A Daring Passion

“Stop,” she panted, struggling to free herself.

Philippe easily controlled her frantic wiggles as he shifted his hands to capture her wrists above her head.

“Damn you to hell, what are you playing at?” he gritted.

“Let go of me.”

“Oh, no, my beauty, you are staying precisely where you are until I discover who you are and, more important, who put you up to attacking my carriage.”

She should have been terrified. He held her life quite literally in his hands. Instead, she glared at him with a fury of her own.

“You are hurting me.”

“Keep struggling and I shall put you across my knee and beat you as you deserve,” he warned without compunction.

“Brute,” she muttered as she tried to knee him in a most delicate location.

His eyes narrowed. For such a tiny thing she managed to put up a hell of a battle.

“Halt your struggles.”

“Sir…” Her words came to a startled end as the buttons on her jacket were tugged open and the heavy material parted to reveal she wore nothing more than a thin chemise beneath.

“Voce e bonita,” he whispered at the sight of her curved breast perfectly outlined by the clinging muslin. Without warning there did not seem to be enough air in the carriage.

“Bastardo,” she gritted.

His gaze jerked back to her pale face. “You speak Portuguese?”

“I speak any number of languages,” she said with a proud disdain.

His gaze narrowed. So the girl was no peasant. A knowledge that did nothing to ease the burning in the pit of his stomach.

“Then choose one of those numerous languages and explain to me what the hell you are doing here.”

“Will it halt you from behaving like a lunatic?”

His fingers tightened. “Now.”

There was a brief pause before she licked her lips. Philippe ignored the burst of awareness the unconscious gesture sent ricocheting through his body. Those damnable lips would not distract him. Not when he was certain that she was about to tell him a lie.

“This was nothing more than a lark.”

“A lark?”

“My friends and I thought it would be amusing to see if one of us could masquerade as the notorious Knave of Knightsbridge.”

“And who, pray, is the Knave of Knightsbridge?” he demanded in a lethally soft voice.

“A highwayman who has become something of a local legend.” Her lashes lowered to hide her expressive eyes. “The stories of his tedious escapades are repeated so often that my friends and I decided that we should prove his dastardly deeds were not so difficult to accomplish.”

“I see.” He studied the delicate features. “And it did not occur to you that this charade might lead to a bullet through your heart? Or at the very least the destruction of your reputation?”

“I realize now it was a stupid folly. But we meant no harm.”

Philippe deliberately paused, allowing her a brief moment of hope before dashing it with a sharp laugh.

“You really are quite accomplished, you know.”