Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Chapter 19

  Of everything Mathew could have said, nothing could have astonished Barnaby more. He and Luc exchanged glances and it was clear that Luc was as astounded as he was by Mathew’s words.

  His voice carefully neutral, Barnaby said, “Unfortunately, if someone is trying to kill me, you have the best motive.”

  Mathew’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you think I know that!” He sent Barnaby a hard look. “If someone is trying to kill you, I don’t appreciate being set up to take the blame for your murder.” He threw out a hand and said passionately, “You may find it hard to believe, but the last thing I want is to inherit a title tainted by the suspicion that I murdered the previous holder to gain it.” He glanced around at his brothers and both Thomas and Simon nodded, their faces grim and set. Looking back at Barnaby, Mathew said quietly, “None of us do.”

  Barnaby studied Mathew. The man sounded sincere and his reaction was exactly what Barnaby would have expected of him—he would have felt the same. His eyes moved slowly over Thomas and Simon. The animosity between Thomas and Simon was well known, but both of them appeared to hold their eldest brother in high esteem—even if Simon couldn’t resist poking at Mathew now and then. Would their love and affection for their brother drive them to murder for him? It seemed far-fetched to think so, yet someone had, indeed, tried to arrange his death on three separate occasions and the obvious motive was the inheritance of the title. If not the title then why, he wondered, puzzled, would someone want him dead?

  He and Luc exchanged glances once again. Luc spread his hands and shrugged.

  Mathew’s protestation of innocence could be a ruse to gain Barnaby’s confidence, but it didn’t feel like it. Mathew’s words rang true . . . but then his cousin could be a great actor. Barnaby sighed. He had a decision to make: did he trust Mathew and his brothers or didn’t he?

  Deciding to gamble—and trust his own instincts, he said, “Someone did try to kill me yesterday—I heard the culprit say so and curse the fact that I survived the other two attempts on my life.”

  “He spoke to you?” demanded Mathew, excited. “Did you see him?”

  Barnaby shook his head. “No, I didn’t see him. I only heard his voice.” At Mathew’s eager look, he said, “And no, I didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded familiar, but I could not place it.”

  “What do you remember?” Tom asked, frowning. Barnaby relayed the facts, including his memory of the cord stretched across the road. “Of course, the cord was gone when I regained consciousness,” he finished drily.

  “This Loren fellow,” Mathew mused. “Could he have been hired to kill you and been your attacker? He might have been pretending to have just found you.”

  “If that was the case,” Barnaby replied, “he could have finished the job while I was out cold.” He smiled slightly. “Even when I came to, I was disoriented and would have been easy prey. If he’d wanted to, it wouldn’t have taken much for Loren to give me another whack or two, making certain that I never woke again.”

  “What about the horseman that Loren spied riding away?” Simon inquired, bending forward. “Could he identify him—or the horse?”

  Again Barnaby shook his head. “No. Loren admitted he paid the horseman little heed, all his attention was on me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “He admitted that it was strange the horseman hadn’t stopped, but beyond that, he could add nothing.” Barnaby grimaced. “Believe me, before I left The Birches, I questioned him closely. As did Miss Townsend. There was nothing about the horseman or his horse that stood out to Loren.”

  “So all we really know,” Mathew said dispiritedly, “is that you have an enemy who has made three attempts on your life.”

  “Unsuccessful attempts,” Luc said quietly.

  His frown deepening, Tom asked, “But why would someone want you dead?”

  Barnaby shrugged. “If we eliminate you and your brothers, while you may find it hard to believe, I can’t think of anyone I’ve offended or annoyed to such an extent that they would try to murder me.”

  Interjecting a light note, Luc grinned and murmured, “I will confess, mes amis, that he has driven me often to think fondly of murdering him, but I assure you in this case, I am innocent.”

  There was a general laugh, but soon enough the conversation turned serious again. Mathew and his brothers peppered Barnaby with questions about the other attempts and he answered them as truthfully and completely as he could. Eventually interest returned to the sinking of the yacht—it being the most risky and elaborate of the “accidents.” He told them what he remembered, glossing over any references to smuggling and smugglers and did some tricky dancing around his actual rescue from the Channel.

  “And when you woke at The Crown you had no idea how you got there? Or who brought you there?” Tom questioned closely, his eyes fixed on Barnaby’s face.

  “None,” Barnaby said cheerfully. Noting Luc’s drooping eyes and deciding that they had wasted enough time discussing the attempts on his life, he said, “And now, gentlemen, I think we should call it a night.” He smiled. “I have been living with this for several weeks, but you have much to think over. Perhaps in the morning, you will have come up with some ideas to unmask whoever is trying to kill me.”

  The following morning when the gentlemen met in the morning room, no one had any ideas to add from the previous night’s discussion. Barnaby wasn’t much interested anyway—the wedding was tomorrow morning and his thoughts and energies were on his bride and his marriage.

  With the faithful Lamb riding alert and eagle-eyed beside him, Barnaby rode over to The Birches that afternoon. Laughter and excitement filled the air at the old manor house and the ladies were much too busy with the packing of Emily’s things and some last-minute fittings to allow his bride more than a few minutes private conversation with Barnaby. Taking his leave of Emily after a frustratingly short visit, Barnaby muttered, “At least this is the last time I have to say good-bye to you here. By this time tomorrow we shall be man and wife.”

  Emily’s heart thumped at that knowledge and the tiniest quiver of uncertainty went through her when she looked up at his dark face and took in again that big, powerfully muscled body. This man would virtually own her by this time tomorrow—and he wasn’t a man to be trifled with or easily deceived or ignored like Jeffery. The image of him as he had stood before her in the Godart farmhouse, his face full of terrible resolve, the knife in his hand as he confronted Ainsworth, blazed through her mind. If she dared to defy him there would be consequences, possibly dangerous ones. . . . But I love him, she reminded herself, and if he doesn’t love me, he has affection for me. Surely he would never treat me cruelly.

  Sensing her fears, he kissed her fingertips and murmured, “Emily, I swear to you that I will be a good husband to you and never mistreat you.” He grinned at her. “Although I am sure that you will madden me from time to time—as I will you.”

  Unable to resist that oh-so-beguiling grin, she smiled back at him. “Indeed, my lord, as far as the latter is concerned, I suspect you are absolutely correct.”

  The wedding day dawned sullen and gray, a storm hovering on the horizon. Despite the storm, which by midmorning was snarling its fury overhead, the pews of the village church were packed with friends and family of the bride and groom.

  Looking impressive and every inch the aristocrat in a plum tail coat, the lace frill of his shirt spilling across the dark material, and fawn satin knee breeches that hugged his muscular thighs, Barnaby’s voice rang out emphatically as he repeated his vows. Emily’s response was less forceful, but everyone agreed that with her silvery fair hair arranged in clusters of ringlets embellished with small sprays of pink rosebuds she made a lovely bride. Everyone, especially the ladies, agreed that her gown of rose-and-cream striped silk, lavishly trimmed with lace around the square neckline and at the wrists of the long sleeves was everything a bride could have wished for.

  Only the storm marred the perfection of the day. When a bolt
of lightning struck nearby and lit up the inside of the church like a thousand torches, just as Emily said, “I do,” she tried not to think of the storm as an omen for her life with Barnaby.

  A wedding breakfast was planned at Windmere and even the storm couldn’t dampen the spirits and pleasure of the guests who followed the newlyweds back to the mansion. It was an eclectic group of people who gathered to celebrate the marriage of Lord Joslyn to Emily Townsend. Eclectic the guests might be, but Barnaby preferred to think of them as a democratic group where Mrs. Gilbert easily rubbed shoulders with Lord Broadfoot and his lady and the other leading landowners of the area. Jeb Brown and Caleb Gates, both looking very spruce in their best jackets and boots, could be seen conversing with Mathew and Simon and three of the Gilbert daughters were laughing as they clustered around Luc and Thomas. Flanked by Althea and Anne, Cornelia held court in one corner of the room, where one and all came to pay their respects—and compliment her on her looks and indeed, she was in high fettle at seeing her dear Emily so successfully settled. Hugh, it was noted by several, was never far away from sparkling-eyed Anne. Jeffery wandered from one group to the other accepting as if it were his due, the congratulations on Emily’s advantageous marriage. The vicar and his wife drifted about the room, lingering to visit with Cornelia and later, Mrs. Featherstone, who was there with her daughters, and as soon as the Gilbert girls had moved on, immediately set her sights on Luc and Thomas.

  Once everyone had enjoyed a dizzying array of food prepared by Mrs. Eason and toasted the newlyweds, except for members of both families, the guests trickled away and headed into the storm for their homes. Dusk was falling when the Townsend group finally braved the weather and departed for The Birches, leaving Emily alone with her husband . . . and his relatives.

  Watching Cornelia and the rest of her family drive away in the lumbering Townsend family coach, Emily was aware of feeling abandoned to strangers. Oh, to be sure, her very new husband wasn’t a stranger to her, but there was much about him that she didn’t know. Staring down at the wide gold band upon her finger, she realized with a start, that from the moment she had first set eyes on Barnaby that night at the inn that not even two months had passed. And now she was married to him, she thought breathlessly, their lives forever entwined—as their bodies would be tonight. . . .

  Rather than going away for a few days to begin their life together, Emily and Barnaby had chosen to remain at Windmere and originally, Mathew and his brothers had planned to depart for Monks Abbey after the wedding breakfast, but the storm made that impractical. Conscious that this was Barnaby and Emily’s wedding night, Mathew, Thomas and Simon made plans to be gone for the evening—they were, Mathew explained, braving the storm and riding into the village to sample the entertainment to be found at The Ram’s Head. Luc mentioned tactfully that he was looking forward to a quiet dinner and evening in his rooms.

  With the guests all departed, Emily bid the gentlemen good evening and walked to the bottom of the graceful swooping double staircase, intending to escape to her rooms. At the base of the left staircase, she stopped, realizing that she had no idea where her rooms were. Peckham startled her when he suddenly appeared by her side. Bowing low, he murmured, “I don’t believe that you have had a chance to inspect your suite yet—it is in a different wing than the rooms you stayed in previously. If you wish, my lady, I can show you to them.”

  Emily nodded and said, “I would appreciate that.”

  He coughed delicately. “Since you didn’t bring a maid with you, I’ve taken it upon myself to select someone from the staff.” He looked unhappy. “Under normal circumstances, my lady, I would never allow such a young and untrained female to serve you, but unless she displeases you, Kate, who waited on you previously here at Windmere, will act as your personal maid. She has unpacked your things that arrived from The Birches this morning and will assist you in any way you desire. If you have the slightest complaint you must notify me at once and I shall immediately rectify the problem.”

  Emily might have been more impressed by his words, if she hadn’t gotten the distinct idea that he would enjoy “rectifying the problem” far too much, and she vowed that the butler would never hear a complaint from her about any of the staff.

  As they walked up the staircase toward the upper floors, Peckham said, “There was no time to redo your rooms prior to the wedding, but I’m sure that you will find them more than satisfactory—everything at Windmere is of the highest quality.” A sly glance drifted her way and he added, “Of course, you will no doubt be changing things to suit yourself.”

  Not certain if she had been insulted or not, Emily held her tongue, but she decided that she didn’t much care for Barnaby’s butler. Continuing on their way, she listened with an interested expression on her face as he pointed out first one and then another grand room and found herself longing for Walker’s amiable presence and the comfortable familiarity of The Birches.

  Keeping pace with Peckham’s measured tread through the meandering candlelit hallways, Emily was certain that, left to her own devices, she would have surely lost her way. She was right. When he eventually stopped and swung wide a pair of double doors and urged her to enter, she was thoroughly disoriented and she had the suspicion that he had deliberately taken her on a circumambulating route. The candles had all been lit earlier and, having meticulously shown her around the sumptuously appointed suite, consisting of sitting room, bedroom and dressing room all decorated in shades of pearl, moss and rose, Peckham departed.

  After Peckham left, Emily looked around the sitting room, deciding that the butler had been right about one thing: everything at Windmere was of the highest quality. A lovely rosewood desk and a chair covered in a rose-and-ivory tapestry sat invitingly beneath one of several long windows adorned with moss silk drapes. A thick woolen rug richly woven in shades of amber, pink and pearl lay upon the floor. Satinwood tables and chairs upholstered in moss and gold-striped velvet and a pair of settees were scattered tastefully about the room; tall cabinets of fine marquetry flanked the doors that led to her bedroom. A fireplace with an ancient, intricately carved oak mantel dominated the far wall and with the storm outside, Emily was glad of the yellow and orange flames dancing on the hearth.

  Sitting down on one of the settees, Emily forced herself to relax. Who would have known that getting married was so exhausting? she thought, kicking off her silk slippers and absently pulling the flowers from her hair and dropping them beside her on the settee. She looked around the room again. This was now her suite. She wasn’t here as a guest. She lived here—in this huge, enormous mansion—and she couldn’t help thinking of the shabby charm of her former home and everyone that she had left behind. She would never again be plain Emily Townsend of The Birches, she realized with a pang. She was now Lady Joslyn—mistress of Windmere and responsible for overseeing the army of servants, many whose names she didn’t even know, and for making certain that Windmere remained in immaculate condition.

  Her lips drooped. A wave of loneliness swept over her as she pictured Anne and Cornelia returning home to the comforts of the familiar, where dear, smiling Walker would be greeting them and Mrs. Spalding would be cooking something delicious for the evening in the big, old kitchen at The Birches.

  Disgusted with herself, she shook herself and stood up. Good heavens! She was married to a wealthy, exciting man—and here she was moping about as if she had been cast up helpless on some nameless shore. Barnaby’s dark, intent face leaped to her mind and thinking of the coming night, her whole body responded in a way that excited and flustered her. Her breasts tingled, heat flooded her lower body and her pulse beat madly at the thought of what would come.

  Seeking escape from the lurid and undeniably arousing images in her brain, she hurried out of the sitting room and into the bedchamber and, catching sight of the moss and gold damask bed hangings that draped the massive bed, she jerked her gaze away. Picturing Barnaby naked in that big bed certainly wasn’t helping calm her galloping i
magination and almost desperately, she sought distraction.

  Hearing sounds of movement in the dressing room, Emily peeked around the doorway. Kate, the young maid she’d met during her previous stay, was smiling and humming to herself as she placed a pitcher of warm water upon the mahogany-and-marble washstand in the corner of the spacious room. Since Kate hadn’t been there when Peckham had shown her the rooms, Emily assumed the maid had entered via the servants’ staircase.

  Catching sight of Emily out of the corner of her eye, Kate squeaked and jumped. Recognizing her mistress, she flushed and hastily curtsied. “Oh, my lady, I didn’t see you there.”

  Smiling, Emily entered the room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Emily wasn’t certain how she would deal with a lady’s maid all her own, but she discovered that Kate was a gem. Not only was the young maid cheerful and friendly, she was in direct contrast to Peckham’s irritating, polite behavior.

  While she’d been getting married and entertaining guests today, the trunks from The Birches had arrived and Kate had unpacked and put everything away. Like a puppy accepting praise, Kate fairly quivered with pleasure as Emily complimented her on a task well done.

  After asking Kate to arrange a bath, Emily wandered back into the bedroom, her gaze lingering on the tall, carved oak door on the far wall that Peckham had pointed out led to the viscount’s rooms. She swallowed. Any time he wished, Barnaby could enter her room and take her into his arms and kiss her and . . . Warmth rushed through her and she hastened into the sitting room, embarrassed by her fixation on Barnaby’s kisses and . . . other things.

  Seating herself on the one of the rose damask-covered settees, she glanced around the area again thinking that four of her bedrooms at The Birches would have fit in the sitting room—with space left over. Her eyes dropped down to the ring on her finger. She was married—to Barnaby. And tonight when he took her into his arms . . . She trembled, knowing that tonight there would be no barriers between them and that when he kissed her and touched her, there would be no interruptions, no stopping him from taking what was now, by law, his. Her heart thumped and she didn’t know whether she was excited or afraid. She bit her lip. She didn’t fear Barnaby, so she must be excited, she decided, remembering other times and all those incredible sensations he aroused within her.