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“I lost fourteen members of my family,” he said in clipped tones that belied the cold fury that gnawed deep in his soul.
She frowned. “But your mother survived?”
“She survived, but she never forgave herself for allowing her family to be slaughtered.”
“She could not have prevented their deaths.”
His lips twisted. “Grief is rarely reasonable.”
Her dark eyes softened in a manner that revealed she was all too familiar with grief.
“No. No, I suppose not.”
Philippe’s gaze lowered to the locket that he had found among his mother’s belongings. They had been condemned to the attics after her death, as if his father was determined to banish her memory. Or perhaps it was his guilt he hoped to banish.
Whatever the reason, Philippe had spent hours searching through the large trunks, needing to find some means of bonding to the woman who had given birth to him. A bond that was sharply absent from his feckless, irresponsible father and brother.
At last lifting his head, he discovered Raine regarding him with a searching gaze.
“Once it appeared the worse of the terror was at an end my mother insisted on returning to Paris and searching for any members of her family who might still be alive,” he forced himself to continue. “It was the only way that she could make amends with her troubled conscience.”
“She went alone?” Raine demanded in surprise.
Philippe’s lips twisted with an age-old disdain. “My father was not going to risk his neck on a fool’s errand, as he called it. Although, he is always quick enough to risk it when he thinks it might bring him a bit of fame among his fellow collectors.”
Her eyes darkened, as if she sensed the part of
him that held his father to blame for his mother’s death.
“I see.”
He gave a restless shrug. “My mother arrived in Paris, but during her search of the various prisons for information of her parents she contracted influenza. She died within the week.”
“How old were you?”
“I had just turned four.”
Without warning her hand reached up to touch his cheek with gentle fingers. “So you have no memory of her?”
A strange, unfamiliar sensation made Philippe’s heart jerk sharply against his chest. He had enjoyed the touch of a woman more times than he could recall. In passion, in pleading, in anger. But never once in sympathy.
“No.”
She gave a small sigh. “It is difficult to lose your mother. Especially if you are very young.”
“As you know from experience.”
“Yes.” A hint of sadness rippled over her lovely face. “But I was fortunate to have my father.”
He made a sound in his throat. “Your father…”
Her hand shifted to press against his lips, a frown tugging at her brows. “No, Philippe, not a word against my father.”
This time Philippe fully recognized the sensations that streaked through his body. He was naked in bed with a woman who made his heart pound and his blood run hot. Enough chatter.
“I agree,” he said softly.
Her brows lifted. “You do?”
