By Desire Bound Read online

  A PASSION FOR ADVENTURE

  The world thought Connack Pengellis, oldest son of

  the powerful Pengellis-Becarre family, was dead. But

  he was alive and well, on a secret mission to find

  the Eye of God, a legendary white diamond

  many would kill to possess. Instead, he found a jewel

  far more enticing and dangerous—Darcie Boulton,

  a dazzling beauty with hair the color of

  midnight and eyes as blue as the sea,

  A DESIRE FOR PASS/ON

  His arrogant family had killed her father, and now sweet-talking conniver Darcie Boulton would use Connackfor her revenge. Yet she never expected to

  find herself in the arms of this seductive man

  who incited a restless passion deep within her. As

  they join forces to find the Eye of God, Darcie is

  faced with her greatest challenge: betraying Connack

  or embracing a forbidden, searing desire

  that no other man could fulfill...

  Prologue

  Goole Abbey, Croxfordshire, England—1895

  She had fallen in love with the face in the portrait the moment she walked into Goole Abbey as a new bride.

  "That's the good brother," Roger had said mock­ingly. "The dead brother."

  The brother who had been the heir of the house of Pengellis, jewelers to the Crown.

  The brother whose face was rugged and ascetic both, with piercing dark eyes and a firm carved mouth, who carried himself like a king.

  The brother who had died in quest of a legendary diamond nine years before, his exploits documented in a hundred sepia photographs that were kept enshrined at the London town house and at Goole.

  The brother who was mourned and revered and al­most canonized.

  The brother who was still alive.

  Not only that, but Roger and his mother had known that Connack Pengellis was alive all those years they were publicly mourning his death.

  And now she knew, dangerous knowledge for which she was locked in the tower at Goole Abbey like Rapun-zel.

  8 Thea Devine

  And at the door, Gorgon, in the form of her malicious malevolent mother-in-law, Lavinia, just waiting for the moment to pounce.

  And the only thing that was keeping her alive was the thing Lavinia coveted most: she was carrying Roger Pengellis's child.

  One

  He lay sprawled on the thickly tufted sofa, grizzled, touseled and naked, just another anonymous male body in a brothel full of them.

  "He's new," the madam said. "Just brought in last night. He's . . . asleep—but very willing, as my lady can see."

  Oh yes, she saw: he was long and lean and strong and beautifully made. His body was canted at an angle so that one of his legs was supporting his torso, and the other was crooked up on the sofa in a seemingly un­conscious pose that put him deliciously on display.

  He looked utterly knocked out; he could have been unconscious or drugged, or maybe he was just playing coy.

  She couldn't tell.

  But she knew who he was. Instantly and shockingly she knew, the way she tended to know odd things, and she believed it was he, and she immediately understood that she had to keep them both safe at any cost.

  Any cost.

  How much did she have? Her hands shook. A wad of banknotes she had stolen from Lavinia, and in her bag, an armload of unmarked silverware she had taken from Goole Abbey.

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  Thea Devine

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  BY DESIRE BOUND

  Enough to keep the dogs at bay for how long—an hour? A day?

  She had to tread very carefully because she knew the madam had recognized her from a half-dozen forays she had made to the brothel when she was newly wed and skirting the thin edge of ostracism with the fastest social set in London.

  She had been good at pretending. She had always been good at pretending. Roger hadn't cared what she was doing; he had only cared about the gold her father had dowered to his quirky only child to buy a baronetcy, which was as close to a title as Leonard Boulton would ever come.

  Not that she had cared. She had been his willing part­ner in complicity, eagerly reaching with both hands for the title, the money, the freedom. They had done it before, she and her father, only this time, he had re­quired she make a lifetime commitment to an indissol­uble marriage and unending privilege.

  What obedient daughter could refuse such a request? Especially one who had been as avaricious as she? "My lady?"

  The madam knew not to show her impatience, but it was there, a thin thread in her sharp question.

  Her heart was pounding wildly but she didn't hesi­tate; you didn't, with these people, and she needed to get out of Madame's sight as quickly as possible- Too much had happened too quickly. She needed to act quickly, now. She could think about it later. "I'll take him."

  "As my lady wishes. For how many nights?" Oh lord— She drew herself up. "We'll see how he works out. And since he's new, I will of course expect a more favorable fee, since I will be the one breaking him in."

  Such daring . . . but she had always lived on the edge of disaster . . . it was the only way she knew.

  The madam eyed her skeptically for a long moment. This one had never bargained for anything a day in her life, she thought. And never in a brothel. She knew this one: this one had never ever chosen from the menu in all the times she had ventured into the house.

  It was amusing, really. "Very well," Madame said. "And payment will be arranged how?"

  She calculated quickly, but she already knew she could not give up her banknotes. "I have silver."

  "Indeed?"

  "Which you can convert easier than I."

  "You think so."

  Awful woman—but still, the safest place she could think of with Lavinia in pursuit—she had no choice; she had to con­vince her.

  "Unmarked, Madame. Who is to know?"

  Now the madam was curious; it showed plainly in her

  eyes.

  "My lady surely has money."

  She gritted her teeth; she had to gamble, and her bluff was cloud thin. "I will buy this gentleman for the night with silver. Let me say that I know you are probably aware of its origin. Therefore this will be my only offer, Madame. Take it or leave it."

  "Let me see."

  She opened her bag and removed a silver sugar bowl and handed it to the madam who held it to the light and examined it thoroughly.

  "If you have the entire set, my lady, you may have

  him for two nights."

  "I have the teapot and cream jug, and I must be as­sured I am buying your discretion."

  12 Thea Devine

  "If you add in the tray and trivet, I believe we may have a bargain." Any cost. . .

  It was all she had of the silver, and she thought how sharp it was of the madam to understand exactly what the whole comprised and to bargain accordingly.

  Madame knew she had no choice. But Madame was willing to bargain; she had picked up on that right away. She handed them over reluctantly, with the madam examining and nodding over each exquisite piece.

  "We have a bargain. Two nights. And of course you may be assured / know that such a one as my lady would never venture forth to such a place. I have never seen you. I don't even know who you are. Is that satisfactory? Good. Then I will have him transported to a more pri­vate room."

  Madame clapped her hands and two burly men ap­peared with a pallet onto which they lifted the inert body of her would-be lover, and then they proceeded to a more private room on an upper floor of the brothel. It was a very utilitarian room—with a bed, a wash-stand, an upholstered chair, an armoire for clothes, and carpeted floor. A fireplace for warmth, which was crack
­ling with a banked fire, and nothing in the way of deco­ration except for fabric-draped walls in a neutral color. Good enough for her purposes. And isolated in the back of the house.

  Any cost. . . did it matter now?

  She watched as the porters unceremoniously rolled their burden onto the bed, and exited the room. Alone at last . . .

  She locked the door with shaking hands, marveling at her bravado and her reserves of sheer nerve.

  Or was it the familiar rush of triumph at having outiuitted an adversary yet again . . .?

  BY DESIRE BOUND 13

  But then—it was him ... his face, thinner, longer, gray with fatigue and something else, and buried under a bushy growth of beard and hair—but his face none­theless.

  And that body, that unimagined body that she had looked at every day, three and four times a day, in his

  portrait at Goole Abbey.

  That painted body, clothed as plain as a priest, with no clue to the sinew and power that lay beneath.

  It was a body made to be touched. Even in repose, even with him unconscious, she felt the awful urge to feel the texture, the heat, the muscularity of him. . . . the him of her dreams . . .

  Really him'? Or just a demon of her imagination?

  She stretched out her hand and laid it on his shoul­der—and jumped back. His skin was hot, burning hot.

  Like a demon . . . . . , oh, God—this wasn't real . . . it couldn't be—she

  wasn 't in a brothel with the man who had been canonized by his family who had known all along he hadn't died . . .

  —and she hadn 't just buried her husband of five years and escaped from her tower prison . . . . . , dear Lord . . .

  The stuff of gothic romance . . .

  Even she didn't believe it.

  But there he was, on the bed, naked as a baby and burning with fever, and she was his sole lifeline, even if only she knew

  it.

  She took a deep breath to slow her drumming heart

  and calm her jangling nerves.

  What to do now, with a complication she could never have

  envisioned in her life?

  Except she hadn't planned anything, not the how, the where, the what, not even Roger's unexpected death; all she had was

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  Thea Devine

  14

  the amorphous dream of killing Lavinia—yes, destroying La-vinia—somehow, and escaping.

  But then Roger had died instead, suddenly and inexplicably, and as his grieving widow, she had had to put on a public show, which had given her time, precious precious time, to act on her impulses.

  And to this moment, she didn 't know how she had done it, how she had had the rational thought to overpower Lavinia, steal the money and the silver, and to escape with her life and her lies.

  And escape to this . . . the unforeseen, inconceivable, unbe­lievable coincidence of finding Connack Pengellis in the very last place anyone would expect or look.

  And naked and for sale.

  How likely was that?

  And yet, the brothel had been the first thought that came into her mind as she fled the grounds of Goole.

  She reached out to touch him again just as he shifted and rolled onto his side.

  She had been meant to find him.

  No!

  Unthinkable.

  Her hand shook as she laid it against his bearded cheek. He was hot, hot as the devil, consumed in hell.

  She had known somehow he was here.

  Irrational. . .

  Inconceivable.

  Maybe.

  Not.

  But she didn't want to consider the incomprehensible and the implausible. She liked reasons, explanations, and possibili­ties grounded in reality.

  But there was no explanation for this.

  For him.

  Who had been thought dead.

  Or somewhere in South Africa. At the very least.

  And who was where he wasn 't supposed to be, with her who was somewhere she wasn't supposed to be—

  And both at the mercy of Lavinia who wouldn't scruple to

  kill them both,

  She lifted the edge of the bedspread and draped it

  over his naked body.

  She wanted to climb into bed with him—

  Dear God— That was insanity.

  She sank wearily into the chair, and rested her head

  in her hands.

  There wasn't a sound except the crackle of the fire

  in the hearth.

  She couldn't hear the wind, or a guest, or a mouse.

  There was nothing—just her own injudicious thoughts as she rummaged through the events of the last twenty-four hours.

  She was safe—for the moment.

  And so was he.

  She had known Roger was going to die. She knew the way she always knew things—a moment before and a step

  ahead.

  She had watched him from the slit of the window in the tower where they had imprisoned her; everyday she had watched him careering over the fields of Goole Ab­bey until the fatal day he had tried to jump a downed tree trunk and his horse didn't make it.

  And neither did he.

  The funeral was lavish and overcrowded.

  Lavinia chained her to her side, and everyone com­mented on how devoted they were and how fortunate it was that there would be an heir to carry on the family business and Roger's name.

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  Thea Devine

  Only there was no baby. There would be no heir.

  And it would not have been too long before Lavinia found out and her life would have had no value.

  Lavinia would have killed her without blinking an eye.

  And so, in that infinitesimal moment when Lavinia was distracted by the intricacies of unlocking her man­acles before incarcerating her again for the last time, she attacked her, disabled her, and managed to elude the servants, steal the silver and money, and escape.

  And all on a tide of driving fear and sheer gut instinct.

  She had no reserves left.

  She couldn't think beyond the next minute.

  She had no idea where next to go or what to do.

  She had two nights.

  And the limp naked body of Con Pengellis to burden her down.

  And she wasn't going to leave Croxfordshire without him.

  Everyone knew the story of Connack Pengellis, Bart, head of Pengellis-Becarre Company. He was the man who had mined a fortune in diamonds and then left the company at the height of its production and expan­sion to devote his life to pursuing a legend.

  No one knew if he had ever found the mythic dia­mond they called The Eye of God.

  Everyone thought he had died seeking the fabled Val­ley of the Diamonds,

  Only Roger and Lavinia knew he had survived.

  And then her—long after Roger had inherited his brother's wealth, his mines, his title, and his properties.

  They couldn't take the chance she wouldn't tell; they knew she hated Roger and, since she had her own

  money in a trust set up by her father, that she felt no loyalty to him either.

  She knew they would have no compunction about killing her—but she saved herself by giving Lavinia the one thing she wanted above all else—a child of Roger's

  blood.

  And with that quick-witted, brilliant and inventive lie, she bought herself some time.

  Two months and two nights.

  She felt as if the whole of her life were compressed into that time. One more month and Lavinia would have wondered why she did not show. One more night and she would have been condemned forever.

  And she couldn't begin to think what might have hap­pened to him if she had not escaped.

  She was meant to find him.

  She shuddered at the thought, but she felt it to the very marrow of her bones.

  That, and the loss of everything. Just everythin
g.

  First her father, and now this. And she could count her money gone as well.

  Dear God—alt that money . . .

  Her share of her father's initial profit from his part­nership with Roger: he had banked it in Funds before his death, and now she couldn't risk trying to get hold of it.

  All she had was the silver and a fistful of banknotes. And an unconscious naked man who didn't know that she was his savior.

  She didn't even have a plan.

  No . , . she had the barest sketch of a plan: she had bought two nights, so they would stay there the two nights.

  Beyond that, she couldn't think.

  She couldn't move, she wanted to stay immobile for-

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  Tkea Devine

  ever and never have to make another decision. Her

  body felt heavy, constricted. Tight, as if something were squeezing her very vitals.

  She jerked awake in panic, unable to move, unable to breathe—choking, choking, choking on her words, her breath, her life.

  He was behind her, on his knees, his muscular arm around her neck, pulling back on her throat to almost the point of no return.

  He had tied her up in the thin bedspread with which she had covered him, and she felt the murderous anger emanating from him in waves.

  He was going to kill her. A wild naked man on his knees was going to finish what his family had started.

  He increased the pressure on her throat. She felt her helplessness in the face of his strength, his fury, his heat.

  She couldn't see: there was only darkness and his panting breath and her futile gasps for air.

  She felt the life going out of her. Another minute . . . and then darkness and gone—she would be with her father, soon, to eternity—

  She welcomed it, she did . . .

  "Who the hell are you?"

  The pressure against her throat eased—just enough so that she could gulp some air.

  "Where are we?"

  His voice was savage with an explosive frustration.

  She heaved against him in an impotent attempt to loosen his hold.

  He clamped her against the back of the chair more tightly, the tension in his body palpable.

  "Jesus God, who am I. . . ?"

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