A Daring Passion

His dark eyes flared over her slender frame. “I could be more satisfied,” he murmured.

There was a low sound from Philippe. “Go get some sleep, Carlos,” he ordered. “Tomorrow we return to our search for Seurat.”

Carlos studied Raine for a moment before he gave a mocking dip of his head and left the room.

Once alone, Philippe shifted until he had his good arm beneath Raine’s shoulders and her head tucked beneath his chin.

“Do not think to bewitch Carlos, meu amor,” he whispered softly. “No man shall ever have you but me.”

PHILIPPE WAS STILL DEEPLY asleep when Raine awoke the next morning. A mere glance was enough to assure her that his face was not flushed with fever and that the bleeding had stopped.

With care not to disturb him, she slipped from his clinging arms and returned to her own chambers. A half an hour later, she was scrubbed clean and attired in a pale lemon gown with matching ribbons threaded through her curls.

Leaving her room, Raine ignored the nagging urge to return to Philippe. She was not about to hover over him, wringing her hands like some besotted fool. Philippe, not to mention the entire household, was bound to jump to the conclusion that she actually cared if he lived or died. It was horrible enough to secretly accept that she did.

Instead she firmly headed down to the kitchen, and seating herself at the table, she accepted the hot, buttered croissants that Madame LaSalle placed before her.

“How is the monsieur on this morning?” the housekeeper inquired in her halting English. Although Raine spoke perfect French, the older woman was anxious to improve her accent.

“He is still sleeping at the moment, but I believe he is healing.” Raine nibbled at a croissant. “No doubt when he awakens he will be prepared for some of your excellent chicken broth.”

“You are a good girl.” The servant patted Raine’s cheek before moving to begin kneading a large mound of dough. “I must say that I do not like this shooting of the monsieur. It is not so good.”

Raine grimaced. “No, I am not fond of it myself.”

“Why should he be in such a nasty neighborhood? There is nothing to be found there but unfortunate souls who delight in trouble.” She gave a shake of her head. “Monsieur must be a man who seeks out the danger, non?”

Raine suspected that Philippe’s fascination for danger went well beyond Seurat and nasty neighborhoods. He possessed the sort of skills that suggested he was either a master criminal, or an agent for some government.

“Yes, I do believe that he must enjoy a certain amount of danger.”

“So different from his brother.” Madame LaSalle heaved a sigh as she sprinkled flour on the dough. “A pity.”

Raine pushed aside her plate. Ah, an opportunity to learn more about Philippe and his family. It would be intriguing to know precisely what others thought of them.

“You know Jean-Pierre well?” she asked casually.

A sudden smile curved the servant’s lips. Clearly, Jean-Pierre was a favorite of hers.

“But of course. He often comes to stay. He—” she struggled to translate her words “—how do you say—gathers the art?”

“He is an art collector,” Raine helpfully supplied.

“That is it. He comes to Paris and buys such lovely pictures and things. Always such exquisite taste.”

Raine hid her grimace. She had seen enough of Jean-Pierre’s art collection around the cottage to suspect he possessed more enthusiasm than actual skill in choosing his art.

“Well, I do not doubt that it is at least expensive taste,” she muttered.

Madame LaSalle turned to regard Raine with pinched lips. Her loyalty to Jean-Pierre clearly made her blind to his faults.

“Such things are always expensive.”

“Yes, they are. Which makes it an odd choice of a career for a second son.”

“I do not understand.”

Raine shrugged. “As we have both agreed it is ghastly expensive to collect art. It would seem that Jean-Pierre would be better served to have chosen a career in the church or the military that would allow him a measure of independence from his family.”