A Daring Passion

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.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE 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 an

d 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.