A Daring Passion (19 page)

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.”

 

P
HILIPPE 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 erected 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.”

 

I
T 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.”

T
HE 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 and 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.

That aloof coldness she so detested hardened his features. “As it so happens, making a profit does please me.”

“And you are never impulsive? Never impetuous?”

His green eyes glittered like chips of emerald beneath the pale winter sun. “
Impulsive
is merely a pretty word for those who are rash and irresponsible. Not all of us have the luxury of ignoring our duties.”

A pang of guilt shot through Raine's tender heart. This man had not only lost his mother when he was still but a babe, but he had been forced to bear the entire weight of his feckless family. Perhaps it was not so surprising he wrapped himself in a cloak of impenetrable solitude.

“Do you resent your father and brother?” she asked before she could stop the words.

“What I resent is being kept in the freezing air while you indulge in your ridiculous inquisition. I, for one, would prefer to spend my time in a warm bath.”

Without waiting for her response, Philippe was striding toward the back door, his posture rigid and his shoulders tight with annoyance.

Raine heaved a sigh before trailing behind him.

She had desired an adventure that would lead her far from the dull tedium of her life.

She would have to be far more careful of what she wished for in the future.

 

P
HILIPPE'S MOOD WAS STILL
dark when he left the cottage to make his way to Paris later that evening.

It was unlike him to allow himself to be goaded by another's opinion of him. Especially a mere chit's opinion. After all, most people thought of him as a coldhearted bastard who took no pleasure in the world beyond making a profit.

And in some respects they would not be wrong.

But the notion that Raine found him lacking because he could not behave as some frivolous, worthless dandy made his gut twist with anger.

For God's sake, her father might very well send them both to the gallows with his reckless behavior, and yet she clearly loved him with an unwavering loyalty. Is that what she desired? A man who would risk her life for a mere lark?

Not that it mattered what she preferred, he acknowledged with a flare of determination. For the moment she belonged to him. And nothing would change that until
he
decided it was over.

Weaving his mount through the heavy traffic, Philippe at last arrived at the Palais-Royal. He shook his head at the rather grim shoddiness that was beginning to claim the once majestic buildings and halted his horse before the Grand Vefour.

Although Paris would always have its share of cafés and coffeehouses, the elegant restaurants that were beginning to sprout up around the city had captured the approval of even the most discerning Parisians.

It was at this particular restaurant that Philippe had been assured he would discover Lord Frankford, a minor English diplomat who would never possess the skill or drive to make his name among the great politicians. He did, however, have one remarkable talent.

There would not be a scrap of gossip in all the city that had escaped his attention.

Entering the restaurant, Philippe handed his coat and hat to the uniformed waiter and allowed his gaze to roam over the smoky interior.

Like most of the aging buildings there remained remnants of the Ancient Régime. Not that Philippe disliked the elegance of the painted walls and ceilings, or the mirrors that reflected the various diners. It was certainly preferable to the dark, damp and congested taprooms in England.

It took only a few moments to spot his prey seated at a corner table, and ignoring the speculative glances of the other guests, Philippe made his way through the room to take a seat opposite the rotund gentleman with a rapidly balding head and ruddy features of a true Englishman.

Glancing up from his plate of oysters, Frankford widened his eyes in shock.

“Good God. Is that you, Gautier?”

“For my sins,” Philippe drawled. “I hope you are well, Frankford?”

The man took a deep sip of his Bordeaux. “Well enough.”

“And your wife?”

“Thankfully in England for the time being.” Frankford gave a grunt as he wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “I have found marriage much easier to bear when we reside in different countries.”

Philippe smiled. “A sentiment shared by many men, which is precisely why I have never bothered to wed.”

“Always knew you were an intelligent chap.” Frankford settled back in his chair and folded his arms over his remarkably large belly. “Still, never thought to see you here. The last time I invited you to visit you claimed the entire city should be burned to the ground.”

“I still believe that it could be greatly improved by a match and bit of kindling, but there are occasions when one cannot avoid traveling through the area.”

“So you are not remaining?” Frankford demanded.

“That depends.” Philippe stretched out his legs as his gaze casually turned toward the nearby window. “I believe I might be convinced to linger a few days.”

“Ah, you have stumbled into some sweet business deal, have you not?” Frankford sighed in resignation. “I swear, I do not know how you do it. You must be some damnable Midas.”

Philippe returned his attention to the round countenance. “Actually, my business is of a more personal nature.”

“You don't say.” There was a moment of puzzlement before Frankford was giving a choked cough. “By God, you do not mean a woman?”

Philippe arched his brows. “Why does that surprise you?”

“I have never known you to chase after the skirts. And why should you?” Frankford shook his head. “Lud, I've never seen so many women making fools of themselves as when you first arrived in London. An embarrassing spectacle, if you ask me.”

It had been a damn sight more than embarrassing, Philippe silently conceded. He had nearly been stampeded each time he left his home, and he had swiftly discovered there was no more ruthless enemy than a mother intent on marrying her daughter to a fortune.

Thankfully all but the most persistent were at last frightened off by the realization that no amount of flattery, coercion or even downright treachery would force him to offer for the drab females being tossed at his feet.

“This one is thankfully different,” he assured his companion.

Frankford chuckled in a knowing manner. “Ah, of course. Well, Paris is renowned for its courtesans. Beautiful and talented, if you know what I mean. I have tasted a few and I can tell you they are well worth the cost.” The man patted his belly. “Perhaps when you tire of her I will give her a tumble or two myself.”

Philippe found himself battling the urge to reach across the table and smash his fist into the fat face. Hell and damnation, what was the matter with him? The sole reason Raine was with him was to convince others he was too distracted by his current lover to concern himself with his brother. Or at least, that was one of the reasons, he acknowledged as he felt himself grow hard at the mere thought of her slender body.

He would ruin it all if he did not take care.

“She is no courtesan.” He gave a causal shrug. “At least not yet. I managed to stumble across her fresh from the convent.”

Frankford gave a startled blink. “An innocent?”

“They do have their charm.”

“Indeed, they do.” Frankford smiled slyly. “She is beautiful, I suppose?”

“As lovely as an angel.”

“Well, well. I hope she does not have any pesky family that might be searching for her? That is the trouble with innocents. There always seems to be some angry brother or father trying to keep one from enjoying such delights.”

Philippe briefly thought of Josiah Wimbourne. He hoped to hell the man was suffering agonies at the loss of Raine. It would teach the bastard to take better care of his daughter.

“It hardly matters. I shall not be remaining long in Paris. I must be off to England by the end of the month.”

A wariness rippled over the florid countenance. “Ah, yes. I suppose you have heard of your brother's troubles?”

“I received a rather frantic letter that spoke of dire difficulties and impending doom.”

“You do not appear to be overly concerned.”

Philippe gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “My brother is always facing some sort of impending doom or another. If I raced to his side every time he begged for my assistance, I should never get anything accomplished.”