A Daring Passion

by Rosemary Rogers

  “And why would a sailor’s daughter be schooled in a French convent?”

  She tilted her chin at the edge of mockery in his tone. “My mother was the daughter of a successful French sea captain, and it was her wish that I be sent to the same convent that she attended.”

  “She is no longer alive?”

  “No, she died when I was just a child.”

  “As did mine,” he murmured, his voice so low she barely heard the words. Raine stilled as his expression softened with what might have been sorrow, but before she could speak the taunting smile was back with a vengeance. “I suppose it must be difficult for you?”

  “Sharing a carriage with you? Yes, extraordinarily difficult.”

  His gaze flicked over her with a callous assessment. “I meant being trapped among the rustics. You must be a shimmering diamond among the dross. Such beauty and elegance. Do the local farmers and tradesmen come to worship at your feet?”

  Horrid, horrid man.

  “Are you always so offensive?”

  “Only to those who dare to attack my carriage and point a pistol at my heart.”

  Her hands clenched into tight fists in her lap, but she at least possessed the sense not to strike out. He was no doubt the sort who would strike back, even if she was a woman.

  “You cannot know how desperately I wish I had put a bullet through your heart.”

  His smile was suddenly genuine. “Then let this be a lesson to you, menina pequena, on the next occasion do not hesitate.”

  “Have no fear. I will not so much as blink.”

  An unexpected chuckle filled the carriage, flowing down Raine’s spine with a delicious warmth.

  “So savage, and not at all what one would expect from an English wench,” he murmured in appreciation. “They are usually so dull and bland. But then, what can one expect from such a cold, gray country?”

  Raine regarded him warily. She distrusted his heat as much as his ice. Indeed, the heat had proved far more dangerous.

  “England is not cold and gray,” she protested as she leaned back in her seat. “And its citizens are certainly not dull.”

  “No?”

  “No. Especially not those born in Kent. I will have you know that our motto is Invicta.”

  “Unconquered?” he easily translated.

  “Exactly.” A sense of pride flowed through Raine. She had always loved her home. The beauty of the rolling hills and fields. The gentle rivers. The lovely villages with their clapboard cottages and timbered halls. And the hardworking men and women who toiled each day to scrape a living from the earth. “We have produced men such as Wat Tyler and Jack Cade, who raised armies to seek justice for their neighbors. And Nelson himself lived in Chatham.”

  “And now, of course, you have the Knave of Knightsbridge.”

  “Yes, we do,” she said without the least hint of apology.

  “And I have his daughter.”

  There was a rap on the carriage window before Raine could reply, not that she knew what she intended to say.

  Philippe turned to lower the window and spoke in a low voice to Carlos, who was riding on Raine’s beautiful mare beside the carriage. They spoke too low for Raine to catch the words, but she didn’t doubt they were plotting something nefarious.

  Despicable pair of cads.

  With a smooth motion, Philippe closed the window and returned his attention to her angry countenance.

  “I suppose your friend has no compunction about kidnapping a young, defenseless woman, either?” she said bitterly.

  He tugged a curtain over the window. “At the moment he still believes you to be a young, defenseless lad. I think it best we keep it that way.”

  “Why? Does he possess the morals you lack?”

  The green eyes narrowed. “Very few, and none when it comes to a beautiful woman who is without the protection of her family. Do I make my meaning clear?”

  She swallowed heavily, wishing to heaven this was all just a terrible nightmare that she would wake from.

  Unfortunately the large male form consuming far more than his fair share of the carriage was all too real. As was the manner his gaze was straying over her body with increasing frequency.

  The fact that his glances were causing the strangest tingles in the pit of her stomach only deepened her anger.

  “You call my father a common criminal, but it is you and men like you that are truly evil. I hope someday you get your just rewards.”

  His lips twisted, as if he were not entirely pleased with his inner thoughts.

  “No doubt I shall, but until my villainous end arrives I intend to enjoy myself thoroughly.” He stretched out his legs and folded his arms over his chest. “Now, I suggest you attempt to get some rest before we reach town. I doubt you will sleep easily once you are tossed into a damp cell.”

  With maddening arrogance he closed his eyes, not only ensuring he had the last word, but proving that he wasn’t even the least frightened that she might try to harm him, or dare to escape.

  She gritted her teeth and spent the remainder of the cold trip fantasizing on the numerous methods of torturing a raven-haired devil.

  PHILIPPE PRETENDED SLEEP until they rattled through the outskirts of London and entered Mayfair. He had purchased his house in Grosvenor Square ten years before, when it had become evident his business would mean remaining in England for at least a few months a year.

  It was far too large and elegant for a bachelor, but since many noblemen had decided that it was more fashionable to reside in the newer squares of Portman and Cavendish, he had concluded it was too good a bargain to pass up.

  His investment instincts were flawless.

  His other instincts, at least at the moment, were open to question.

  Glancing across the carriage at the tiny woman who was glaring at him with a murderous intent, Philippe suppressed a sigh. Throughout the tedious journey he had been painfully aware of Raine Wimbourne. Even as he had feigned sleep his senses had been assaulted by her presence. The warm scent of lilacs, the soft sound of her breath, the brush of her slender leg against his own.

  It was as if she were branding herself deep into his awareness. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop her.

  Only a lifetime of rigid discipline had managed to keep him from reaching out and crushing her in his arms.

  Feeling the carriage sway as it descended into Brook’s Mews, Philippe straightened and buttoned his coat. He had commanded Carlos to tell Swann to take them directly to the stables. Not only did he dislike disturbing the elderly couple who were the only staff that actually resided in the house, but he had no intention of alerting the neighborhood he had kidnapped a young lady.

  It was the sort of thing that was bound to disturb the aging nobles.

  Once they pulled to a halt he reached across to grasp the cape that flowed over the seat, and with one smooth motion had it pulled over Raine’s head.

  “Bloody hell, what are you doing?” she rasped.

  Stepping out of the carriage, Philippe reached back to grasp his prisoner about the waist and easily tossed her over his shoulder.

  “Do you wish the entire neighborhood to see you entering my town house in the middle of the night?” he demanded.

  “Oh, certainly not.” She futilely attempted to kick him. “I would not wish to ruin my reputation before I am hauled off to prison.”

  “The night is not yet over, cara. Perhaps if you please me enough I will postpone your trip to Newgate.”

  “Please you? Please you?” she echoed in disbelief. “I intend to kill you.”

  “You are welcome to try.” He adjusted her on his shoulder and clamped an arm around her flailing legs. “Now, do be quiet or I will be forced to gag you. Not a bad notion now that I think upon it.” He turned to discover his groom approaching him with a furrowed brow. “Ah, Swann, stable the horses and warn the Hibberts that I will only be staying a day or two and have no wish to officially open the house. Whatever staff th
ey have come during the day will have to do.”

  “And your…companion?” the groom demanded.

  Philippe smiled with a surge of anticipation. “I will deal with him.”

  Swann turned his head to spit on the ground. “You should have him hauled off to the gallows. Or better yet, leave him here with me. I should soon have him ruing his dastardly ways.”

  “Yes, I am certain you would be very persuasive, however, I still have use for the brat.” He chuckled at the muffled curse that was smothered by the cape and headed toward the door. “When Carlos arrives tell him I will meet him in the library after I have settled my guest.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Carrying his slight burden without trouble, Philippe crossed to the low gate and entered his tidy gardens. Ahead of him the three-storied house built in a mellowed red brickwork slumbered in shadows. It was not the largest house in the square, but there was an aging dignity in the sturdy garrets, the finely carved stonework and wrought iron railings.

  He paused long enough to dig the key from his pocket and opened the door to the lower kitchens. From there he used the servants’ staircase to make his way to the attics that had once housed the nurseries. If his memory served him right there was a narrow bed among the furnishings, and best of all the windows were too high and narrow to prevent even the most determined escape.

  At last reaching his destination, he stepped into the musky apartments and tossed his furious bundle onto the bed.

  Leaving her to struggle out of the cumbersome cape, Philippe moved to the nearby fireplace and was rewarded to discover a forgotten candle on the mantel. Once he had the wick blazing, he turned to discover Raine tossing aside the cape and standing to slay him with a murderous glare.

  Before she could hurl her venomous insults, he moved forward and offered a faint bow.

  “These will be your chambers, my lady,” he murmured in taunting tones. “Perhaps not the most elegant room in the house, but no doubt preferable to a cold prison cell?”

  Her nose wrinkled at the thick coating of dust. “Barely.”

  Against his will Philippe discovered himself laughing at her relentless courage. Meu Deus, what other woman would face him so boldly?

  Stepping even closer, he surveyed her pale, perfect features. Even attired in the ridiculous jacket and buckskins with her amber hair in tangles, she was still the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

  “Do you never give an inch, Raine?” he said softly.

  Her chin tilted upward. “Do you?”

  “Never.”

  Her eyes widened at the husky edge of his voice, but before she could react he had wrapped his arms around her waist and hauled her firmly against his chest. Philippe waited until her lips parted in protest before he claimed them in a rough kiss.

  He could sense her shock. Not that it could be any greater than his own, he ruefully told himself. He certainly hadn’t intended to grab and kiss her as if he were some bumbling stable lad with his first maid. It was hardly the technique of a practiced seducer.

  But there was no denying that there was something about this woman that provoked and bedeviled him in a manner he was finding difficult to ignore.

  He desired her. He desired her with a power that was quickly becoming an obsession. But more than that, he was fascinated by her.

  She was a unique puzzle he felt compelled to solve.

  Outlining her full mouth with the tip of his tongue, he slipped between her lips and tasted the decadent wetness within. His breath was squeezed from his lungs. She tasted as sweet and fresh as the lilacs she smelled of. As sweet as spring.

  Just for a moment she stiffened, as if she were about to pull away, and Philippe silently cursed. She was not indifferent to his touch. He was experienced enough to know when a woman returned his desire. She might wish him in hell, but she still wanted him.

  Then, with a faint sigh, she was melting into his arms.

  A shudder shook through him. It was no more than a kiss, but his entire body clenched with pleasure.

  Feeling her grasp at the folds of his greatcoat, Philippe traced his hands up the curve of her spine. She was so delicate. So astonishingly tiny in his hands. It was easy to forget her fragility when she was battling him as if she were as large and intimidating as a dockhand.

  With gentle care he smoothed his hands back down to her hips. His lips shifted to spread light kisses over her cheek before he lightly stroked the shell of her ear with his tongue.

  She shivered beneath his touch and he felt that strange searing heat race through him. A heat that flowed through his entire body, not just the familiar bits and pieces.

  The urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her to the nearby bed was overwhelming.

  He wanted to see her spread beneath him. To part her thighs and discover the heart of her pleasure. To thrust himself into her until they were both exhausted and sated.

  It was surely what she had been created for?

  His arms had already tightened when he gave a low groan.

  The devil take it, this was not the time to be indulging in such games. No matter how delightful.

  At this moment Carlos was awaiting him in his library, and his brother would be anxiously awaiting word that he had reached London.

  He abruptly lifted his head, gazing down at her upturned face with a brooding intensity.

  In the flickering candlelight her delicate beauty was enough to steal his breath. The golden curls were a shimmering river as they tumbled about her shoulders, her ivory skin was brushed with a faint flush, and her eyes smoldered with the lingering memory of his kiss.

  She looked like a wanton, exotic angel.

  Perhaps in another man it might not be so surprising that he had lost all sense. She was lovely enough to tempt a saint.

  But he was not just any man, he sternly reminded himself. He was Philippe Gautier. A gentleman who had built a fortune on his ruthless ability to never lose sight of his goals.

  Taking a step backward, he sucked in a deep breath. “I have business to tend to. You will remain here until I return,” he said in tones that were more abrupt than he intended.

  She frowned as her fingers rose to touch lips still reddened from his kiss.

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  His lips twisted as he turned and moved to the door. “That is the question, is it not?”

  Refusing to glance back, Philippe shut the door behind him, and then, taking a chair from the hall, he lodged it beneath the knob.

  He paused in the shadows as his gaze lingered on the door. He knew that she was effectively trapped. There was no way out of the room, and even if she tried to scream there would be no one to hear her.

  Still, he found himself reluctant to leave. As if she might disappear into a puff of smoke the moment she was out of his sight.

  Ridiculous.

  He gave himself a shake as he forced his reluctant feet to carry him toward the main staircase and down to the library.

  As always he found the house in pristine condition. Despite her advancing years Mrs. Hibbert kept his home constantly prepared for even the most unexpected arrival. There was no musty air or Holland coverings to be found. Instead he was greeted with the smell of fresh beeswax and carpets that were freshly beaten.

  It was the sort of loyal service he expected in all his servants.

  Entering the library, he was not surprised to discover that a fire had already been lit to glow warmly off the polished oak paneling and to drive the distinct chill from the room. His gaze shifted to take in the sight of Carlos stretched upon one of the leather couches, a large glass of brandy in his hands.

  “At last,” the younger man complained. “I was beginning to fear that you had been overcome by a half-grown waif.” The dark gaze abruptly narrowed as he studied Philippe’s tight expression. “Was he more trouble than you expected?”

  Philippe crossed the Persian carpet to toss his coat on a wing chair.

  “En
ough trouble to drive a man to Bedlam,” he muttered.

  There was a faint pause before he heard Carlos rise to his feet. “What the devil are you up to, Philippe?”

  Reluctantly, Philippe turned to meet his friend’s curious gaze. “Attempting to rescue my brother from his latest disaster. What else could I possibly have on my mind?”

  “You know I speak of the crianca. You should have given him a good thrashing, or handed him over to the authorities if you were determined to see him punished. Why would you risk exposing your arrival in London by holding the pathetic creature captive?”

  “Because it suits me to do so.”

  Carlos gave a slow shake of his head. He knew Philippe far too well. “There is something more to the boy than you are revealing. You would never have hauled him to London if he did not have some value.”

  Philippe shrugged. “He amuses me.”

  “He…amuses you?” Carlos gave a sudden laugh. “Meu Deus, is there something you wish to confess?”

  With a frown Philippe moved toward the heavy mahogany desk set near the bay window. For reasons he couldn’t name, he had no desire to reveal that the lad was instead a beautiful young woman. Not even to this man whom he considered a brother.

  For now she was a secret he intended to keep closely guarded.

  “The only thing I wish is to discover if my agents have managed to complete the tasks I set for them,” he said as he opened the top drawer to pull out a thick packet. He swiftly untied the string and began to spread out the various documents over the desk. “Ah.”

  Carlos moved to stand beside him. “What are those?”

  Philippe felt his stomach clench as he skimmed through the various papers. Before leaving for England he had sent word to his most trusted agents to begin the investigations to clear his brother’s name. Beginning with these papers.

  There were promissory notes adding up to an enormous sum, sketched maps of Windsor Castle and the surrounding grounds, lists of guards on duty and a list of drugs that were all lethal.

  There were even letters written in French that were supposedly from some cohort that warned Jean-Pierre to murder the king before the end of the year if he expected to collect his reward.