A Daring Passion

by Rosemary Rogers

  It happened so swiftly that Raine had barely registered the startling realization that she was naked when his hands were skimming up the curve of her waist and cupping the fullness of her breasts.

  She gave a small gasp that was swallowed by his devouring kiss. His thumbs rubbed over her hardening nipples, teasing them with a tender urgency that soon had her entire body pulsing with an aching need.

  Bloody hell. It was just as wondrous as she remembered. Just as magical.

  Philippe had called it obsession. And perhaps that was what it was. A hot, searing obsession that could easily consume her.

  Her eyes fluttered closed as his mouth shifted to brand hot, restless kisses over her face.

  “Meu amor,” he rasped against her skin, “I need to be inside you. I need to feel your heat.”

  A distant part of her urged her to deny his demand. He had already blackmailed her into remaining with him regardless of her own desires. To give into this heady passion would only place her more firmly in his power.

  That part of her, however sensible, was unfortunately no match for the sharp ache lodged deep within her.

  Her hands clutched at his arms as his head lowered to stroke his tongue down the length of her neck. He nuzzled her pounding pulse before his head was dipping even lower and his lips covered the tip of her throbbing nipple.

  Raine moaned at the dizzying sensations. It seemed entirely unfair that any man should have the ability to make her melt with such longing. To quiver with a need that was nearly overwhelming.

  Especially one she should hate with her last breath.

  He suckled her with a tender urgency that was tightening her muscles and making her legs weak. A low growl rumbled in his throat as his hands skated down her heated skin and grasped her hips. Then, without warning, he was turning her around so that she faced the wall.

  Caught off guard she swiveled her head to regard him over her shoulder. “Philippe?”

  The lean features were tight and bathed with a damp perspiration, as if he were struggling against a mighty force.

  “Shh, meu amor.” He tossed aside his robe and pressed his body to her back, burying his face in the curve of her neck. “I promise I will please you.”

  “But…”

  Her words came to a choked halt as his fingers slid down the gentle swell of her stomach and then through her blond curls to discover the dampness between her legs.

  “You should never have run from me, menina pequena.” He gave a punishing nip on the curve of her shoulder while his finger slid inside her and began to stroke with a slow insistence. “You belong in my arms. In my bed.”

  Her head fell back against his shoulder. A delicious pressure was beginning to build within her. Later she would tell him that she belonged to no man. That she was a woman who would always hold her independence dear.

  But that would be later, she thought as she felt his hard shaft pressing between her legs. With gentle care he parted her and then with one slow thrust he was buried deep inside her.

  Raine sighed as her eyes slid closed.

  Yes, it would all have to be much later.

  THEY ENDED UP IN Raine’s bed.

  After he had thrust himself to a shuddering release, Philippe had been too intent on continuing his delicious seduction to bother clearing his own bed of the various piles of clothing. It had been far simpler to carry Raine into the connecting chamber and tumble her onto the bed before she could recall that she was supposed to be furious with him.

  Now he held her tightly pressed to his body as he attempted to recover from the intense bout of lovemaking.

  Meu Deus. He was a sophisticated man of the world, a man who could claim the most beautiful and talented of lovers. And yet, none but this woman could make him ache for her touch, drown him in heat just by being near.

  A satisfied smile touched his lips as he breathed deeply of her sweet scent.

  “You fit in my arms as if you were made for me,” he murmured, his hands trailing down the arch of her back. “And perhaps you were. Perhaps you were born to be my mistress.”

  She leaned back to glare into his face, the dreamy expression that had softened her beautiful features swiftly hardening with annoyance.

  “Do you even realize how bloody arrogant you are?” she snapped. “I might only be the daughter of a poor sailor, but I have worth beyond becoming some man’s mistress.”

  Philippe gave her bare bottom a pat. “There are many women who would consider becoming my mistress a worthy goal. Certainly I have never lacked for willing females.”

  Her dark eyes narrowed. “Willing perhaps, but none of them were true ladies.”

  Damn, but the woman was a prickly thing.

  “I assure you that being a lady has nothing to do with who your parents might be, or whether or not you are my mistress. I have known any number of so-called ladies, not to mention gentlemen, who were not fit for the title.”

  She gave a deliberate lift of her brows. “Do you mean, gentlemen like those who would kidnap an innocent young lady?”

  He shrugged aside her insult. “You may not possess the proper blood, but you have something most ladies will never be able to claim.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Loyalty. There is only one other woman I know who would risk everything for those she loved.”

  A portion of her annoyance eased as she regarded him with a hint of curiosity. “Who?”

  “My mother.” He brushed his fingers over the golden locket about her neck. “She was a woman who was willing to sacrifice her life to save others.”

  There was a brief silence as she studied his countenance. “How did she die?”

  Philippe felt his muscles stiffen. He never discussed his mother. Not with anyone. But, for some reason he wanted Raine to know of the woman who had molded his life despite the fact he could not even recall her face.

  “When the Revolution hit Paris my father insisted that we travel to his estate in Portugal, and then eventually we moved to his home upon Madeira. He could not, however, persuade the rest of my mother’s family to abandon their homes. In the end most of them faced the guillotine.”

  Her breath caught at his stark words. “How horrid. No wonder you dislike France.”

  “I lost fourteen members of my family,” he said in clipped tones that belied the cold fury that gnawed deep in his soul.

  She frowned. “But your mother survived?”

  “She survived, but she never forgave herself for allowing her family to be slaughtered.”

  “She could not have prevented their deaths.”

  His lips twisted. “Grief is rarely reasonable.”

  Her dark eyes softened in a manner that revealed she was all too familiar with grief.

  “No. No, I suppose not.”

  Philippe’s gaze lowered to the locket that he had found among his mother’s belongings. They had been condemned to the attics after her death, as if his father was determined to banish her memory. Or perhaps it was his guilt he hoped to banish.

  Whatever the reason, Philippe had spent hours searching through the large trunks, needing to find some means of bonding to the woman who had given birth to him. A bond that was sharply absent from his feckless, irresponsible father and brother.

  At last lifting his head, he discovered Raine regarding him with a searching gaze.

  “Once it appeared the worse of the terror was at an end my mother insisted on returning to Paris and searching for any members of her family who might still be alive,” he forced himself to continue. “It was the only way that she could make amends with her troubled conscience.”

  “She went alone?” Raine demanded in surprise.

  Philippe’s lips twisted with an age-old disdain. “My father was not going to risk his neck on a fool’s errand, as he called it. Although, he is always quick enough to risk it when he thinks it might bring him a bit of fame among his fellow collectors.”

  Her eyes darkened, as if she sensed the part of
him that held his father to blame for his mother’s death.

  “I see.”

  He gave a restless shrug. “My mother arrived in Paris, but during her search of the various prisons for information of her parents she contracted influenza. She died within the week.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I had just turned four.”

  Without warning her hand reached up to touch his cheek with gentle fingers. “So you have no memory of her?”

  A strange, unfamiliar sensation made Philippe’s heart jerk sharply against his chest. He had enjoyed the touch of a woman more times than he could recall. In passion, in pleading, in anger. But never once in sympathy.

  “No.”

  She gave a small sigh. “It is difficult to lose your mother. Especially if you are very young.”

  “As you know from experience.”

  “Yes.” A hint of sadness rippled over her lovely face. “But I was fortunate to have my father.”

  He made a sound in his throat. “Your father…”

  Her hand shifted to press against his lips, a frown tugging at her brows. “No, Philippe, not a word against my father.”

  This time Philippe fully recognized the sensations that streaked through his body. He was naked in bed with a woman who made his heart pound and his blood run hot. Enough chatter.

  “I agree,” he said softly.

  Her brows lifted. “You do?”

  His hand stroked down the satin skin of her hip. “There are far more pleasurable means of passing the time than arguing over your father.”

  Philippe heard her breath catch at his bold caress, but she instantly battled against her ready response.

  “You promised I could write to my father. He will be worried.”

  With a smooth motion he rolled on top of her slender form, his own body already hard with need.

  “And so you shall,” he murmured as he nuzzled at the small hollow below her ear. “But first I have another lesson in the art of being a proper mistress.” Taking her hand in his own, Philippe pulled it down to his throbbing shaft. A moan shook his body as her fingers closed hesitantly around him. “Oh, yes, meu amor. Do not stop. Meu Deus, do not stop.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AS NIGHT SLOWLY DESCENDED, the fog swirled over the docks and at last gathered its strength to blanket Dover in a silver dampness.

  Still, Philippe waited until most of the good citizens had returned to their homes and were huddled by their fires before he at last commanded their belongings to be loaded in the carriage.

  It took only a few moments for them to arrive at the docks, but the carriage never slowed as they traveled past the looming ships and instead turned toward a rarely used road that wound its way out of the city and then turned back toward the water.

  Within a very short time the carriage was shrouded by the fog and there was nothing to be heard but the clatter of the horses’ hoofs and the soft lap of water against the rocks. They might have been alone in the world, he thought as he glanced toward the woman at his side.

  In truth, it was a pity they were not.

  Tonight Raine was warmly dressed in one of her new gowns with the heavy cloak around her and the hood pulled to hide her face in shadows. It was impossible to determine more than a vague hint of her slender curves, and yet he instantly felt a familiar flare of possessive pleasure rush through him.

  She could be wrapped as tightly as an Egyptian mummy and he would still recognize her. The warm, sweet scent of her skin. The unconscious elegance of her movements.

  He would not mind disappearing into the fog for the next few months, just so long as Raine were there with him.

  Unfortunately, the world refused to vanish into the mist and all too soon the carriage was slowing to a halt.

  With a faint sigh of regret, Philippe assisted Raine onto the road, commanding her to wait for him. Then he cautiously made his way down a steep trail toward the nearby water.

  He was halfway down the path when he caught the faint scent of a cheroot that had recently been snuffed out.

  Coming to a stop, he leaned against the large rock that jutted from the ground and folded his arms over his chest.

  “Good evening, Captain Miles,” he drawled.

  There was a brief pause before a string of muttered curses filled the air and a short, stocky man with a battered countenance and rough wool clothing stepped from behind the rock.

  “How the bloody hell did you know I was there?” Miles growled. “’Tis unnatural.”

  Philippe merely smiled as his gaze shifted to the two shallow rowboats that were waiting on the beach.

  “Any troubles?”

  “There were a few officers who were snooping about earlier, but I had Ranford give them something to chase. No doubt they are halfway to London by now. ’Course, there are always more of the bloody demons lurking about.” There was an awkward pause as the captain turned his head to study the frail figure that waited at the top of the path. “Yer companion won’t be attracting any unwanted attention, will she?”

  Philippe chuckled as he recalled his heated skirmish with Raine when he warned her that she would have to obey his every command without question, and without hesitation, if they were to slip past the port authorities unnoticed.

  “No, I can assure you that she will be as quiet as a mouse.”

  Miles turned his head to spit on the ground. “Christ, the day any woman is as quiet as a mouse is the day hell will freeze over. Never can keep their mouths from flapping.”

  “This one will, I assure you.”

  Miles spit again. “Mayhaps, but I don’t like this, I don’t mind telling you. ’T’aint right to have a female on the ship. Bad luck. Everyone knows that.”

  Philippe leaned forward, his expression cold and lethal enough to make the hardened seaman stumble backward.

  “Captain, this woman is my guest and she will be coming with us, make no mistake about that.” His eyes narrowed. “And if I suspect for even one moment that you or one of your crew has treated her with anything less than absolute respect, you will find yourself swimming home. Do I make myself clear?”

  Miles swallowed heavily. “Quite clear, sir.”

  “Good.” Philippe straightened, squashing the ridiculous urge to beat the man bloody. “Did you search the docks as I asked?”

  Clearly relieved at the change of subject, Miles gave a jerky nod of his head.

  “Aye.”

  “Did you discover anything?”

  “Only a handful of rumors that a Frenchman was roaming the local pubs trying to bribe his way aboard a ship. No one managed to catch his name.”

  “What of a description?”

  “They all said the same thing. A thin man with a shabby coat and a habit of muttering to himself.”

  Philippe frowned. “That’s not much to go on.”

  Miles shrugged. “They thought him touched in the noodle and ran him off whenever they could. They did say they thought he had managed to leave port a day or two before we arrived.”

  It was what Philippe had been expecting, but that did not prevent a stab of frustration. He was weary of being one step behind Seurat. He wanted the villain in his grasp.

  “Did they know where he was staying?”

  “Hiding among the rubbish, most likely.”

  “But it was certain that he was headed to France?”

  “Aye.”

  “Very well.” Philippe gave a nod toward the waiting carriage. “Have your men load our belongings into the boat. We will leave as soon as Carlos arrives.”

  Miles lifted a hand and two men appeared from the shadows near the shore. Together the men moved up the path and began collecting the heavy trunks strapped to the back of the carriage.

  Philippe was just about to follow them when there was a sound to his side and Carlos abruptly appeared near the rock.

  “Ah, speak of the devil,” Philippe said, his gaze flicking over his companion’s dark clothes. Carlos had left the inn
directly after luncheon to prowl through the various taprooms to discover what news could be had of France. Even with the monarchy restored it remained a restless, unpredictable place. “What news?”

  “By all accounts the atmosphere is tense,” Carlos retorted. “Charles remains in power and determined to return France to the true Royalists. There are no demonstrations in the streets yet, but the populous is agitated.”

  Philippe smiled wryly. “When is France not agitated? It possesses a need to keep itself in turmoil.”

  “True enough.”

  “Is it safe to travel?”

  “Beyond the occasional mobs and demands for the end to the Bourbon rule.”

  “As safe as France can ever be,” Philippe said dryly.

  “Precisely. What of Seurat?”

  Philippe grimaced. “Every trail leads to France.”

  “I was afraid you would say that.” Carlos shoved his hands into his pockets and turned his head toward the slender form still poised at the top of the bluff. “You are truly taking her with us?”

  “Why should I not?”

  Carlos slowly smiled. “I have never known you to go to such a bother over any woman. Let alone one that you are forced to hold against her will.”

  “She…intrigues me.”

  “That much is obvious.” Carlos gave a lift of his brows. “But you do realize she might very well jeopardize your plans? If she manages to reach the French authorities and claim she was forced to Paris against her will…”

  “She would never risk her father’s neck,” Philippe replied, overriding the dire warning. “Not even to rescue herself from my evil clutches.”

  Carlos gave a choked laugh. “Evil clutches?”

  “Her words, not mine.”

  “Charming.” Carlos paused before giving a casual shrug. “She is a beauty when she isn’t dressed as a dirty little urchin. Anjo.”

  Philippe narrowed his gaze, clenching his fists. Meu Deus. There was something almost savage in the flare of fierce possessiveness that raced through him.

  “You tread dangerous ground, amigo.”