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The knowledge should have been terrifying. After all, he had always taken pride in his ruthless independence. He never wanted to share his life with another. The past had taught him that he was bound to be disappointed when he depended on anyone for his happiness.
At the moment, however, his only terror was that Raine had disappeared from him forever.
The grim thought barely had time to form when Philippe was distracted by the soft fall of footsteps. He instantly straightened and glanced toward the corner of the alley.
“Someone is approaching,” he murmured softly.
Belfleur peered into the dark, his round face easing as he recognized the skinny urchin hurrying in their direction.
“Ah…it is Victor. And he is early.” Belfleur stepped forward, his brows lifting as the boy with a shock of black hair and grubby face skidded to a halt before them. “Have you news?”
The boy narrowed his eyes as he glanced toward Philippe. “Did you mean it about the reward, monsieur?”
Belfleur gave a low growl as he grasped Victor by the collar of his shirt and gave him a sharp shake. “You try my patience at your peril, boy. Tell me what you know.”
Victor smiled with a sly arrogance. “I found the man. Now, where’s my money?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE NEXT HOUR PASSED WITH a blur of frantic urgency.
With Carlos and Belfleur at his side, Philippe followed Victor to the shabby building where Seurat had held Raine captive. Philippe would never forget the first sight of her lying upon the filthy bed with her hands tied behind her back and her arms smeared with blood. Fury had seared through him at the knowledge that she had endured such brutal treatment, and an unexpected flare of guilt at the thought that this, at least in some small portion, was his fault.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he had been aware of Carlos searching the rooms for the absent Seurat and then organizing Belfleur and his gang of pickpockets into a web of eyes and ears to keep a watch upon the neighborhood.
The fact that it should be his position to be taking the lead in the capture of Seurat was buried beneath his fierce concern for Raine. At the moment all he cared about was taking the woman from the ghastly hovel and returning her to his home so that he could properly tend to her.
After gently untying her bonds, he had cradled her in his arms and carried her down to the waiting carriage. Even as they were rattling their way to Montmartre he refused to allow her to leave his grasp, instead settling her on his lap and covering her with a heavy blanket.
Raine, of course, protested against his tender care. She was not the sort to easily cast herself in the role of feeble victim and disliked being fussed over. Trapped in his arms, she continued to assure him that she was perfectly well and that she had been treated as a respected guest by Seurat. Even as he carried her through the cottage she was pleading with the servants to halt their tears of joy and to be about their duties.
Philippe easily ignored her objections to being carried like a child and hauled her to his chambers. Within a short time he had her stripped of her rumpled gown and soaking in a hot tub as he gently washed her clean of the clinging dust.
Beneath his tender touch her muscles slowly relaxed and she leaned her head against the back of the tub.
“Oh, this is heavenly,” she murmured softly, her eyes closed. “I did not believe I would ever be warm again.”
Philippe knelt beside the tub, stripped down to his breeches. Until this moment he would have laughed at anyone who suggested he would ever play lady’s maid for a woman. Such a thing was disturbingly intimate. Far more intimate than mere sex. But in this moment he could not deny that he found himself reveling in performing such a service for Raine. Indeed, he was unable to stop himself.
He had to touch her. He had to feel the satin heat of her skin, smooth his hands from the top of her curls to the very tip of her toes. He had to assure himself that she was alive and unharmed.
He studied the delicate profile as a peculiar surge of emotion shot through his heart. With her heavy swath of lashes sweeping her cheeks and the stubborn line of her jaw softened, she looked unbearably young and innocent.
“Perhaps you will take more care on the next occasion you run off with another man, meu amor,” he murmured as his fingers trailed down her arm. “Not all gentlemen are so concerned with your comfort as I am.”
She chuckled softly. “I shall bear that in mind.”
His entire body stiffened as his fingers reached her wrist and the flesh that was rubbed raw from the ropes. The fury he had battled to keep at bay while he cared for her slashed through him with a brutal force.
“We should send for a doctor,” he rasped. “These wounds need to be tended.”
She reluctantly opened her eyes to regard him in puzzlement.
“They are merely scraped, Philippe. They will heal in a few days.”
“Seurat shall pay for every moment he held you captive, do not fear.”
Her brows snapped together at his solemn promise. “No.”
