A Daring Passion

Instead he paced from one end of the polished floorboards to the other, his hands clenched at his sides.

Damn Raine Wimbourne. It had been nothing short of hell to keep his hands off her during the interminable trip from Paris. Night after night he had lain awake, tormented with the need to seek out her cabin and relieve his aching hunger. But he had forced himself to remain away, ridiculously believing that he owed her the respect of waiting until their wedding night before he once again tasted of her sweet body.

The frustration had taken its toll on his sadly strained nerves. Was it any wonder that he had snapped when she had nearly killed herself attempting to avoid his mere touch?

“Perhaps the thought of breaking my bloody neck is preferable to that of marriage to you.”

He clenched his jaws as he recalled the sight of her pale face surrounded by the halo of golden curls. Her expression had been…what? Fear? Desperation?

Certainly not joy.

Reaching the far wall, he slammed his hand against the paneling before turning to pour a healthy measure of wine.

Damn the vexing wench. There was not a woman throughout Europe who would not faint with delight at the thought of wedding him. Including more than a few with royal connections.

Now a mere sailor’s daughter with a tattered reputation and no hope for a future beyond seclusion in a damp cottage was refusing to even contemplate all he could offer her.

It was enough to make any man long to howl in fury.

He was sipping his way through his third glass of wine when the sound of footsteps had him spinning about to regard the large, heavy-set priest with a thatch of silver hair who entered the room with a wide smile. As always Father Tomas brought with him an air of good cheer and robust energy. It was an energy that he devoted to caring for his flock with uncommon good sense, as well as uncommon kindness.

“Philippe, welcome home,” he boomed as he moved across the room to shake Philippe’s hand with a firm grip.

Forcing a smile to his lips, Philippe regarded the man who had been as much a friend as spiritual adviser for the past ten years.

“Thank you, Father. You are looking well,” he said smoothly.

“A bit too well, I fear.” With a chuckle the priest patted his expanding stomach. “My besetting weakness for bolo de mel is beginning to show for all the world to see.”

Philippe could not prevent a small chuckle. The entire village knew of the priest’s weakness for the sweet honey cakes, and in their love for him they ensured that he was never without his favorite treat.

“Ah, well, we all possess our weaknesses, do we not?”

The shrewd brown eyes studied Philippe’s countenance for a long moment, his smile fading as he seemed to sense the tension that gripped Philippe.

“Is all well, my son?”

“Perfectly well.” With a shrug Philippe set aside his wine. “Carlos is in England releasing Jean-Pierre from his prison cell, and the man who was responsible is in the hands of the king. Our family is once again safe from evil-doers. At least for the moment.”

Tomas gave a slow nod, his expression pensive. “I did not doubt for a moment you would be victorious, Philippe. Never in my long life have I known a gentleman who is more capable of setting a path and seeing it to the end. Some may claim that you were born with the Midas touch, but I know ’tis your own stubborn will that has given you such success.”

“Should I take that as a compliment or an insult?”

Thomas shrugged. “God helps those who help themselves.”

Philippe wryly thought of the woman who had yet to make an appearance despite his command. He was beginning to doubt that even divine intervention could assist him in comprehending the bewildering minx.

“A nice notion, but not always accurate,” he said, the faintest hint of bitterness darkening his low tone.

Tomas tilted his head to the side, studying Philippe with a mixture of curiosity and concern. At last he delicately cleared his throat.

“There have been rumors swirling through the village all morning.”

Philippe gave a humorless laugh as he moved to pour himself another glass of the rich wine. He had known that by announcing to his housekeeper that the woman he had carried into his home was destined to be her mistress, word would spread as swiftly as wildfire. At the time, however, he had merely been intent on making sure that the staff understood that Raine was to be treated with utmost respect. Now he had to wonder why he bothered.

Downing the wine, he slowly turned to meet the priest’s searching gaze.

“Surely a man of the cloth does not lower himself to listening to common gossip?”