A Daring Passion

Or at least that was the promise he had made to himself when he had reached the decision to return Raine to England.

He clenched his mother’s locket tightly in his hand as his entire body trembled with the urge to dash after the retreating carriage. It had seemed a simple matter in the middle of yet another sleepless night to concede defeat. Why the devil should he attempt to lure an unwilling bride to the altar?

God knew that he had only to crook his finger to have hundreds of eager debutantes flocking to the island to claim him as their husband.

If Raine wished to rot in a damp, isolated cottage, then so be it. He had enjoyed her delectable body for weeks. Soon enough another woman would catch his eye and ease the frustrated ache lodged deep in his body. It was inevitable, was it not?

Now, however, in the cold light of day and with his wits unclouded by brandy, he found the sight of Raine being carried away from his home far from satisfying.

Hell and damnation. Why had he arranged for her to depart so swiftly? Even if his pride had refused to allow him to be in Raine’s company for fear he might actually beg her to become his wife, he at least had the pleasure of watching her from afar as she drifted through the gardens or sat in the drawing room gazing at the sea. Or catching the sweet scent of her lilac perfume when he passed by her chamber.

Or most important, knowing that she was always safe.

Who would take care of her in England? Her worthless wastrel of a father? Philippe gave a short, humorless laugh. Josiah Wimbourne was as likely to toss the reckless chit into some disaster as to keep her from harm. Certainly he would not trouble himself to find the means to make his daughter happy.

Realizing the direction of his thoughts, Philippe abruptly turned from the window and paced toward the large portrait of his mother that hung above his fireplace.

He had done the only thing possible, he told himself sternly. It had been sheer torture to have Raine so near and not have her in his arms.

His gaze lifted to study the strong, determined line of his mother’s face. Oddly, in the slanting light she appeared vaguely disapproving. Almost as if she were aware of what was occurring and was not at all pleased.

Ridiculous, of course.

His mother had died years ago in her futile attempt to rescue her family. She had made her decision and left behind her son to forge his own path in this life.

But was she truly gone? a voice whispered in the back of his mind. Slowly, his gaze lowered to the locket in his hand. Did he not continue to allow the memory of her loss to haunt him?

Raine had accused him of never depending upon anyone and he had not argued. Why should he? He took pride in his self-sufficiency. It had made him strong enough to care for his family and to build a financial empire.

When a man was foolish enough to depend on others he was only doomed to disappointment.

Besides which, he had never encountered anyone who wanted him to have need of them. To be vulnerable.

Not until Raine.

A sharp pain struck like lightning through his body, nearly sending him to his knees. Whirling ab

out he tossed the locket across the room.

Damn the woman.

What the devil had she done to him?

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

RAINE AWOKE TO ANOTHER morning of heavy clouds with the threat of chilled rain in the air. It was the same as every other morning since she had arrived back in England a fortnight ago.

Resisting the urge to remain in her narrow bed with the covers pulled over her head, Raine forced herself to dress in a warm wool gown and made her way to the small drawing room. If she lingered in her bed it would only cause her father to fret.

Although Josiah had accepted her return without a painful inquisition of what had happened during her absence, he could not completely hide his concern.

He at least suspected that Raine had possessed the poor judgment to fall in love with her captor, and that she still suffered from the pain of leaving him.

This morning, however, she was determined to be done with the ridiculous sense of grief that shrouded her like a dark cloud and get on with her life. She owed it to her father.

After all, he had taken great pains to convince the neighbors that her disappearance from the cottage had been nothing more scandalous than an extended trip to London. She would not undo his good work by continually moping about like some figure from a tragic opera.

Busying herself with lighting a fire and pulling open the heavy drapes, Raine did not hear the sound of footsteps until the door was pushed open and her father stepped into the room.