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“Tell me who you are.”
“Raine Wimbourne,” she said on a strangled gasp.
Philippe used his teeth to tug the offending chemise out of his way. “Your real name.”
“That is my real name.” She shivered, but Philippe possessed enough experience to know it was not from fear.
“You said if I told you my name you would release me,” she charged.
“You have not told me why you were playing such a dangerous charade.”
“I cannot.”
Philippe was busily learning the sweet hollow between her breasts.
“Dear God,” she breathed.
Her husky voice was an unwelcome intrusion.
“Stop this and I will tell you the truth.”
Praise for Rosemary Rogers
“The queen of historical romance.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Returning to her roots with a story filled with family secrets, politics, adventure and simmering passion, Rosemary Rogers delivers what fans have been waiting for.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on An Honourable Man
“Her novels are filled with adventure, excitement and…wildly tempestuous romance.”
—Fort Worth Star-Telegram
“This is exactly what her many fans crave, and Rogers serves it up with a polished flair.”
—Booklist on A Reckless Encounter
“Ms Rogers writes exciting, romantic stories…with strong-willed characters, explosive sexual situations, tenderness and love.”
—Dayton News
“Rogers, a true doyenne of the genre, gives her many readers the romance they anticipate along with lush scenery and romantic locations.”
—Booklist on Jewel of My Heart
“Her name brings smiles to all who love love.”
—Ocala Star-Banner
New York Times bestselling author Rosemary Rogers has written over twenty historical and contemporary romances. Dubbed “the queen of historical romance,” she is best known for her passionate and sensual characters, and her Steve-and-Ginny series is a classic with fans. Born in Ceylon, Rosemary now lives in Connecticut.
A Daring Passion
Rosemary Rogers
MILLS & BOON
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For my family
CHAPTER ONE
THE NIGHT WAS FRANKLY miserable. Although the rain that had drenched the Kent countryside over the past two days had at last drizzled to a halt, the air was still thick with moisture and a blanket of fog lay over the slumbering villages and estates.
A miserable night to be certain. At least for decent folk.
It was a perfect night for thieves, scoundrels and dastards.
Too perfect, Josiah Wimbourne was forced to concede as he entered his small cottage and painfully tossed aside his brilliant crimson cape and hat. He should have known the magistrate would be on the alert. The muddy roads and heavy fog would slow even the finest carriage. Such easy pickings were far too great a temptation for any highwayman.
Especially for the notorious Knave of Knightsbridge.
With a grimace Josiah crossed the small kitchen to settle in a chair near the smoldering fire. Only then did he glance toward his shoulder, which was still seeping blood. Damn his stupidity. He was nearing forty years of age. Old enough to know that it was a dead man who underestimated his enemy.
The previous magistrate might have been a blundering fool who was quite willing to turn a blind eye if the price was right, but this new man, Tom Harper, was cut from an entirely different cloth.
In less than a month he had proved to be impervious to bribes, intimidation and even outright threats. Nothing could sway his sense of duty or determination to uphold the king’s law.
Even worse, the blighter possessed an uncanny knack for thinking precisely like a criminal.
Any other magistrate would look at the dismal weather and presume that any brigands would be cozily drinking ale at the local inn, or warming themselves in the arms of a willing whore. But not Harper. He had taken stock of the rutted roads and thick fog and known instinctively that the Knave would be out hunting.
Blast his interfering soul.
Unwittingly a small smile flickered over Josiah’s weathered features. Despite the burning pain in his shoulder, and the undeniable realization he was in a precarious position, he could not deny a measure of admiration for the tenacious magistrate.
Since leaving his life in the navy, it was rare to discover an opponent worthy of his skills. Certainly not the Runners, whom his victims occasionally hired to track him down. Or even the militia, which had been called in by the local aristocrats who had wearied of having their elegant guests robbed traveling through Knightsbridge. How could he not respect the damnable cur?
His ridiculous thoughts were cut short as a slight, dour-faced servant entered the kitchen to regard him with a startled frown.
Foster had once been a trained manservant who had worked at some of the finest homes in London. A position he might still be holding today if he had not been caught forging his employer’s signature to obtain a number of bank drafts. It didn’t matter that he had used the money to assist a floundering orphanage rather than lining his own pocket.
