A Daring Passion (18 page)

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.”

A
S 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.
”

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.

 

R
AINE 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.”