Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Emily screamed with rage and, ignoring the pain, fought to escape his vicious grip, her body thrashing about atop the horse. Unused to the unfamiliar weight and violent moments on his back, the horse snorted and half bucked and Ainsworth was nearly unseated. Forced to concentrate on his horse, his grip loosened on her hair.

  Emily took advantage of the moment and sprang free. Her feet hit the ground and she stumbled into a run, but Ainsworth yelled to Jeffery, “Grab the reins, you fool!” and leaped from his horse right on her heels.

  With one hand he caught her shoulder and spun her around, his other hand drawn back into fist. He moved so fast, she never even saw the blow that hit her. The last thing Emily remembered was a stunning shock of pain and then there was only blackness.

  Chapter 13

  Several minutes had passed and as Emily did not return, after looking at his gold pocket watch for the fourth time, not hiding his exasperation, Barnaby asked Cornelia, “What’s taking her so long?”

  Hiding her unease, Cornelia said, “She is probably just giving the servants a few last-minute instructions.”

  Barnaby looked at her incredulously. “Do you take me for a dunce?” Cornelia grimaced and he demanded, “Who is this ‘friend’ that it was so important she meet with right now?”

  Cornelia considered the question, uncertain how much to reveal. Concluding that he could find out the identity of Emily’s friend easily enough, she answered, “Most likely it is Jeb Brown.”

  “And what business would she have with a fisherman?” Barnaby inquired, his eyes narrowed and fixed on Cornelia’s face. “And don’t try to fob me off by telling me she’s buying fresh fish for tonight’s dinner!”

  Cornelia hesitated. Shortly, she’d have Emily safely settled at Windmere and though aware that if things worked out as she hoped, Barnaby would have to know the truth eventually, she was still reluctant to expose Emily’s smuggling. She eyed the dark, hard-faced man before her, wondering how he would react if she told him the truth. Cornelia trusted him else she would never have agreed to remove to Windmere; she suspected that his interest in Emily was more than just kindness and she’d been pleased with Emily’s reaction to him, but that didn’t mean she was ready to reveal all. It was too dicey, she finally decided, unwilling to risk a retraction of his invitation. She didn’t think he would abandon them, in fact, she rather thought he’d take it in stride and never falter a step, but she wasn’t willing to take any chances.

  When Cornelia remained silent, Barnaby sighed. Sitting down beside her, he took her frail hand in his and said gently, “Suppose I tell you what I think is going on?”

  “Suppose you do just that,” she said, her intelligent hazel eyes intent on his.

  “I believe that Emily has gone to meet Jeb because they are planning another run to a port in France to buy contraband goods for sale here in England,” Barnaby said carefully. Noting that she had not hurled his words back in his face, he continued. “It’s possible that Emily routinely goes about the countryside disguised as a boy and visits The Crown at odd hours of the night—as happened the night I first saw her, but I doubt it. I may be a newcomer to England, but even I’ve heard of the rampant smuggling that goes on along this stretch of coast. If she was involved in the landing of contraband goods, it explains why a gently born young woman was out at that hour of night garbed as a boy and at The Crown . . . the center of the, ah, smuggling ring.”

  “Quite a leap based on one event.”

  Barnaby grinned. “All right, I’ll grant you that, but explain to me Jeb’s presence in the Channel that night . . . in the midst of a storm—a time and condition I’ve learned is often chosen by smugglers to make a landing. No fisherman I’ve ever met would take that sort of risk and any fisherman worth his salt would have known the weather was turning ugly and would have made for port long before the storm hit.”

  Cornelia shrugged. “You may be right, but that doesn’t mean he’s a smuggler.”

  “No, but I’d like you to give me a good reason why he wasn’t snugly in port that night . . . along with the revenuers.”

  “How should I know? I’m not a fisherman.”

  “That’s true,” Barnaby conceded. “It’s also true that Mrs. Gilbert was particularly, er, reticent when I broached the subject with her that night. It was also clear she was hiding something—they all were. They could be involved in some other activity,” he said slowly, “but my money is on smuggling.” He studied her rigid features. “I am not your enemy, Cornelia,” he muttered. “I’m on your side . . . but I cannot help you if I do not know what is going on.”

  “Just suppose you’re right. . . . Why would you want to help us?” she demanded.

  “I think you already know the answer,” Barnaby said softly. At the gleam of satisfaction that leaped into her hazel eyes he smiled and added, “Yes, I mean to marry her—even if she is the Queen of the Sussex Smugglers.” He scratched the side of his face and admitted wryly, “I’ll admit that I’d prefer, as my future viscountess, that we end her smuggling days soon and decently bury that part of her past.”

  “She didn’t want to do it,” Cornelia confessed. “But Jeffery . . . Jeffery decimated the estate by his gambling and poor management and she felt she had no choice.” She smiled sadly. “I didn’t like my husband’s nephew very much, but Emily’s father was a damn sight better than that wastrel Jeffery. Emily’s father looked out for his people and the village.” She scowled. “When farms failed because of Jeffery’s practices, many farmers and their families were forced to abandon their livelihood—which hurt the village. As money grew scarcer, Jeffery dismissed our servants with a pittance after they had served us well nearly all of their lives.” Her eyes pleading for understanding, she said quietly, “Emily couldn’t bear it. She had to do something.”

  Lifting up the hand he still held, Barnaby pressed a kiss onto the wrinkled surface. Smiling at her, he said, “I would have expected nothing less of her.”

  Cornelia’s fingers tightened around his. “And you do mean to marry her?” she asked urgently.

  “Try and stop me,” he said, a crooked grin curving his lips. Infused with new energy, Cornelia took her hand from his and, sitting up straighter, she looked around. “What is taking that dratted child so long?” she demanded crossly. “The coach will be arriving any minute.” She waved a hand at Barnaby. “You best go find out what is keeping her.”

  Glad to have something to do, Barnaby hastened from the room. Entering the kitchen, and seeing no sign of Emily or Jeb there, a knife blade of foreboding slashed through him.

  Astonished by his unexpected appearance in the middle of her kitchen, Mrs. Spalding looked up from the pot she was stirring and exclaimed, “Lord Joslyn! What brings you here?”

  Walker, who had been sitting at the table drinking a cup of tea, surged to his feet. “Milord!” he cried. “Is something wrong?”

  “Where is she?” Barnaby asked, his gaze hard on Walker’s face. “And don’t lie to me.”

  Walker swallowed. “Uh, I believe that she has walked to the stables.”

  “Alone?” Barnaby asked in a whiplash tone.

  “Uh, no, her friend is with her.”

  “Which way to the stables?” Barnaby snapped.

  “Follow me,” Walker said nervously.

  They stepped outside and Walker pointed in the direction of the stables. “It’s not more than an eighth of a mile past that bend.”

  Barnaby shot away from the house, his long stride eating up the distance. He had not gone more than a few yards when the sound of an approaching carriage spun him around. His coach had arrived.

  At least that’s one problem out of the way, he thought as he took off in the direction of the stables. He was nearing the second curve when he spied an object lying at the side of the road that he recognized immediately. The image of Emily grabbing the blue-and-cream reticule before she left the room to meet with her visitor sprang to his mind. Ice in his veins, he broke into a run, skidd
ing to a stop before the feminine bit of silk and velvet. With trembling fingers, he picked up the reticule. It was Emily’s and he could think of no good reason why it had been discarded here.

  An excellent tracker, he scanned the road surface, spotting the recent prints of two horses. From the tracks it was obvious that the horsemen had come from the woods and that there had been a scuffle, but the many hoof prints made it difficult to tell. The tracks vanished into the woodland on the opposite side of the road.

  Unable to form a clear picture in his mind of what had happened, but fearing it boded ill for Emily, with her reticule clenched in his hand, he ran to the stables. He prayed that she was there with Jeb and with a logical explanation why her reticule had been left on the side of the road, but in his heart, he knew he would not find her.

  Rushing past the two horses he recognized as his own tied outside, Barnaby burst into the stables and seeing no sign of Emily or Jeb, the only occupant a towheaded stableboy of not more than twelve sweeping the main alleyway, he inquired sharply, “Where is she?” When the boy gaped at him, he added, “Where is Miss Emily and Jeb Brown?”

  Confronted by a large stranger looking like black murder, the stableboy gulped but held his ground. “And who might you be, asking for Miss Emily?” he asked before his courage deserted him.

  “I am Lord Joslyn,” Barnaby half growled.

  The boy blanched and stammered, “L-L-Lord J-J-Joslyn! Forgive m-m-me, my l-l-lord, I didn’t realize—”

  Barnaby waved away his apologies. “Pay it no heed.” In a kinder voice, he asked, “Has Jeb Brown been here?”

  The boy nodded. “He was here about twenty minutes ago. Got on his horse and said he was leaving for the village.”

  Barnaby’s heart contracted. “And Miss Emily? Did you see her?”

  “No, my lord. Only Jeb.”

  Barnaby spun on his heel and headed out of the stable, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll be taking the horses.”

  After mounting his horse, with Lamb’s horse trailing behind him, Barnaby galloped to the house. Lamb and Walker met him in front of the house and, tossing the reins of Lamb’s horse to him, he said, “Emily’s missing. We have to find her.”

  Walker gasped, his face full of horror. “But she was with Jeb!” he exclaimed.

  Barnaby cast him a cold glance and showed him the blue-and-cream reticule he’d stuck inside his jacket when he’d mounted his horse. “I found this on the road. There is no sign of Emily and the stableboy said that Jeb left twenty minutes or so ago.”

  “Those devils!” Walker burst out, incensed and clearly frightened. “They’ve taken her.”

  “If ‘those devils’ are Jeffery and Ainsworth, I agree, but unless we know their destination, the information does us little good—we do not know where they’ve taken her,” Barnaby snapped, struggling to control the helpless rage coursing through him.

  Walker’s eyes lit up. “The Godart place!” he said eagerly. Babbling, he added, “Jeb just told us that Squire and Ainsworth had lied about going to Newhaven. Young Sam had seen both of them earlier this afternoon—at the old Godart farmstead. That must be where they’ve taken her.”

  Barnaby cursed his unfamiliarity with the area and bit out, “Where the hell is the Godart place?”

  The directions spilled out of Walker’s mouth faster than water bursting from a dam. With their destination clear, Barnaby and Lamb wheeled their horses around and disappeared down the driveway.

  As he galloped away from The Birches, Barnaby didn’t allow his mind to stray to what might be happening to Emily—that way lay madness. His one thought was simply to reach her before . . . Cursing and praying as he never had in his life, he concentrated grimly on the road before him. Like a beacon, the knowledge that Emily was in danger somewhere ahead drew him onward.

  Dusk had fallen but they found the turnoff to the Godart place without effort and with hardly a check in their breakneck pace, their horses careened off the road and thundered down the twisting, overgrown track. A half mile in, there was a brief flicker of light as they followed the winding road, but it disappeared as they rounded another curve. Though it went against the grain, knowing they were coming up on the house, they slowed their horses, not wanting to alert the culprits of their arrival.

  Arriving at the front of the shabby one-story farmhouse, they jerked their horses to a halt and swung out of the saddle almost in the same motion. In the deepening dusk, Barnaby studied the dark shape of the place, listening intently, searching for a sign of the faint light he’d glimpsed on the way in. From the front the building looked empty and deserted, but glancing down the east side of the house Barnaby spied the flickering light. It was coming from a room situated just about in the middle of the house. His heart beat thickly. Instinctively he knew Emily was in that room.

  Returning to the front of the house, he whispered to Lamb, “I’ll take the front, you the back.”

  Lamb nodded and disappeared like a shadow into the encroaching darkness.

  Slipping his knife from his boot, Barnaby approached the house. The stout wooden door opened silently and, knife in hand, he stepped inside the house, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the interior gloom. A musty smell met his nose and from the faint light that remained outside, Barnaby saw that the room he’d entered was empty. He crossed the room, easing toward a shadowy area ahead of him. As he had guessed, the shadows gave way to a narrow hall that he suspected led to the kitchen, but it was the glimmer of light that came from beneath a door on the left side of the hall that was the focus of his attention.

  Emily woke disoriented with her jaw aching. Groggy, she reached for her jaw but was unable to move her hand. It took her a moment to understand why she could not: she was bound spread eagle, her hands fastened to either side of the bedposts, her ankles strapped to opposite posts at the bottom. Snapping fully awake, she made the alarming discovery that her gown and chemise had been slit down the middle and lay in tatters on either side of her body, leaving her bosom and thighs naked.

  Panic shot through her and she bucked and twisted against her bonds, the memory of Ainsworth’s abduction rushing back. What a fool, she had been, she raged, not to pay more attention to Cornelia’s warnings. But why me? she wondered. It was Anne Ainsworth had wanted and if he had been gone to Newhaven all day, there was no way he could have learned that Anne had escaped his grasp. . . .

  Fighting back the horrified hysteria that rose in her throat, Emily struggled to make sense of her situation. Concentrating on something else helped calm her and allowed her to ignore her own desperate straits . . . and what might be her fate . . .

  It was apparent, she admitted bitterly, that Ainsworth and that weasel Jeffery had learned somehow of Anne’s departure from The Birches. How? When? But none of that mattered right now, Emily told herself, battering back another wave of panic. What mattered was her escape.

  In the light from the lone candle sitting on a short, battered chest of drawers against the wall, she studied her surroundings. Beyond the bed, the chest of drawers, a chair next to the chest heaped with a pile of men’s clothing and a pair of gleaming boots on the floor beside the chair, there were no other furnishings—nothing that gave her any sense of where she was being held.

  The room was small and under the overpowering scent of cinnamon and cloves that permeated the air, she caught the faint, musty odor associated with deserted, unused houses. From her position on the bed she could see that the ceiling and walls were roughly hewn—utilitarian and economical with no sign of style or elegance. Turning her head, she studied the bedposts to which she was tied. Made of good, solid English oak, they were square and without adornment. Like the chest and chair, practical and simple, they served a purpose, but no craftsman had ever touched them.

  This was no gentleman’s house and, turning over possibilities, she decided that most likely she was in an abandoned farmhouse. But where? And how would anybody find her before it was too late . . . before Ainsworth came
and . . . The panic she had held at bay ripped free and even knowing it was helpless, like a vixen with her foot in a steel trap, Emily fought the bonds that held her so securely. It was a silent, desperate fight but futile, and after several minutes, her wrists and ankles torn and bleeding from her struggles, she collapsed exhausted against the mattress.

  The room was cool and she shivered, unbearably aware of her nakedness. For just a moment, she let despair take her and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. How arrogant she had been! And, oh, so damned, damned confident she had nothing to fear from Ainsworth.

  Reflecting on her shortcomings accomplished nothing and, determined that Ainsworth would not find her cowering and broken, twisting her head brushed aside the signs of tears. Her mouth set. She didn’t see a way to escape the fate that awaited her, but she wasn’t going to give Ainsworth the satisfaction of hearing her plead or beg.

  The door opened and she stiffened. Through slitted eyes she watched Ainsworth amble into the room. In one hand he held a candle and the other a snifter and a crystal decanter of amber-colored liquid she suspected was brandy—probably some she had smuggled in from France.

  Ainsworth wore a dark blue silk robe with a gold thread running through it and her mouth went dry when she realized that it was his clothes on the chair and that he was naked beneath the robe.

  Setting the candle, snifter and decanter down on the chest of drawers, Ainsworth walked back to the door and Emily heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. He returned to the chest of drawers and after pouring some brandy from the decanter into the snifter, he finally rotated in her direction and looked at her, his eyes traveling over her body.

  Her flesh shriveled under that avid gaze, but she forced herself to give no sign of the revulsion roiling through her.

  “Your charms are far more bountiful than I would ever have expected,” Ainsworth said, crossing to stand beside the bed. He reached down and cupped one breast. “Now who would have ever thought that you had these charming little apples hidden away?”