A Daring Passion. Rosemary Rogers
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urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her to the nearby bed was overwhelming.
He wanted to see her spread beneath him. To part her thighs and discover the heart of her pleasure. To thrust himself into her until they were both exhausted and sated.
It was surely what she had been created for?
His arms had already tightened when he gave a low groan.
The devil take it, this was not the time to be indulging in such games. No matter how delightful.
At this moment Carlos was awaiting him in his library, and his brother would be anxiously awaiting word that he had reached London.
He abruptly lifted his head, gazing down at her upturned face with a brooding intensity.
In the flickering candlelight her delicate beauty was enough to steal his breath. The golden curls were a shimmering river as they tumbled about her shoulders, her ivory skin was brushed with a faint flush, and her eyes smoldered with the lingering memory of his kiss.
She looked like a wanton, exotic angel.
Perhaps in another man it might not be so surprising that he had lost all sense. She was lovely enough to tempt a saint.
But he was not just any man, he sternly reminded himself. He was Philippe Gautier. A gentleman who had built a fortune on his ruthless ability to never lose sight of his goals.
Taking a step backward, he sucked in a deep breath. “I have business to tend to. You will remain here until I return,” he said in tones that were more abrupt than he intended.
She frowned as her fingers rose to touch lips still reddened from his kiss.
“What are you going to do with me?”
His lips twisted as he turned and moved to the door. “That is the question, is it not?”
Refusing to glance back, Philippe shut the door behind him, and then, taking a chair from the hall, he lodged it beneath the knob.
He paused in the shadows as his gaze lingered on the door. He knew that she was effectively trapped. There was no way out of the room, and even if she tried to scream there would be no one to hear her.
Still, he found himself reluctant to leave. As if she might disappear into a puff of smoke the moment she was out of his sight.
Ridiculous.
He gave himself a shake as he forced his reluctant feet to carry him toward the main staircase and down to the library.
As always he found the house in pristine condition. Despite her advancing years Mrs. Hibbert kept his home constantly prepared for even the most unexpected arrival. There was no musty air or Holland coverings to be found. Instead he was greeted with the smell of fresh beeswax and carpets that were freshly beaten.
It was the sort of loyal service he expected in all his servants.
Entering the library, he was not surprised to discover that a fire had already been lit to glow warmly off the polished oak paneling and to drive the distinct chill from the room. His gaze shifted to take in the sight of Carlos stretched upon one of the leather couches, a large glass of brandy in his hands.
“At last,” the younger man complained. “I was beginning to fear that you had been overcome by a half-grown waif.” The dark gaze abruptly narrowed as he studied Philippe’s tight expression. “Was he more trouble than you expected?”
Philippe crossed the Persian carpet to toss his coat on a wing chair.
“Enough trouble to drive a man to Bedlam,” he muttered.
There was a faint pause before he heard Carlos rise to his feet. “What the devil are you up to, Philippe?”
Reluctantly, Philippe turned to meet his friend’s curious gaze. “Attempting to rescue my brother from his latest disaster. What else could I possibly have on my mind?”
“You know I speak of the crianca. You should have given him a good thrashing, or handed him over to the authorities if you were determined to see him punished. Why would you risk exposing your arrival in London by holding the pathetic creature captive?”
“Because it suits me to do so.”
Carlos gave a slow shake of his head. He knew Philippe far too well. “There is something more to the boy than you are revealing. You would never have hauled him to London if he did not have some value.”
Philippe shrugged. “He amuses me.”
“He…amuses you?” Carlos gave a sudden laugh. “Meu Deus, is there something you wish to confess?”
With a frown Philippe moved toward the heavy mahogany desk set near the bay window. For reasons he couldn’t name, he had no desire to reveal that the lad was instead a beautiful young woman. Not even to this man whom he considered a brother.
For now she was a secret he intended to keep closely guarded.
“The only thing I wish is to discover if my agents have managed to complete the tasks I set for them,” he said as he opened the top drawer to pull out a thick packet. He swiftly untied the string and began to spread out the various documents over the desk. “Ah.”
Carlos moved to stand beside him. “What are those?”
Philippe felt his stomach clench as he skimmed through the various papers. Before leaving for England he had sent word to his most trusted agents to begin the investigations to clear his brother’s name. Beginning with these papers.
There were promissory notes adding up to an enormous sum, sketched maps of Windsor Castle and the surrounding grounds, lists of guards on duty and a list of drugs that were all lethal.
There were even letters written in French that were supposedly from some cohort that warned Jean-Pierre to murder the king before the end of the year if he expected to collect his reward.
“These are the exact copies of the papers that they found in Jean-Pierre’s possession the night he was arrested,” he told his companion. He lifted one of the letters to point toward the small etching in the bottom corner. “Here. This is the mark Jean-Pierre noticed.”
Carlos frowned. “Looks like a scribble.”
“Actually, it’s a hieroglyph.”
“How can you tell? I thought you hated anything Egyptian.”
“Only when it is costing me a large fortune to fund my father’s idiotic expeditions,” Philippe retorted. “But this particular hieroglyph happens to be very familiar to me. It is the mark of an ancient prince. To be precise it is the mark of the prince that my father unearthed from his tomb nearly twenty years ago.”
“Are you certain, Philippe?” Carlos reached to pluck one of the maps from the desk. “These papers are mere copies, and as fine as your henchmen might be, I doubt that any of them would be able to accurately copy something like a hieroglyph.”
Philippe smiled. “I hired a trained forger to assist my associates. Believe me, he has a talent for the finest detail. Besides, Jean-Pierre recognized it, as well.”
“Which is why we have been searching the roads and posting inns for some mysterious Frenchman from your father’s past?” Carlos demanded.
“Precisely.”
“Now what?”
Philippe took a moment to consider. It was far too late to accomplish much this evening, but there was one task he needed completed.
“I want you to go to Newgate and get a message to Jean-Pierre that I have arrived in London.”
Carlos glanced toward the window. “At this hour?”
“You are weary?”
“Yes, but I was thinking more about the guards. I doubt they will be willing to allow me to visit Jean-Pierre