A Daring Passion

by Rosemary Rogers

  Carlos met his warning gaze squarely, his own expression unreadable.

  “Not nearly as dangerous as the ground you tread. Take care that you do not land yourself in a bog.” He reached out to slap Philippe on the shoulder before stepping back. “I wish to make sure our tracks are covered. I will meet you at the ship.”

  Philippe gave a faint shake of his head at his strange behavior. He never allowed a wench to dictate his emotions. Not ever. Certainly not to the point of planting his fist into the face of his closest friend.

  Hell and damnation.

  “Be careful,” he commanded, not sure if he was warning his friend or himself.

  RAINE SHIVERED AS SHE STOOD at the edge of the small bluff. It was not from the cold breeze. The thick cloak managed to ward off most of the chill. Or even the fog that danced eerily through the bushes. One could not be English and not become accustomed to foggy nights.

  It could not even be blamed on the realization that she was about to be hauled to France by a man who thought of her as nothing more than a convenient body in his bed.

  If she were to be entirely honest with herself, there was a small, treacherous part of her that relished the daring adventure. Her tedious days trapped alone in the small cottage could hardly compare with traveling through France in a luxury she could only dream of. And an even more treacherous part was growing addicted to the sweet passion that Philippe could stir within her.

  No, the source of her shivering could be directly blamed on the small boats that were obviously waiting to haul her across the choppy waters.

  Intent on her dark broodings, Raine did not notice Philippe’s approach until he was standing directly before her. She gave a small jerk as he reached out to take her hand.

  “Come, Raine. It is time we were on our way.”

  She pulled free of his grasp, her teeth digging into her lower lip.

  “We are going in—” she pointed toward the small rowboats “—that?”

  He tilted his head to one side. In the misty fog his features appeared even more unearthly beautiful. As if he were a mystical creature that was not quite real.

  “Only for a short distance. My yacht awaits us out of sight of the shore.”

  She frowned at his casual tone. “Why is it not docked at the port?”

  “I did warn you that I have no desire for anyone to know of my brief stay in England. A difficult task when my ship is docked at Dover port.”

  Her teeth bit deeply enough into her lip that she could taste blood. “Oh.”

  A frown touched his wide brow. “What is the matter?”

  “I…I do not wish to go.”

  “Meu Deus. You are not going to dig in your heels now,” he growled, his countenance hard with annoyance. “Or is your word worth nothing?”

  Her chin tilted at the deliberate insult. “Considering that my word was given under threat of blackmail, I hardly think you are in the position to be questioning the honor of anyone, Monsieur Gautier.”

  “Perhaps not, but I am happily in the position to force you to my will, meu amor. So long as I can trust your word, then you will be allowed a certain measure of freedom. The moment you break that trust you will discover yourself a true prisoner.” He gripped her chin and tilted up her face to meet his glittering gaze. “Now, do you get into the boat of your own will or need I tie and gag you?”

  She jerked from his touch, relieved as her surge of anger seared away the ridiculous fear.

  “You beast,” she hissed. “Brute. Bully.”

  With a startling speed he had her by the upper arms and was yanking her to his chest. “You have not even had a taste of how brutish I can truly be.”

  She tilted back her head to glare into his tight features. “Fine, beat me then if it will make you feel better.”

  For a moment the fingers tightened on her arms. Then he was giving a slow shake of his head.

  “What the devil is this, Raine?”

  “Good God, what do you think it is? I do not want to go to France. I do not want to leave my father. I do not want…” She stopped to lick her oddly dry lips.

  He eased his grip and lifted a hand to cup her cheek. “What? What do you not want?”

  Raine heaved a sigh. “I do not want to get into that boat.”

  A silence fell as he regarded her with a searching gaze. “Are you afraid of the water, querida?”

  “I cannot swim.”

  “But you have made the crossing before,” he said.

  She gave a shudder as her attention returned to the rowboats. “On a decent ship that did not appear as if it would overturn at the first stiff breeze,” she retorted, her eyes narrowing as his lips began to twitch. “Do not dare laugh at me. ’Tis not funny.”

  His hand shifted to tug on a stray curl that dangled beside her ear. “Why did you not simply tell me that you were afraid to get into the boat instead of making such a fuss?”

  Raine gave a restless shrug. She was not about to admit that she had been embarrassed to confess the truth. Or that she took pleasure in his belief that she was bold and daring and not at all the usual sort of female who had vapors at every opportunity.

  “Does it matter why?” she demanded. “I do not doubt you intend to force me onto the boat regardless of any protest I might make.”

  He swooped down to drop a light kiss on the tip of her nose.

  “We must get to the yacht, Raine. And since you have already admitted that you cannot swim, I see little choice but to take a boat.”

  Her lips thinned at his patronizing tone. “There are many choices, Philippe. You could take the boat and I could return to the inn.”

  Something flashed in his green eyes. Something dark and primitive. Then, without warning, he was scooping her off her feet and cradling her next to his chest.

  “Ah, no, meu amor,” he rasped as he moved down the steep path. “We are in this together.”

  She instinctively threw her arms around his neck. “Philippe, put me down.”

  He gazed deep into her wide eyes. “I have you, Raine. I will not allow anything to happen to you while you are in my care.”

  PHILIPPE KEPT HIS WORD. He maintained his tight grip on Raine throughout the short, unfortunately unsteady voyage to his yacht.

  Not that he truly had many options, he wryly told himself. Raine had clung to him like a limpet with her face buried in his chest and her fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. It would have taken a good deal more effort to dislodge her than to simply keep her cradled close to his body.

  Besides, the last thing he needed on his hands was a hysterical woman.

  Once aboard his luxurious yacht she noticeably relaxed, and after carrying her into his private cabin, he tucked her into bed before returning topside and calling for his secretary, who he had left onboard during his brief stay in London. Juan was far more than a mere servant, as were most of the staff who traveled with him, and his skills would be necessary before they arrived in Calais.

  It was near two hours later when he at last was able to make his way to his bed and stretch out beside the slumbering Raine. They would be docking in Calais well before dawn, but he was not yet prepared to approach the Custom House. There would be time enough for a short rest, he decided, as he gathered Raine close and allowed his tense muscles to relax.

  Surprisingly, he slept deeply and the sun was well over the horizon by the time he had shaved and attired himself in a pair of black breeches and dark jade coat. Pulling on his caped greatcoat, he made his way up the narrow stairs and crossed to stand at the polished railings.

  As always the wharf was bustling with a variety of passengers, common sailors and crowds of spectators. There were also the inevitable runners who waited anxiously to whisk an unwary passenger to whatever nearby inn employed them.

  His gaze skimmed the throng, searching for anyone who might be displaying an unusual interest in the sleek yacht, before shifting toward the looming Custom House and the towering lighthouse that had been er
ected to mark the return of Louis XVIII from exile. It was claimed that his footprint could still be found on the beach if one cared enough to go in search of it.

  Philippe did not.

  One French despot was much like another as far as he was concerned.

  Beyond the Custom House, the town of Calais was separated by an iron gate. It was a drab stone town with narrow streets that were usually dirty and clogged with traffic. Not that it mattered to Philippe. Carlos had slipped from the yacht well before dawn and would have a carriage waiting for them. He intended to begin the trek to Paris as soon as he had dealt with the tedious formalities. And more important, once the word began to spread that Philippe Gautier had returned to France and in the company of a mysterious young woman.

  As if on cue, Raine appeared at his side, once again wrapped in the heavy cloak with the hood pulled to hide her face in the shadows. Her caution was perhaps understandable, but that didn’t halt the surge of annoyance that rippled through him.

  He had never possessed a lover who was ashamed to acknowledge her liaison with him. Meu Deus. They usually made certain that it was known throughout whatever city they happened to be in. A fact that had always bothered him until now.

  Resisting the childish urge to brush the hood from her head, Philippe leaned against the railing and offered her a faint smile.

  “You see, querida, I have kept my promise. You have arrived safely.”

  “Why have we docked here?” she demanded.

  Philippe gave a lift of his brows. “Why should we not?”

  She gave an impatient click of her tongue. “I shall have to go through Customs. In case you have forgotten, I did not precisely prepare for a trip to the Continent. I do not have my papers.”

  “Really, Raine, must you continue to underestimate me?” he drawled, reaching beneath his coat to pull out the folded papers that Juan had provided. “I would not bring you to France without your passport.”

  With a wary expression, she reached to take the packet and pulled it open.

  “Mademoiselle Marie Beauvoir?”

  “Most recently a dedicated student at the convent in Turin. That is until our paths crossed and I convinced you to travel with me to Paris.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “This is forged.”

  His lips twisted at her shocked disbelief. The chit had spent God knew how many nights terrorizing travelers along the roads of Knightsbridge. Now she balked at a handful of fake documents?

  “I should not say that too loudly, querida,” he warned. “Not unless you wish to be hauled before the Custom officials.”

  She studied him with a narrowed gaze. “Good Lord, are you a smuggler?”

  He gave a short laugh. “Not as a rule.”

  “You must be involved in some sort of illegal activities. You are far too adept at concealing your identity and slipping past authorities for an honest gentleman.”

  Philippe abruptly straightened from the railing. “A businessman must possess many skills.”

  “Fah.”

  “Come along, meu amor.” Taking her arm, he led her across the deck. Now was not the moment to confess the truth to her. “Our baggage has already been unloaded. Let us be done with this tedious task.”

  IT WAS JUST AS TEDIOUS as Philippe had feared. There was nothing more ghastly than a petty autocrat who thought his tiny bit of power gave him license to bother and bedevil anyone who was unfortunate enough to cross his path.

  When they were at last done, Philippe left his secretary and a burly crewman to deal with the luggage, as well as to protect Raine, while he traveled into Calais to meet with Carlos.

  As they had arranged, Carlos was waiting in front of a small inn complete with a gleaming carriage and a pair of gray horses to pull it. There was also a beautiful black stallion that jerked against his reins with an obvious evil temper.

  Philippe smiled with appreciation. He liked his horses with an unruly spirit. Oddly enough, he was discovering that was precisely how he liked his women.

  “Well done, Carlos,” he said as he ran a searching gaze over the carriage. It was precisely what he had requested. Sturdy, well sprung and the best that money could purchase. “Were there any troubles?”

  Leaning against a low iron fence, Carlos gave a shrug. He was attired in the sort of plain clothes that any common laborer would wear. The sort that would allow him to blend easily with the crowd. At least until one managed to catch a glimpse of the dark, feral countenance.

  “Nothing that a bottle of brandy and a willing woman would not cure.”

  “In good time.” Philippe glanced toward the large bay that was tied a short distance down the street. “You intend to ride ahead?”

  Carlos gave a short nod. “Unless you wish me to travel with you?”

  “No, I will have Paolo and Juan with me. They should be capable of dealing with any unexpected difficulties.”

  “You will take the road through Abbeville?”

  “Yes.” Philippe pulled out his pocket watch and grimaced at the realization that the morning was nearly gone. “Do not expect us before Monday. Even with good roads and fresh post-horses we will be forced to halt at least two nights upon the road.”

  Carlos pulled a knit hat over his dark curls before stepping forward and grasping Philippe’s shoulder. “Take care. We only suspect that Seurat is in Paris. For all we know he could be lurking anywhere.”

  “I will be on my guard,” Philippe promised.

  “Good.” Carlos stepped back, clearly anxious to be on his way. No doubt he already had a notion of where to discover that brandy and willing woman he desired. “I will join you at Montmartre.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE CARRIAGE WAS WITHOUT fault, of course. The interior was spacious with soft leather seats and wide windows that offered a fine view of the passing scenery. Best of all, there was a ceramic foot-warmer that offered a welcome relief to the chilled air.

  For all its comfort, however, Raine found herself more often than not alone in the elegant equipage.

  Philippe seemed to prefer riding the beautiful black stallion that Carlos had purchased before leaving Calais.

  Which suited her just fine, she sternly told herself. It was enough that he insisted that they have a private chamber to eat their meals together at the various posting inns and, of course, that they share a chamber each night.

  A hot blush stained her cheeks as the memory of those nights flooded through her mind. Lud, but she had never dreamed that a man could possess the ability to make her forget everything but the pleasure of his touch.

  With an effort, Raine turned her attention to the passing scenery. It was well worth her attention. For miles the rolling hills were covered with a thick forest that was untouched and pristine. There were occasional farms that boasted orchards and vineyards, and sleepy villages that seemed to huddle beneath the biting cold.

  Unfortunately among the beauty was also the inevitable sight of ragged peasants who peered desperately from tumbled cottages or simply trudged down the road with their heads bent in obvious despair.

  Her ready sympathy was stirred by the dreadful plight of so many, but without even the smallest coin in her possession she could do nothing but watch them with a heavy heart.

  It was late afternoon when they passed through Chaumont and entered Montmartre.

  The village sprawled along the slopes of a hill that offered a stunning view of Paris, as well as the open countryside of Saint Denis.

  The streets were narrow and steeply inclined as they wound their way past a tumble of shops and gardens and pretty cottages.

  Expecting to continue on to the capital, Raine was caught off guard when the carriage began to slow as they approached a two-storied stucco house with a red-tiled roof and shuttered windows. The front of the house abutted a narrow street, but the carriage pulled through a gate and into a large garden before it at last came to a halt.

  Within moments the door to the carriage was being pulled open an
d Philippe was assisting her down to the flagstone path.

  She shivered as the wind tugged at her heavy cloak and tumbled the hood from her head.

  “What is this place?” she demanded as she eyed the large cottage. There was an ageless charm to the house and the overgrown garden, but it seemed far too plain and bourgeois for a man of Philippe’s standing.

  “It belongs to my brother.” A thin smile touched his lips. “Or rather I suppose it belongs to me, since I was the one who was expected to hand over the funds to pay for it. Not to mention the wages for the small staff. It is not the most luxurious of my homes, I fear.”

  Raine rolled her eyes. It was far larger than her father’s cottage and worth a small fortune to most people.

  “Oh, certainly not. Why, I daresay, there are no more than four bedchambers and only two drawing rooms. How could anyone endure such cramped quarters?”

  A dark brow arched. “A trial, indeed. Still, we will not be here for long.”

  She turned to regard his perfect countenance. “You said that you had no homes in France.”

  “I consider this my brother’s home, not mine.”

  “Just how many homes do you and your family own?”

  “A fair number. I have always found that property is a sensible investment. Especially property that is bound to increase in value over the years.” He pointed toward the vast tumble of Paris below them. “Do you see how the city is expanding? This area will soon be overrun by Paris and the land will most certainly triple in worth.”

  “Of course it will,” she muttered.

  He turned back to her with a narrowed gaze. “You sound disapproving.”

  Raine gave a restless shrug, not at all certain why she felt the continual need to provoke this gentleman. Perhaps it was because the only time he revealed he possessed the same emotions as the lesser mortals was when he was making love to her.

  “I cannot help but wonder if you ever make a decision that does not offer you some profit.”

  “You think I should make decisions that will make me a pauper?” he taunted.

  “Do you ever do anything just because it pleases you?” she prodded.