horse, and before the hapless lad could so much as squeak, Carlos had him plucked from the saddle and tossed across his shoulder.

  Philippe recaptured the reins of the horse before it could bolt, his lips twitching as Carlos struggled to keep control of his squirming bundle.

  “Forgive me, amigo, I had presumed you more than capable of controlling one small imp. Do you need assistance?”

  “What I need is a whip to teach this whelp a lesson in manners,” the man growled.

  “When you have finished toying with him, Carlos, perhaps you would be good enough to put him in the carriage?”

  “Are you certain? He’s a filthy thing with who knows what sort of nasty diseases.” Carlos paused to smack the captive on the bottom. “You kick me again and I shall throttle you.”

  “I will do more than kick you. I will lodge a bullet in your arse. I will stick a dagger in your heart,” the lad swore. “I will kill you both, I swear it.”

  Philippe grimaced. �
��Yes, it is a pity to ruin such fine leather with the vile creature. I paid a near fortune to have it imported from Florence, but I will not stand in the frigid air to question a petty criminal.”

  “Fine, but do not expect me to share the pungent experience,” Carlos warned as they walked back down the road. With a heave Carlos tossed the snarling lad into the carriage and reached for the reins that Philippe held. “I intend to test this nag and decide if it is worth keeping or not.”

  “No.” The would-be highwayman struggled with the cape that had wrapped about him and trapped his arms. “You cannot.”

  “Oh, yes, I can.” Carlos narrowed his eyes. “And you will shut your mouth and behave yourself or I’ll return and hang you from the nearest tree. Capisce?”

  “I hope you break your bloody neck,” the lad muttered.

  “I would cut out his tongue, if I were you.” Carlos muttered. “It would be a great improvement.”

  Philippe ignored his captive’s sharp gasp. “Not until I have the information I need. After that…well, you shall be quite welcome to hang him from whichever tree you prefer.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  RAINE WAS FURIOUS as she struggled to free herself from the folds of the damnable cape.

  What an impulsive fool she had been.

  When she had decided to take on the role of the Knave of Knightsbridge to dupe the magistrate, she had deliberately chosen the back roads and lanes near Knightsbridge to stalk her prey. The pickings were hardly fine, and more than a few nights she was forced to return to the cottage empty-handed, but the dangers were few. And most important, she managed to keep her father from the gallows.

  How could Josiah Wimbourne be guilty when he was so visibly seen about the village at the same time the Knave was robbing carriages miles away?

  Not that Tom Harper was entirely convinced that Josiah was innocent. But he could hardly arrest the man without some proof.

  Today, however, her father had sternly informed her that this would be her last night of playing the dashing Knave. His shoulder had at last healed and the magistrate was temporarily thwarted. He was determined that his daughter would no longer court such risk.

  Raine had discovered herself sharply disappointed by his command. Her daring charade had proved to be remarkably exciting as she had dashed about the countryside and collected a small fortune in coins and jewels to be handed over to her neighbors.

  She felt as if she were actually accomplishing something important. Something that could give her rather empty life meaning.

  An odd sentiment in a young woman, perhaps, but she had never been the sort of maiden to be content with keeping house and pandering to the needs of a man.

  With the knowledge that she would soon be returning to her dull existence, Raine had taken a ridiculous gamble and chosen this well-traveled road to make her grand departure as the Knave. Her head had been filled with images of wealthy noblemen dripping in jewels and carrying crates of gold.

  Her head should have been filled with the knowledge that such wealthy noblemen never traveled alone, and invariably possessed the sort of servants who were perfectly capable of protecting their masters.

  As if to emphasize her stupidity, she was forced to helplessly watch as the dark, irritating Carlos vaulted on top her beloved Maggie and took off down the frozen road. At the same moment the raven-haired gentleman climbed into the carriage and with a low command to the coachman closed the door to lock them together in the shadowed interior.

  Gritting her teeth as the carriage jerked to a start, Raine stared at the man seated across from her.

  Had they simply met in the street, she had to admit that she would have considered him the most handsome gentleman she had ever laid eyes upon. Not that handsome really suited the elegant male features and startling green eyes, she decided. There was an undeniable beauty in the sweep of his brows, the prominent line of his cheekbones, the aquiline nose and the perfectly chiseled lips.

  It was a glacial beauty, however, and Raine abruptly shuddered.

  Carlos might be a hot-blooded brute, but she sensed between the two men, this icy fallen angel was by far the more dangerous.

  Unnerved by the steady, piercing gaze, Raine halted her struggles with her cape and cleared her throat.

  “What do you intend to do with me?” she demanded, careful to keep her voice low. The only bit of luck she had enjoyed this disastrous night was that her captors believed her to be a young boy. It was a belief she intended to encourage. God only knew what would happen if they discovered she was a female. “If you think the magistrate will thank you for…”

  “Shut your mouth and do not speak again unless I ask you a direct question,” he snapped, his voice as cold as ice. Instinctively, Raine pressed her lips together. There was something unnaturally commanding about the man. “Good, not entirely a simpleton, then.” The green eyes narrowed as he leaned close enough to wrap her in the scent of warm, male skin. “I have need of information from you. Answer me truthfully and you might actually escape the hangman’s noose.”

  She swallowed heavily, her heart lodged in her throat. Dear God, what had she gotten herself into?

  “What information?” she rasped.

  “I wish to know of any strangers you have noted passing this way during the past fortnight.”

  Raine paused as her mind raced with possibilities. Perhaps if she could pretend to have the knowledge he sought she could distract him long enough to escape. It was a desperate plan, but better than none.

  “There are always strangers on the road, guv.” She made her voice even rougher. “What yer wishing to know?”

  His eyes shimmered with a dangerous light. “A large number of strangers?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “Odd, I was informed that this road had been nearly impassable for the past week, and that travelers had been few and far between.”

  Blast. She licked her dry lips, wishing he would back away. His proximity was far too distracting.

  “Perhaps there have not been so many strangers as usual,” she was forced to concede.

  He gave a low, impatient sound. “It will go bad for you if you fib to me, boy. Have you, or have you not, noticed any strangers on the road?”

  “There have been a few.”

  “Any Frenchmen?”

  “Well, as to that, there was one gentleman who spoke with a French accent that passed this way last week,” she readily agreed.

  “Describe him.”

  She clenched her hands in her lap, fearing the man might actually hear her heart racing.

  “He was tall, and thin, with a…large nose and…”

  Her words broke off with a gasp as he reached out to grasp her shoulders, giving her a violent shake.

  “I warned you not to lie to me.”

  “No, please,” she pleaded, but not in time. Even as she struggled to loosen her arms she felt the flamboyant hat tumbling from her head. One last shake and her long curls were dislodged to fall in a river of gold around her shoulders.

  Philippe stiffened at the sight of the glossy curls.

  “Meu Deus,” he breathed, his hand instinctively reaching to rip the heavy muffler that concealed the thin face.

  A female. There could be no doubt.

  No doubt at all, he thought as his gaze took in the captivating beauty of her countenance.

  Never had he seen such pure ivory skin. God, it nearly glowed against the gleaming amber of her hair. Her nose was a pert, straight line and her lips so lush they could make a man hard at the thought of them pressed to his body. But it was her eyes that caught and held his attention.

  They were as black as that of a raven’s wing and surrounded by a tangle of long lashes. Such dark eyes should have been flat and lackluster, but instead they flashed with a smoldering spirit that Philippe could almost swear was tangible.

  Suddenly all the elegant, sophisticated women who had shared his bed seemed to be pale imitations of femininity. Whatever their charms, they
could never compare to this chit’s vivacious, stunning magnificence.

  Philippe gritted his teeth as he grasped her arms even tighter and with one smooth motion pulled her onto the seat next to him. She gave a startled scream, but he never hesitated as he pushed her flat onto her back and trapped her flaying legs between his own.

  He was furious. Not the aloof disdain or the cold, calculating anger that he was accustomed to. No, this was a blistering, searing fury that caught him off guard and destroyed his icy composure.

  There was no reasonable explanation as to why this woman had stirred such unfamiliar heat, but he found himself unable to battle the sensations that flowed through his body.

  “Stop,” she panted, struggling to free herself.

  Philippe easily controlled her frantic wiggles as he shifted his hands to capture her wrists above her head.

  “Damn you to hell, what are you playing at?” he gritted.

  “Let go of me.”

  “Oh, no, my beauty, you are staying precisely where you are until I discover who you are and, more important, who put you up to attacking my carriage.”

  She should have been terrified. He held her life quite literally in his hands. Instead, she glared at him with a fury of her own.

  “You are hurting me.”

  “Keep struggling and I shall put you across my knee and beat you as you deserve,” he warned without compunction.

  “Brute,” she muttered as she tried to knee him in a most delicate location.

  His eyes narrowed. For such a tiny thing she managed to put up a hell of a battle.

  “Halt your struggles.”

  “Sir…” Her words came to a startled end as the buttons on her jacket were tugged open and the heavy material parted to reveal she wore nothing more than a thin chemise beneath.

  “Voce e bonita,” he whispered at the sight of her curved breast perfectly outlined by the clinging muslin. Without warning there did not seem to be enough air in the carriage.

  “Bastardo,” she gritted.

  His gaze jerked back to her pale face. “You speak Portuguese?”

  “I speak any number of languages,” she said with a proud disdain.