A Daring Passion. Rosemary Rogers
might be a hot-blooded brute, but she sensed between the two men, this icy fallen angel was by far the more dangerous.
Unnerved by the steady, piercing gaze, Raine halted her struggles with her cape and cleared her throat.
“What do you intend to do with me?” she demanded, careful to keep her voice low. The only bit of luck she had enjoyed this disastrous night was that her captors believed her to be a young boy. It was a belief she intended to encourage. God only knew what would happen if they discovered she was a female. “If you think the magistrate will thank you for…”
“Shut your mouth and do not speak again unless I ask you a direct question,” he snapped, his voice as cold as ice. Instinctively, Raine pressed her lips together. There was something unnaturally commanding about the man. “Good, not entirely a simpleton, then.” The green eyes narrowed as he leaned close enough to wrap her in the scent of warm, male skin. “I have need of information from you. Answer me truthfully and you might actually escape the hangman’s noose.”
She swallowed heavily, her heart lodged in her throat. Dear God, what had she gotten herself into?
“What information?” she rasped.
“I wish to know of any strangers you have noted passing this way during the past fortnight.”
Raine paused as her mind raced with possibilities. Perhaps if she could pretend to have the knowledge he sought she could distract him long enough to escape. It was a desperate plan, but better than none.
“There are always strangers on the road, guv.” She made her voice even rougher. “What yer wishing to know?”
His eyes shimmered with a dangerous light. “A large number of strangers?”
“Oh, aye.”
“Odd, I was informed that this road had been nearly impassable for the past week, and that travelers had been few and far between.”
Blast. She licked her dry lips, wishing he would back away. His proximity was far too distracting.
“Perhaps there have not been so many strangers as usual,” she was forced to concede.
He gave a low, impatient sound. “It will go bad for you if you fib to me, boy. Have you, or have you not, noticed any strangers on the road?”
“There have been a few.”
“Any Frenchmen?”
“Well, as to that, there was one gentleman who spoke with a French accent that passed this way last week,” she readily agreed.
“Describe him.”
She clenched her hands in her lap, fearing the man might actually hear her heart racing.
“He was tall, and thin, with a…large nose and…”
Her words broke off with a gasp as he reached out to grasp her shoulders, giving her a violent shake.
“I warned you not to lie to me.”
“No, please,” she pleaded, but not in time. Even as she struggled to loosen her arms she felt the flamboyant hat tumbling from her head. One last shake and her long curls were dislodged to fall in a river of gold around her shoulders.
Philippe stiffened at the sight of the glossy curls.
“Meu Deus,” he breathed, his hand instinctively reaching to rip the heavy muffler that concealed the thin face.
A female. There could be no doubt.
No doubt at all, he thought as his gaze took in the captivating beauty of her countenance.
Never had he seen such pure ivory skin. God, it nearly glowed against the gleaming amber of her hair. Her nose was a pert, straight line and her lips so lush they could make a man hard at the thought of them pressed to his body. But it was her eyes that caught and held his attention.
They were as black as that of a raven’s wing and surrounded by a tangle of long lashes. Such dark eyes should have been flat and lackluster, but instead they flashed with a smoldering spirit that Philippe could almost swear was tangible.
Suddenly all the elegant, sophisticated women who had shared his bed seemed to be pale imitations of femininity. Whatever their charms, they could never compare to this chit’s vivacious, stunning magnificence.
Philippe gritted his teeth as he grasped her arms even tighter and with one smooth motion pulled her onto the seat next to him. She gave a startled scream, but he never hesitated as he pushed her flat onto her back and trapped her flaying legs between his own.
He was furious. Not the aloof disdain or the cold, calculating anger that he was accustomed to. No, this was a blistering, searing fury that caught him off guard and destroyed his icy composure.
There was no reasonable explanation as to why this woman had stirred such unfamiliar heat, but he found himself unable to battle the sensations that flowed through his body.
“Stop,” she panted, struggling to free herself.
Philippe easily controlled her frantic wiggles as he shifted his hands to capture her wrists above her head.
“Damn you to hell, what are you playing at?” he gritted.
“Let go of me.”
“Oh, no, my beauty, you are staying precisely where you are until I discover who you are and, more important, who put you up to attacking my carriage.”
She should have been terrified. He held her life quite literally in his hands. Instead, she glared at him with a fury of her own.
“You are hurting me.”
“Keep struggling and I shall put you across my knee and beat you as you deserve,” he warned without compunction.
“Brute,” she muttered as she tried to knee him in a most delicate location.
His eyes narrowed. For such a tiny thing she managed to put up a hell of a battle.
“Halt your struggles.”
“Sir…” Her words came to a startled end as the buttons on her jacket were tugged open and the heavy material parted to reveal she wore nothing more than a thin chemise beneath.
“Voce e bonita,” he whispered at the sight of her curved breast perfectly outlined by the clinging muslin. Without warning there did not seem to be enough air in the carriage.
“Bastardo,” she gritted.
His gaze jerked back to her pale face. “You speak Portuguese?”
“I speak any number of languages,” she said with a proud disdain.
His gaze narrowed. So the girl was no peasant. A knowledge that did nothing to ease the burning in the pit of his stomach.
“Then choose one of those numerous languages and explain to me what the hell you are doing here.”
“Will it halt you from behaving like a lunatic?”
His fingers tightened. “Now.”
There was a brief pause before she licked her lips. Philippe ignored the burst of awareness the unconscious gesture sent ricocheting through his body. Those damnable lips would not distract him. Not when he was certain that she was about to tell him a lie.
“This was nothing more than a lark.”
“A lark?”
“My friends and I thought it would be amusing to see if one of us could masquerade as the notorious Knave of Knightsbridge.”
“And who, pray, is the Knave of Knightsbridge?” he demanded in a lethally soft voice.
“A highwayman who has become something of a local legend.” Her lashes lowered to hide her expressive eyes. “The stories of his tedious escapades are repeated so often that my friends and I decided that