Loe raamatut: «A Daring Passion»
“Tell me who you are.”
“Raine Wimbourne,” she said on a strangled gasp.
Philippe used his teeth to tug the offending chemise out of his way. “Your real name.”
“That is my real name.” She shivered, but Philippe possessed enough experience to know it was not from fear.
“You said if I told you my name you would release me,” she charged.
“You have not told me why you were playing such a dangerous charade.”
“I cannot.”
Philippe was busily learning the sweet hollow between her breasts.
“Dear God,” she breathed.
Her husky voice was an unwelcome intrusion.
“Stop this and I will tell you the truth.”
Praise for Rosemary Rogers
“The queen of historical romance.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Returning to her roots with a story filled with family secrets, politics, adventure and simmering passion, Rosemary Rogers delivers what fans have been waiting for.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on An Honourable Man
“Her novels are filled with adventure, excitement and…wildly tempestuous romance.”
—Fort Worth Star-Telegram
“This is exactly what her many fans crave, and Rogers serves it up with a polished flair.”
—Booklist on A Reckless Encounter
“Ms Rogers writes exciting, romantic stories…with strong-willed characters, explosive sexual situations, tenderness and love.”
—Dayton News
“Rogers, a true doyenne of the genre, gives her many readers the romance they anticipate along with lush scenery and romantic locations.”
—Booklist on Jewel of My Heart
“Her name brings smiles to all who love love.”
—Ocala Star-Banner
New York Times bestselling author Rosemary Rogers has written over twenty historical and contemporary romances. Dubbed “the queen of historical romance,” she is best known for her passionate and sensual characters, and her Steve-and-Ginny series is a classic with fans. Born in Ceylon, Rosemary now lives in Connecticut.
A Daring Passion
Rosemary Rogers
MILLS & BOON
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For my family
CHAPTER ONE
THE NIGHT WAS FRANKLY miserable. Although the rain that had drenched the Kent countryside over the past two days had at last drizzled to a halt, the air was still thick with moisture and a blanket of fog lay over the slumbering villages and estates.
A miserable night to be certain. At least for decent folk.
It was a perfect night for thieves, scoundrels and dastards.
Too perfect, Josiah Wimbourne was forced to concede as he entered his small cottage and painfully tossed aside his brilliant crimson cape and hat. He should have known the magistrate would be on the alert. The muddy roads and heavy fog would slow even the finest carriage. Such easy pickings were far too great a temptation for any highwayman.
Especially for the notorious Knave of Knightsbridge.
With a grimace Josiah crossed the small kitchen to settle in a chair near the smoldering fire. Only then did he glance toward his shoulder, which was still seeping blood. Damn his stupidity. He was nearing forty years of age. Old enough to know that it was a dead man who underestimated his enemy.
The previous magistrate might have been a blundering fool who was quite willing to turn a blind eye if the price was right, but this new man, Tom Harper, was cut from an entirely different cloth.
In less than a month he had proved to be impervious to bribes, intimidation and even outright threats. Nothing could sway his sense of duty or determination to uphold the king’s law.
Even worse, the blighter possessed an uncanny knack for thinking precisely like a criminal.
Any other magistrate would look at the dismal weather and presume that any brigands would be cozily drinking ale at the local inn, or warming themselves in the arms of a willing whore. But not Harper. He had taken stock of the rutted roads and thick fog and known instinctively that the Knave would be out hunting.
Blast his interfering soul.
Unwittingly a small smile flickered over Josiah’s weathered features. Despite the burning pain in his shoulder, and the undeniable realization he was in a precarious position, he could not deny a measure of admiration for the tenacious magistrate.
Since leaving his life in the navy, it was rare to discover an opponent worthy of his skills. Certainly not the Runners, whom his victims occasionally hired to track him down. Or even the militia, which had been called in by the local aristocrats who had wearied of having their elegant guests robbed traveling through Knightsbridge. How could he not respect the damnable cur?
His ridiculous thoughts were cut short as a slight, dour-faced servant entered the kitchen to regard him with a startled frown.
Foster had once been a trained manservant who had worked at some of the finest homes in London. A position he might still be holding today if he had not been caught forging his employer’s signature to obtain a number of bank drafts. It didn’t matter that he had used the money to assist a floundering orphanage rather than lining his own pocket. He had been found guilty and ordered to the penal colonies.
He had tossed himself from the convict ship and was near death when Josiah had fished him from the waters.
That had been nearly twenty years ago and Josiah had never had cause to regret his impulsive gesture. Foster had proved to possess unwavering loyalty and the skill to teach Josiah the proper manners necessary to pass for a true gentleman.
The fact that Josiah remained a scoundrel beneath his elegant image was entirely his own fault.
Noticing the blood staining his master’s shirt, Foster hurried forward. “Good Lord, sir, you’ve been injured.”
“So it would seem, Foster.”
“Well, I’ve given you warning enough, the Lord knows.” The servant gave a click of his tongue. “A man of your age should be seated by the fire, not tearing across the countryside as if you were still a strapping lad. Bound to come a cropper in the end. I suppose that demon-spawn beast you claim as a horse gave you a tumble?”
“No, I did not take a tumble, damn your impudence. I am neither a man in his dotage nor a greenhorn unable to control his mount, demon-spawn or not.”
“Then what…?” Bending forward to have a closer look at the injury, Foster abruptly caught his breath. “Bloody hell. You’ve been shot.”
“Yes, I did suspect as much.” Josiah gave a muttered curse as he pulled his ruined shirt over his head and tossed it to the nearby fire. “Damn Liverpool and his wretched Tories. They take delight in taxing their citizens into abject poverty and then pretend horror when those citizens are forced to live a life of crime to survive.”
“Liverpool shot you?”
Josiah gave a short, humorless laugh. “No, you muck-worm. It was the magistrate.”
“Oh…aye.” Moving to the cabinet, Foster wet a cloth and returned to Josiah’s side. “Well, let us have a look.”
Josiah sucked in a sharp breath as the servant pressed the cloth to his wound. “Have a care, Foster. It hurts like the very devil.”
Foster continued rubbing at his shoulder, indifferent to Josiah’s muttered oaths.
“Only a crease, thank the good Lord, but a deep one.” He stepped back to regard Josiah with an expression that managed to be even more dour than usual. “You’ll be needing stitches.”
“I feared as much.” Josiah gave a shake of his head. It wasn’t his first wound and doubtless wouldn’t be his last, but it was damn well inconvenient. “Don’t stand there gawking, Foster. Fetch the needle and thread. Oh, and the brandy. If I’m to endure your ham-fisted surgery then I have a feeling I shall want my wits dulled to the point of insensibility.”
Without warning Foster was backing away, his hands lifting in dismay. “Fiend seize it. I’m a manservant, not a damnable sawbones. If you need stitching then call for old man Durbin.”
“And have him spread the tale of my injury to the entire neighborhood on the first occasion he is in his cups?” Josiah growled. “Don’t be more a fool than you have to be.”
“What does it matter?” Foster shrugged. “No one takes notice of his drunken babblings.”
“I assure you the magistrate will take great interest in any babbling that concerns a wounded gentleman,” Josiah confessed, grimacing at his stupidity. “He knows he managed to shoot the Knave of Knightsbridge this eve. You might as well put the noose around my neck and be done with it.”
There was a pregnant pause as the servant sorted through the words and at last comprehended the danger of their situation.
“Bloody hell,” he breathed, a frown tugging his shaggy gray brows together. “I suspected that the man would prove to be a pain in the arse. Can’t abide a gentleman who is forever sticking his nose into the business of others.”
Despite his pain, Josiah’s lips twitched at his servant’s indignant tone. “I believe, my dear Foster, that he perceives it his duty to stick his nose into whatever business happens to be conducted in his district.”
“Oh, aye, determined to make a name for himself in London, no doubt. Don’t matter how many decent folk he has to hang.”
“Or indecent folk, as the case may be.”
Foster gave a snort as he tossed the bloody cloth into the sink. He was a simple man. A man who possessed his own unique sense of right and wrong. And nothing could convince him to consider his master a dastardly criminal.
A pity not everyone was so sublimely indifferent to his wicked habits, Josiah acknowledged wryly.
“He ain’t nothing to old Royce,” Foster groused. “Now, there was a magistrate who knew how to do his duties.”
“He also had the decency to accept a friendly bribe when offered,” Josiah lightly teased.
“Aye, a man of sense.”
“And an unfortunate appetite for cheap gin and cheaper whores that managed to land him in an early grave.” Josiah gave a shake of his head, wincing as a pain shot through his shoulder. “We may rue his loss, but it will not alter the fact that our mission has become considerably more dangerous, old friend.”
“Mayhap you should lay low for a while.”
Josiah attempted to get comfortable on the wooden chair. He wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a soft bed, but he knew that he had to tend to his wound before either was possible.
Which meant convincing his stubborn companion to get on with the bloody business.
“Never fear, Foster, this damnable wound has seen that I will be laying low for several days, if not weeks. And speaking of wounds, you’re stalling. I have no intention of bleeding to death because you are too squeamish to stick me with a needle.”
Foster gave a shake of his head. “Nay, sir.”
“Fine, then fetch the blasted needle and I’ll do it myself,” Josiah commanded, his patience at a limit.
“Perhaps I may be of assistance?”
Both men stiffened at the sound of the soft, decidedly female voice. Briefly closing his eyes, Josiah wondered why he had ever left his bed that morning. Surely the gray weather and chilled breeze should have warned him to pull the covers over his head and give it up as a loss?
Unable to avoid the inevitable, Josiah slowly turned his head to discover his only child standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
No, not child, he corrected himself. Somehow his Raine had managed to transform herself into a woman while she was being schooled in that damnable French convent.
A remarkably beautiful woman.
As always he was forced to battle a small measure of astonishment.
Although he had been considered a handsome enough fellow in his day, and his long-departed wife had been a pretty maiden, there had been no warning that together they would create a…masterpiece.
There was no other word to describe the young woman standing before him.
Wreathed in the light of the flickering candles, her beauty was luminous, her ivory skin glowing with the perfect sheen of a rare pearl and her dark eyes faintly slanted and surrounded by a lush thicket of lashes that lent an air of smoldering mystery. Her nose was a tiny, straight line that contrasted with the full bow of her mouth. And just beside that lovely mouth was a tiny black mole that seemed deliberately placed to provoke a man’s attention.
At the moment her sweet face was still flushed from sleep and her heavy amber curls were pulled into a simple braid that hung nearly to her waist. With her slender body modestly covered by her threadbare robe she should have appeared a dowdy child. Instead she was as radiant and fresh as an angel.
Josiah gave a rueful shake of his head. When Raine had been but twelve years of age it had nearly broken his heart to fulfill his late wife’s desire to have her daughter schooled at the same convent that she had attended as a child. To have Raine so far from him seemed an unbearable sacrifice.
But he couldn’t deny a small, sensible part of him had been relieved to whisk her from the neighborhood.
Even then she had shown the promise of great beauty, and Josiah had been deeply aware that all too soon the lecherous gazes of the various noblemen would be turning in her direction. They would consider such a delectable morsel within such easy reach an irresistible temptation, and would have spared no expense or effort to lure her into their bed.
No, it had been for the best that she had been locked away from the world’s dangers.
Of course, now that she had returned he could not deny that the old troubles had merely shifted to new troubles.
She might have acquired the sort of mature sophistication that would allow her to resist being seduced, but she possessed no connections, no dowry to tempt a nobleman into considering her in a more permanent role. And just as bothersome, her newfound elegance ensured that she no longer mixed easily with the local farmers and merchants.
She had no ready place among the community, and no mother or sisters to provide her companionship.
Heaving a rueful sigh, Josiah held out his hand.
“Well, well. I suppose it was too much to be hoped such commotion would not arouse you, pet. You might as well come in.”
Her finely arched brows drew together as she moved toward his chair.
“You have been injured.”
“That seems to be the universal agreement,” he said, turning his head to regard the silent servant. “Foster, pour me a brandy and then tend to my horse.”
“Thank the Lord,” the man muttered as he readily moved to pull a bottle of brandy and a glass from the nearby cabinet. Leaving them on the table, he turned for the door.
“Foster,” Josiah called softly.
“Aye?”
“Make sure there is no evidence from this night’s work. Our stable is bound to receive more than its share of interest over the next few days.”
Foster gave a slow nod. “The magistrate won’t find so much as a mouse dropping when I am through.”
“Magistrate?” Raine demanded as Foster slipped through the door and closed it behind him.
“It’s a long and rather tedious story, I fear.”
His daughter gave a lift of her brows. “Actually I suspect that it will be quite fascinating.”
Josiah grimaced. “Fascinating, perhaps, but at the moment I prefer that you fetch a needle and thread and sew your poor father back together again.” His hands tightened on the arms of his chair as he battled a wave of pain. “Unless you intend to stand there and watch me bleed to death?”
She gazed at him for a long moment, not missing the sweat that lightly coated his strained features before she gave a slow nod of her head.
“Very well, Father.”
He breathed a sigh of relief as she readily left the room and returned a short time later with her needle and thread in hand. Unlike Foster she had never been a squeamish sort. Indeed, Raine had always possessed more pluck and backbone than any of the lads in the neighborhood. There was not a tree she wouldn’t climb, a roof she wouldn’t leap from, a lake she wouldn’t attempt to swim across.
She also possessed the sort of sharp intelligence that was bound to lead to awkward questions.
The thought had barely passed through his mind when she poured a large shot of brandy directly into the wound and gave a small sound of shock.
“Dear Lord, this is…this is a bullet wound.”
Josiah grunted as the brandy seared his wound. “And what would you know of bullet wounds, pet?”
Moving to stand behind his shoulder, Raine carefully began her surgery.
“Father, I want to know what happened.”
“You have always been too curious for your own good. A gentleman’s private doings are not always a fit tale for female ears.”
She gave a small snort. “Since when have you been so particular in regards to my female sensibilities, sir? My entire childhood was spent surrounded by drunken sailors who entertained me with stories that would make a hardened cad blush. And even you taught me more of how to ride and shoot than how to perfect my maidenly skills.”
Well, he could hardly argue that. It was true enough that his acquaintances were a rough lot and that too often they treated Raine as if she were a precocious street urchin rather than a well-bred female.
And he had been far more at ease pretending she was a son. After all, what did a sailor know of raising daughters? They were strange and mysterious creatures that no mere male could ever hope to comprehend.
“Ah, but you are no longer a child, pet,” he murmured, not without some regret. “Something that even a poor father can no longer deny. You have grown into a beautiful lady. One who should be gracing an elegant ballroom, not rubbing elbows with common seamen in a crumbling cottage.”
Her smooth stitching never faltered, but Josiah could sense his daughter’s sudden stiffening, as if he had unwittingly struck a nerve.
“A lovely notion, I suppose. Unfortunately my invitations to those elegant ballrooms seem to always go astray, so until one does arrive I shall remain precisely as I am, a forgotten Cinderella.”
“Cinderella?”
“A character from a French fairy tale about a silly girl who longs for pretty gowns and a handsome prince.”
Josiah hissed a breath between his clenched teeth as the needle slid through his tender skin.
“What is so silly about wanting such things?”
There was a moment of silence before Josiah heard his daughter heave a faint sigh.
“Because they are an impossible dream, and I have enough sense not to waste my time pining for what can never be.”
This time Josiah felt as if the needle had been aimed directly at his heart. He turned his head to regard Raine with a troubled frown.
“Raine…”
“No, Father, it does not matter. Truly, it does not.” She managed a smile, but it stopped short of the dark beauty of her eyes. “Now, stop attempting to distract me and tell me what has occurred.”
Josiah returned his attention to the fire. Damn and blast. He had been a fool to believe for a moment he could hide his secret career beneath his daughter’s nose. She was no longer a tiny tot to be easily distracted. Oh, no, she was a woman who was quite ready to use whatever means necessary to get what she wanted.
A woman just like her mother, he thought with a fond sigh.
“I suppose you intend to nag me until you have the whole sordid truth?” he said darkly.
“Would I ever lower myself to nag? Certainly not. I will, however, point out that I am currently in the process of a delicate surgery. I should hate for any mistakes to occur.”
Josiah offered her a narrowed glance. “Good God, pet, you can’t threaten your own father. It is indecent.” He winced as she gave a tug on the thread. “Bloody hell.”
“Will you tell me?”
He watched as she tied off the knot and cut the thread, and then with efficient ease wrapped his wound in fresh linen.
“Yes, pet, I will tell you,” he reluctantly conceded. What else could he do? The chit wouldn’t be satisfied until she had wrung every sordid detail from him. “But not tonight. I am weary and in need of a hot bath and a soft bed. We will speak in the morning.”
She moved to stand directly before him, her expression somber. “I have your word? You will give me the truth?”
He gave a slow nod. “Aye, my word.”
THE SUN HAD BARELY crested when Raine was out of bed and dressed in a simple blue gown. It wasn’t unusual. For the past seven years she had lived in a convent that had taken a dim view of any hint of laziness or self-indulgence, and most mornings she had been awake before the dawn to begin her morning prayers.
Even though she no longer had a strict schedule to guide her days, she found it impossible to acquire the habit of lying in bed for half the day. It might be all that was fashionable to sprawl upon a dozen pillows and sip at chocolate, but she possessed a nature that was far too restless for such a tedious waste of time.
Besides, chocolate always made her break out in a rash.
A faint smile touched her lips as she left her chambers and headed down the hall. Oh yes, she was quite the early riser. Unfortunately, once she had risen she had very little to occupy her time.
Her father might not possess a fortune, but he did keep enough servants to ensure that she had no need to do chores about the cottage. And since she had few acquaintances and fewer friends, she was never overwhelmed with pressing engagements.
Far too often she found herself walking through the countryside, wondering if she would ever feel at home again.
Giving a shake of her head, Raine thrust aside the vague frustration that had plagued her since returning to England. On this morning she had more important matters to occupy her mind.
Halting before her father’s door, she quietly pushed it open and stepped inside. As she had expected he was still in his bed, although he was not alone.
Standing beside the bed was a tall, sparse woman with brown hair pulled into a tight knot, and features more handsome than pretty.
Mrs. Stone had come to keep house for Josiah and Raine after her mother’s death nearly sixteen years earlier. The housekeeper had herself been widowed and seemed to know precisely how to provide a steadfast support and sense of comfort to the grieving father and daughter.
Over the years she had become as much a part of the family as Foster and their groom, Talbot. Indeed, Raine was certain the cottage would be an unruly muddle without her commanding presence.
Crossing the carpet, Raine halted beside the four-posted bed that commanded most of the narrow chamber. A matching armoire and washstand were the only other pieces of furniture. The walls were plain and the burgundy curtains faded.
The room was not precisely shabby, but there was no mistaking that it had not benefited from the more delicate touches of a woman’s hand in many years.
“How is he?” she asked of the housekeeper in soft tones.
Mrs. Stone gave a click of her tongue, a faint frown marring her brow.
“A bit feverish, but he refuses to call for the surgeon. Stubborn fool.” Her tart words did not quite cover the concern etched upon her features. “For now all we can do is keep the wound clean and pray.”
Raine smiled wryly as she glanced down at her father. He was stubborn, and at times a fool. But she loved him more than anyone else in the world.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stone.”
There was a sound from the bed as Josiah opened his eyes to glare at the two women hovering over his bed.
“Do not be whispering over me as if I am already a corpse. I’ve no intention of cocking my toes up just yet.” He gave Mrs. Stone a bleary glare. “And you can keep your prayers to yourself, you old fusspot. God and I have an understanding that needs none of your interference.”
Far from offended by her employer’s reprimand, Mrs. Stone gave a snort and planted her fists on her hips. The two badgered and teased each other like an old married couple, a fact that did not escape Raine’s notice now that she was mature enough to sense the intimate ease between the two.
It did not trouble her. She was pleased to know that her father was not entirely alone.
Indeed, if she were to look deep in her heart she would have to admit that she envied him.
“Oh, aye, an understanding,” the housekeeper said darkly. “You dance with the devil and never consider the cost. One day…”
“Enough, woman,” Josiah interrupted with a grimace. “Your pious lectures are tedious enough when I am cast to the wind, but they are nigh unbearable when I am stone-cold sober. Be off with you.”
With a sniff Mrs. Stone turned and marched from the room, closing the door with enough force to bring a smile to Raine’s lips.
“You do know that she is utterly devoted to you?” she scolded her parent gently.
He grunted as he pressed himself higher on the pillows and settled more comfortably on the mattress.
“Of course I know she is devoted. Why else would I keep such an old shrew around?”
Raine rolled her eyes. “You are a shameless scoundrel. How are you feeling?”
He gave a shake of his head, his dark hair, now liberally streaked with silver, falling nearly to his shoulders.
“Weaker than I would like to admit.”
Leaning forward, Raine gently pulled aside the binding to study the wound. There was an angry redness around the stitches but no visible sign of infection.
Still, it was no mere scratch to be ignored.
Tragedy could strike all too swiftly when injuries were not properly treated.
“I fear that you may have some fever to the wound. We must call for the surgeon.”
There was a short pause before her father heaved a sigh. “No, pet, that we most certainly cannot do.”
“Why not?”
“Because the local magistrate is currently searching for a bandit he managed to wound last eve. If he should discover the location of that bandit, he intends to hang him from the nearest gallows.”
Raine frowned in confusion. “Why would the magistrate mistake you for a bandit?”
“No doubt because I am one.”
The words were said simply, without apology, and with a carelessness that made Raine gape in confusion.
“Are you jesting?”
“No, Raine, this is no jest.” He sucked in a deep breath. “I am the Knave of Knightsbridge.”
“The Knave of Knightsbridge?”
“Aye. Highwayman extraordinaire.”
With a sharp movement Raine turned from the bed to pace toward the window. There was a fine view of the Kent countryside with its wide pastures and a charming lake surrounded by a copse of trees. Raine, however, did not take her usual pleasure in the peaceful setting, or even in the pale autumn sunlight that dabbled across the stables and cramped outhouses.
Forgivable, of course. She had just been told that her own father was the notorious brigand whose name was on the lips of every citizen of Knightsbridge.
“I do not understand,” she at last said as she paced toward the armoire and then back to the window.
“No, I do not expect that you do.”
“Why would you do such a thing? Are we in such desperate straits?”
“Sit down, pet, you are making my head spin with your pacing.”
“I cannot think when I am sitting.” Her brow creased as she struggled to consider how best to rescue them from such a dreadful situation. “We must sell mother’s jewels of course, they should fetch a goodly sum if we were to take them to London. And perhaps we could see about a lodger. We have room in the attic to take in at least two….”
“Raine, there is no need for such sacrifices, I assure you,” her father broke in with a firm voice.
“There is every need.” Returning to the bed, she glared down at the lean face that was so very dear to her. “I will not have you risking your life. We will find other means to get by.”
A fond smile touched his lips. “Raine, please listen to me.”
“What?”
“My pockets are not to let. Although I will never claim the wealth of some, we are quite comfortably fixed.”
She clenched her hands at her sides, not at all comforted by the knowledge they were so well situated.
Not when her father was dashing about the countryside, risking his reputation and very life, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Then…why?”
His expression was uncommonly somber as he reached up to take her hand in his own.
“Because our neighbors are not nearly so fortunate as we are, pet. The king and his cronies have happily emptied the treasury while refusing to honor their debts to the soldiers and widows that depend upon their promised annuities.” His grip tightened on her fingers, revealing a smoldering anger that burned in his heart. “Proud men have been forced to become no more than mere beggars in the street, and women sometimes worse, just to keep a roof over their heads. And as for the local orphanage…it has fallen into such disrepair that it will soon be no more than a pile of rubble if something is not done.”
The flutters of panic began to ease from her stomach. Not that she was any less worried. It was just that she began to understand what was prompting her father’s foolhardy behavior.
Beneath his hardened exterior was a tender heart and fierce need to protect those weaker than himself. It was a gallantry that marked him as a gentleman far more than any empty title or grand estate.
“And so you have taken upon yourself to play the role of Robin Hood?”
He tried to shrug only to wince in pain. “In a manner of speaking.”
“And I suppose that Foster is your Friar John, and Mrs. Stone and Talbot your Band of Merry Men?”
