A Daring Passion

“What you must do is close the door before you allow any more of the night air into my carriage,” Philippe announced in a voice that brooked no argument. “I grow weary of your chatter. Be off with you.”

“As you wish.” Offering a stiff bow, the man backed away just as a large, dark form slipped past him to enter the carriage and shut the door in his flushed face.

Philippe watched as his companion settled himself on the leather seat across from him.

At a glance Carlos Estavan did not seem the sort of man that Philippe Gautier would choose as a trusted friend. While Philippe was a slender, elegant gentleman with a cool, some would say aloof, composure and an aristocratic air, Carlos was broad and dark with the swarthy complexion of his Portuguese ancestors. He also possessed a fiery temperament and the sort of earthy passions that were decidedly absent in Philippe.

The two men had, however, been the closest of companions since Philippe had arrived at his father’s estate in Madeira when he had been but a tender lad. At the time Philippe had been devastated by his mother’s death and ready to strike out at anyone who crossed his path. Carlos had been the son of a local fisherman and an English maid who worked at Philippe’s family estate, and not at all shy about holding his own, even against a nobleman.

Philippe had been beaten senseless, but much to the astonishment of all, he had refused to allow Carlos to be punished. In truth, he had developed a grudging respect for the ill-tamed rascal who would rather risk the pillory than be bested.

It was a friendship that had flourished despite the disparity in their social positions, and Philippe knew there was no one he trusted more in the world.

Which was precisely why he had insisted that Carlos accompany him on this journey to England.

“So you do not possess faith in the cook’s uncanny nose?” Carlos demanded, revealing he had been lurking in the shadows to listen to Philippe’s conversation with the innkeeper.

“Ridiculous jackass.” Philippe settled back in the seat and pulled his coat about him. Lud, but he had forgotten just how cold and miserable England could be in November. “As if I were not perfectly aware he was attempting to cozen me into spending the night at his shabby inn.”

Carlos smiled as he rammed his hands through the long black hair that had been tousled by the stiff breeze.

“Well, you can hardly blame the man. He is stuck in the midst of this dreary landscape with no companionship beyond cows and half-wits. How often do you suppose such a fine and elegant gentleman arrives at his humble establishment? No doubt he was already plotting to have the town crier inform the local citizens that you halted for a mug of cider. Just imagine the bragging he could have done if you were to have actually slept in one of his beds.”

“Along with the bedbugs and mice?” Philippe shuddered. “No thank you.”

“We have bedded down in worse.”

That was true enough. Over the years Philippe and Carlos had bunked down in hovels, fields, and on one unforgettable occasion, in the dank cells of a Brazilian prison.

“Only when promised enough of a fortune to make it worth my while, and never where I am forced to endure such a despicable toadeater,” Philippe drawled. “What news from the stables?”

“There have been no strangers pass this way for the past fortnight.”

Philippe swallowed a curse. It was, of course, a great deal too much to hope that he would simply stumble across the scoundrel he was seeking, but not to have even the smallest inkling of the dastard’s location was straining his already raw nerves.

“No wonder the innkeeper was so desperate for my blunt.” He glanced out the frosted window. “How far are we from London?”

“We are still some thirty miles, with many of the roads impassable.”

“Devil take it. If we are to have a decent roof over our heads before the night is out then we shall have to dare the main road.” Philippe grimaced. He had lived too long in warm climates not to feel the bite of the winter air. “No matter, there will be few travelers about at this time of eve.”

“Not with the cook smelling snow in the air.”

Philippe narrowed his gaze. “Tell Swann to take the turnpike before I leave you here to grub among the natives.”

Lifting the hatch in the top of the carriage, Carlos passed the command on to the groom before resuming his seat with a smile that revealed a flash of perfect white teeth.

“I wouldn’t complain at lingering an hour or two. There is a very eager barmaid who was casting her eye in my direction. She would no doubt warm a man on such a cold night.”

The carriage swayed from the stable yard and began to pick up its pace as it hit

the turnpike. Philippe gave a shake of his head as he resigned himself to a chilly, disagreeable night.

“Good God, do you never think of anything else?” he demanded.

Carlos gave a low chuckle. “That is your trouble, you know, Gautier.”

“What? That I do not tup every chit who tosses herself at my feet?”