A Daring Passion

“Why?”

“Why Madeira?” He gave a lift of one broad shoulder. “I have always desired to be wed in my own chapel. However, if you prefer to marry before we leave Paris I do not suppose there is anything to stop the marriage from taking place before the local priest, since you were raised Catholic.”

She sucked in a shuddering breath. He must be teasing her. This had to be a cruel joke intended to punish her for having dared to go against his will.

“Do not jest, Philippe, it is not kind.”

His green eyes narrowed, his expression relentless. “This is no jest, Raine. You will be my wife.”

“But…you do not want to marry me.”

“You are a very clever woman, meu amor, but not even you are capable of reading my mind. I have devoted years to avoiding the most determined attempts to trap me into matrimony. If I did not wish to marry you then I would most certainly not do so.”

Raine gave a slow shake of her head, her body cold with shocked disbelief. She felt as if she had been hit by a racing carriage, or tossed off the edge of a cliff. Either of which seemed more likely than Philippe Gautier proposing marriage to her.

“I am your mistress, for goodness’ sake,” she breathed in a strangled voice.

His hard lips quirked. “Yes, I do recall spending a number of delicious hours between your soft thighs.”

A rush of heat stained her cheeks. “Gentlemen do not wed their mistresses. Not unless they are determined to court scandal.”

He gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his fierce expression. He did not look like a man who had taken leave of his senses. Indeed, he appeared in frightening control of himself and the situation.

A far cry from her own numb bewilderment.

“There are few who know that we have lived together in this remote cottage.” He shrugged, his arrogance on full display. “When we arrive at my estate we will simply say that I have brought you from England so that we could exchange our vows in the family church. No one will question my word.”

She gave a choked laugh that was closer to a sob. “Even if we were capable of performing such a charade, not even your word can alter the fact that I am the daughter of a simple sailor, not to mention the Knave of Knightsbridge.”

“There will be no mention of your father’s illegal activities,” he warned, easily dismissing any concern at the inevitable gossip. “And while your birth may be humble, it is respectable. Any whispers will be swiftly forgotten once you have given me a son or two.”

Raine’s breath caught as a savage longing ripped through her. To have this man’s children. To hold them against her breast and offer them all the love that burned in her heart.

But at what price?

She could not begin to fathom the reasons for Philippe’s abrupt proposal, but she did know that it had nothing to do with affection. He had long ago buried his more tender emotions, if he had ever possessed them at all. He could never offer her more than passion. And even that would no doubt be shared with dozens of mistresses.

No. She would slowly die being tied to a man that she loved who could never return that love.

Far better for a swift end that offered no hope for a future together. How else could she forge a new life for herself?

Dropping her face into her hands, she cowardly hid her tears from his probing gaze.

“No…no more, Philippe. This is madness. I cannot be your wife.”

His hands gripped her wrists, and with a sharp tug he had them pulled away from her face and pressed against his chest. Without their protection she was forced to meet the blazing green gaze.

“Make no mistake, Raine, you most certainly will be my wife,” he swore coldly. “The sooner the better.”

Her heart halted as she sensed the grim determination that smoldered beneath his icy composure.

“But why? Why me?”

“I have told you.” He leaned forward until his lips were brushing her own. “You belong to me, meu amor. This simply makes it official.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

RAINE WOULD LATER RECALL very little of the trip from Paris to Madeira. Not that there was much to recall. Once upon Philippe’s yacht, she had been virtually held prisoner in her cabin as Philippe had set his crew on a grueling pace. She had been allowed topside for a brief morning stroll and another at sunset, always with a grim Philippe at her side, as if he feared she might fling herself overboard. But otherwise she had been trapped alone in the cramped cabin, taking her meals on a tray and sleeping in the narrow bunk alone.