Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  That was the sticking point, Barnaby admitted. When he considered leaving Emily behind, whether married or not, every fiber in his body rebelled. He owed Luc loyalty, but didn’t he owe the woman he was to marry more? Pain in the dark eyes, Barnaby asked, “How can I sacrifice one for the other?”

  “You’re not sacrificing anyone!” Lamb snarled. “Luc chose to sacrifice himself—you had nothing to do with it—and you did your damnedest to stop him from going.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “Though there are times I would like to throttle him myself, I am not without feelings for him—he’s my nephew just as you are and we share the bond of illegitimacy.” His face softened and he said quietly, “I would remind you that Luc wouldn’t thank you for throwing your own life away. Whatever his fate—he’d want you to marry your Amazon and raise strapping sons and fierce-eyed daughters and he’d curse you for a fool if you don’t do exactly that.”

  Lamb was right about that, Barnaby admitted, and he could almost hear Lucien’s voice chiding him for even considering such a reckless, foolish act. “Mon Dieu!” Lucien cried in his head, and Barnaby could see the azure eyes gleaming with mockery. “You left the arms of a beautiful woman to search for me? You are a fool, my little brother. A fool. Bah! I cannot believe that we share the same father. One of us is a changeling and it is not moi!”

  Shutting out that mocking voice, Barnaby said to Lamb, “You win. For the present we shall just hope that Lucifer lives up to his name.” Forcing a grin, he added, “And I shall keep my thoughts on my Amazon and those strapping sons and fierce-eyed daughters.”

  Upon returning home, Emily had no thoughts of strapping sons and fierce-eyed daughters; her thoughts were of more mundane things—such as her life regaining some semblance of normality. She assumed that she could simply slip back into her usual routine and she was unprepared for the furor her engagement to Lord Joslyn created all through the surrounding countryside. Once the engagement became public that Sunday morning at the calling of the banns, everyone of note simply had to call at The Birches and offer their congratulations—and of course, Barnaby rode over nearly every day, distracting her with stolen kisses and teasing looks. When Barnaby wasn’t underfoot, her time was spent smiling and nodding at all the various, twittering ladies that came to call. Near the end of that first week, her face felt as if a permanent smile had been plastered on it. Many of the ladies were kind, but there were inquisitive stares and a few, their voices full of speculation, were bold enough to comment aloud at the suddenness of the engagement. Emily either ignored them or allowed Cornelia to give them a proper set-down—which she did with relish.

  If Emily was not being teased and seduced by Barnaby or badgered by the curious, she was being led away for another fitting of this gown or that gown. Having endured two Seasons in London, she was half prepared for the enormous amount of clothing being Joslyn’s viscountess would require, but she hadn’t realized the ruthless enthusiasm that would govern her great-aunt when it came to assembling a suitable wardrobe. Having free call on Joslyn’s generous pocketbook had unleashed a hither-to-unknown desire in Cornelia to fill every wardrobe, trunk and chest in the house with fabulous garments for both of them for every conceivable occasion. The list of things Cornelia felt were absolutely necessary for Emily’s elevated position, and her own, seemed endless. “After all,” Cornelia commented with a wicked grin, “I’m as near a mother-in-law as he’ll ever get, and you know the viscount wouldn’t want me to appear in these old rags.” A thought struck her. “Oh, and Anne! Anne must have some new gowns in time for the wedding, too.”

  During the past week there had been a series of letters carried back and forth between The Birches and Parkham House by the servants. With Ainsworth’s death, there was no longer any reason for Anne to remain at Parkham House, but since Hugh and his mother would be attending the wedding, it was agreed that she would wait and return to The Birches with them. Hugh’s mother settled the problem of new gowns by suggesting Anne use her seamstress. Informed by Cornelia of the situation, Barnaby dutifully saw that a generous sum of money was sent to Anne.

  Amusement in his eyes, Barnaby said to Cornelia as he wrote out the instructions for the transfer of money, “Enjoying spending my money, are you?”

  Cornelia twinkled at him. “Immensely!”

  At Cornelia’s urgent request, a notable modiste from London had arrived on the steps of The Birches—along with a coach full of materials. Martha Webber, despite her crippled hands, begged to be allowed to help with the sewing of dear Miss Emily’s wardrobe and, helpless against the appeal in those faded eyes, what could Emily say? The old lady and her sister, Mrs. Gant, were installed in one of the bedrooms near the London modiste. The arrival of a pair of young seamstresses from London swelled the number of women working on the wardrobes.

  Never mind that between the curious ladies and the fittings that her wedding loomed large on the horizon, or that Emily had her hands full with the day-to-day running of The Birches . . . and just never mind about anything to do with smugglers.... Lambing season hovered close and she’d already spent two nights until the early hours of the morning in the lambing shed with Loren. An older ewe and her breech big ram lamb they managed to save, but on a stormy Thursday night the last day of January, they lost a young ewe and the twins she carried. And then there had been the dinner party and ball planned by Joslyn on Saturday the second of February, where she made her first official appearance at Windmere as his bride-to-be.

  After the second calling of the banns, Emily hoped that the novelty of her engagement would fade, but such was not the case. If anything, with the wedding approaching in ten days or so, the interest was even more intense. Every night of the next week it seemed that she and Joslyn attended a soiree or a ball hosted by the leaders in the neighborhood, each one trying to outdo the other.

  On Friday evening, having escorted the two ladies home through a driving rainstorm from a ball given by Lord and Lady Broadfoot, after bidding Cornelia good night, Barnaby stole a moment alone with Emily. He’d noted the shadows under her eyes and the distracted air about her.

  Determined to get to the bottom of it, he whisked her into the green salon and demanded, “What is wrong? Something is worrying you. Jeffery?”

  Emily sighed and sank down onto the settee. She considered hedging but in the end she said simply, “Jeb should have returned by now. He’s been gone two weeks.” She bit her lip. “He’s never been gone more than a week and the one time that he was delayed was because he’d had to replace a sail shredded in a storm.”

  Barnaby frowned. “Is there any way you can find out if he is safely in Calais or if there was trouble with his boat in the Channel?”

  “Not without sending someone specifically to look for him,” she admitted unhappily. “Jeb and his crew are experienced seamen,” she added, as much to remind herself as Barnaby. “There was no storm the night they left, although the waters of the Channel can be rough even without a storm, so it is possible that there was some sort of trouble during the crossing.” She sighed again. “I cannot imagine that he ran afoul of the port authorities in Calais, and if he fell into the hands of the revenuers, we’d know about it.” She looked down at her fingers nervously pleating the spangled net overskirt of her pink silk gown. “Sometimes the people smugglers have to deal with would just as soon murder them and steal their money as sell them contraband.”

  “Do you think that is what happened?”

  She shrugged. “It was riskier for us in the beginning because we didn’t know who we could trust, but these days Jeb has only certain traders he deals with—men that won’t try to cheat him—or at least ones that he hopes won’t take advantage of him.” She looked up at him, her gray eyes troubled. “Something is delaying him and I fear that it cannot be good.”

  Barnaby longed to comfort her, but smuggling and its associated dangers were not his forte. Beyond the most basic information, he knew little of smuggling . . . and of boats, he thought uneasily, re
membering that desperate time he had fought for his life in the Channel.

  Trying to come up with some logical reason for Jeb’s delay, and the memory of those angry waves vivid in his mind, he offered, “Perhaps the Channel crossing was indeed rougher than expected and there was some damage done to the boat and repairs are taking time.”

  “If there was damage done to the boat,” she said grimly, “I’d put my money on sabotage by the Nolles gang.”

  Barnaby didn’t like the sound of that and he reminded himself again that he needed to pay a visit to The Ram’s Head and discover for himself just how much danger this Nolles and his gang represented. His eyes traveled over Emily’s anxious features, his gaze lingering on the soft, enticing curve of her mouth. His lips twitched. He was alone with his bride-to-be and instead of sweeping her into his arms and showing her how delightful he found her, he was discussing smugglers!

  Deciding that since he could not solve the problem of Jeb’s absence, that he could at least distract her, he sat down beside her. His fingers brushed against her cheek and he murmured, “Our wedding is in four days. Perhaps we could forget about everyone else for the moment and concentrate on ourselves. . . .”

  Her eyes met his and her breath caught at the leashed passion she saw glittering in those dark depths. He’d kissed her several times during the past few weeks since the announcement of their engagement, and her body responded instantly to the knowledge of what was to come. Her nipples stiffened, desire quickened in her belly and her lips parted in anticipation of his kiss.

  Barnaby did not disappoint. His mouth came down hungrily on hers and she moaned when his tongue thrust between her lips. She went into his embrace eagerly, her arms clasping around his neck, her bosom pressed against his broad chest.

  During the days since their engagement, Emily had learned a great deal about her body and the response Barnaby evoked so effortlessly. She no longer fought against the attraction she felt for him, reveling in the heat and sweet power his kiss, his touch aroused and she returned his kiss with innocent fervor, her tongue sliding silkily against his and following his lead, dipping boldly into his mouth.

  These all-too-brief moments when he had her alone were driving Barnaby mad, and every time he had her in his arms, his control slipped just a little and tonight was no different. Her generous response was all he could have asked for and his body demanding more, his hand dropped to her breast and he kneaded the soft flesh, his fingers plucking at the hard nub of her nipple. Heady with desire, he fought against the urge to take what was his. The knowledge that the wedding was so close made him reckless and he tipped her back against the settee, his hand fumbling with the net and silk that concealed what he desperately wanted to touch. He struggled against the urge to rip and tear the delicate material and he growled with satisfaction when at last his fingers found the naked warmth of her calf.

  They had never been this intimate and Emily’s heart galloped in her breast as his hand slid unerringly up her leg, lingering on her thigh before sliding unerringly upward. Emily stiffened, beset by frantic emotions—desire, delight, anticipation and fear of the unknown—and then his fingers found her. . . . She shuddered at the aching sweetness of his exploration, the sensation of his fingers moving so cleverly over her mound, clouding her brain.

  Barnaby’s lips hardened, the pounding demand to make her his, overpowering. His swollen rod was near-to-bursting from his breeches and the fierce need to seek relief was unceasing. She was warm and ripe before him and, gripped by blind desire, a question hummed dizzily at the back of his brain: what would be the harm?

  His searching finger slipped inside of her and Emily arched up at the blunt invasion. Stroking inside all that silky heat, hearing her muted moans, his own body ready to explode, he balanced on the edge. Take her? Or not?

  There was a rap on the door and the mood shattered. Simultaneously they were recalled to their surroundings and leaped apart like scalded cats. Barnaby sprang away from her and snapped at whoever was on the other side of the door, “A moment.”

  Emily jerked into a sitting position and her cheeks flaming, frantically pushed down the skirts of her gown. A quick tug and pull here and there and she looked demure as a nun as she sat on the green settee.

  Seeing that she was in command of herself, Barnaby crossed to stand next to the fireplace. Placing one arm on the mantel and keeping his body partially turned to hide the state of his arousal, he called out, “Yes? Come in.”

  Walker rushed into the room. “Miss Emily,” he cried, oblivious to any undercurrents, “you must come quick—there’s been trouble. Jeb and the others were attacked as they were unloading on the beach.”

  Chapter 17

  Emily leaped up from the settee. There’d been trouble? Pray God, no one had been hurt!

  “Is anyone hurt?” she demanded. Her eyes flashed. “How could this happen? Why the devil didn’t I know about the landing? I should have been there.”

  Unhappily Walker said, “You’d already left for the ball when Mr. Meek spied Jeb’s signal. Everyone knew that the Broadfoot ball was tonight and that you’d be attending it. We were all aware that if Jeb chose tonight for a landing that there wouldn’t be any way that we could get word to you—or that you could leave the ball.” He looked apologetic. “We decided amongst ourselves that if Jeb did show up tonight that we’d handle the transport of the goods ourselves. There wasn’t any other choice.”

  “He’s right,” Barnaby said. “You had to be at that ball tonight and no excuse short of being on your deathbed would have been acceptable for your absence.”

  Knowing that Barnaby was right didn’t lessen her feelings of guilt, but in a calmer tone, she said to Walker, “Tell me.”

  Walker cleared his throat. “When Mr. Meek came to Mrs. Gilbert with word that Jeb was landing tonight she was prepared to go ahead without you.” Emily’s lips tightened and he added hastily, “This wasn’t Jeb’s first landing—you’ve a good crew and everyone knew their task. Morning would have been soon enough for you to hear that Jeb had returned.” He hung his head and muttered, “No one was expecting the Nolles gang to be lying in wait.”

  Her face strained, Emily asked, “Jeb? Mrs. Gilbert? Are they hurt?”

  “There are some bloody heads and bruises, but no one is in danger of dying,” Walker admitted. “But come to the kitchen—Jeb is desperate to talk to you.”

  Emily rushed past Walker, and with Barnaby and Walker on her heels she ran to the kitchen. Though it was well after midnight, the kitchen was filled with people.

  Alice was busy wrapping a strip of clean linen around Jeb’s temple as he sat on a stool next to the scrubbed oak table; Caleb, sporting an impressive black eye, stood beside Jeb. Mrs. Spalding and Jane were concentrating on another one of Jeb’s crew slumped on the table at the opposite end.

  At their entrance, Jeb struggled to his feet. “Lord Joslyn! I didn’t expect you here at this time of night.”

  “I escorted Miss Townsend home from the ball,” Barnaby said. Noting the bandage dangling down the side of Jeb’s face and the way Jeb gripped the table for balance, he said gently, “Now sit down before you fall, and tell us what has happened.”

  Gratefully following Barnaby’s orders, Jeb sat back down. Sending Emily a crooked smile, Jeb said, “We’ll all live, missy, so don’t you start scolding.”

  Relief swept through her. “Oh, Jeb! I was so fearful! You’re sure you’re all right? And everybody else?”

  “We’ll live, but no use pretending we’re not bruised and bloody. Those bullies of Nolles’s are right handy with those wooden clubs they carry and they outnumbered us. It’s only by grace and good luck that none of us suffered a broken bone—or worse. Johnny Fuller was knocked out and gave us a scare until we had a chance to check his injuries. Mrs. Gilbert says he’ll do fine. Faith took a nasty blow to her right arm, but nothing was broken; Mrs. Gilbert herself has a black eye to rival Caleb’s and Ford has a split lip. Some of the others will have s
ome aches and bruises—it could have been worse.”

  Sinking down onto a stool near Jeb, Emily asked, “How did it happen?”

  “Been worried lately that they’d gotten wind of us,” Jeb confessed. “I’d heard a whisper or two, but since we’re small and not much competition, I thought they’d leave us alone.” He sighed. “Near as we can figure, they must have been watching for my signal, or watching Meeks’s house or may-hap The Crown and so they knew of the landing. They jumped us after we unloaded everything and had the horses packed and were leaving the beach.”

  “It wasn’t enough that they used their clubs on us with enthusiasm,” Caleb broke in angrily. “They stole the entire load of contraband and laughed as they left.”

  Emily took in a trembling breath. “At least you’re all alive.”

  “Aye, that we are,” Jeb said, “but what are we going to do now?”

  “Nothing for the moment,” Barnaby said, coming to stand beside Emily. One hand resting on her shoulder, his eyes on Jeb, he added, “I’m afraid that after tonight we’re going to have to find a more respectable way for you to make a living.”

  Emily stiffened and would have risen, but Barnaby’s hand kept her in her seat.

  Jeb surveyed him coolly. “No disrespect, your lordship, but you’ll not find many of us willing to take charity.”

  “Will honest employment be viewed as charity?” Barnaby asked.

  Having a good idea what he was up to, Emily squirmed around in her seat and glared up at Barnaby. “Title and fortune you may have, but you cannot employ everyone in the county,” she said tightly.

  Barnaby smiled at her. “I don’t intend to employ everyone—just the main characters involved in your, er, enterprise—they’ll have to take care of the others.” He looked across at Jeb. “I wouldn’t have chosen now to bring this up, but I’ll be replacing the Joslyn yacht. . . . It, uh, disappeared. Since I know little of sailing, I’ll need a trustworthy captain and a small crew of his choosing. The wages would be fair and generous. Do you know of anyone who might be interested?”