Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Luc laughed reluctantly. “Damn you! Must you always get your own way?”

  Barnaby smiled and the matter was settled. There was never any question that Luc wouldn’t repay the debt or the manner in which he would earn the money to do so. Luc had earned his nickname because he did indeed have the devil looking out for him when it came to most things—witness his escape from France. And at the gaming table, well, there was many a fine gentleman who rose from the table with a much lighter purse swearing he’d played against Lucifer himself.

  For the past fortnight, Jeffery had been king at The Birches—as he’d plotted and planned, he finally had the house all to himself. The Season was due to start in a few weeks and with his financial affairs in shambles, it was impractical to invite any of his rakish cronies to visit. This winter, he swore, would be different. He’d fill the house with knowing gamblers, hard drinkers, neck-or-nothing riders and men of the world like himself. Naturally there would be a few dashing widows and ladies of questionable reputations amongst the guests. Without his great-aunt and his cousin’s disapproving looks, he could please himself—and he intended to.

  Emily’s marriage to Joslyn, while leaving him in sole possession of the house, had done nothing to improve Jeffery’s money woes, and he drank and brooded over the unfairness of it all. He’d had one stroke of luck though—the day after Ainsworth’s death, he’d rifled through the man’s belongings and found the vowels that his late friend had held over his head. He promptly destroyed them. Telling himself that Ainsworth no longer had any need of it, Jeffery also pocketed the tidy sum of money Ainsworth had left behind in his room on that fateful day. After that, he’d ordered Ainsworth’s valet to pack up everything and depart for London.

  Jeffery was not destitute, but his lack of money greatly curtailed his activities and prevented him from living the life he wanted, the life he had expected to live when he had inherited from his uncle. What had seemed like an immense fortune in the beginning had disappeared at an astonishing rate through his careless fingers and, besides raiding the money set aside for Cornelia, Anne and Emily, he’d put nothing back into his estate and drained every penny to support his extravagant ways in London.

  Another man would have seen the ruin facing him and set his mind to shoring up his estate and abandoning, at least for the time being, London and the dangers that lurked there, but not Jeffery. He brooded over ways to get his hands in the pockets of Emily’s husband, the very, very wealthy Lord Joslyn. All he had to do, he decided, gambling with funds he did have and drinking himself into a stupor at The Ram’s Head night after night, was to come up with a plan, an idea to part Joslyn from his money. . . .

  Emily never gave Jeffery a thought. And while Barnaby had cleverly managed to provide employment for many of the people dear to her, Emily worried about the fate of Mrs. Gilbert and the others in the village.

  “I can’t just abandon them,” Emily said unhappily to Cornelia this unpleasant March day when they met in the morning room. It had stormed most of the previous night and even now, rain beat against the windows and a blustery wind battered the house. Barnaby had eaten earlier and a few minutes ago, after dropping a kiss on his wife’s forehead, had left the ladies for a meeting in his study with his businessman, Worley.

  Picking at the plate of coddled eggs and minced ham before her, she muttered, “I know that Barnaby is seeing that Jeb and his crew are employed, but what about everyone else?” Pushing around the eggs, she said, “Finding positions for Walker and the others was a stroke of luck enough and I know that Barnaby has spoken to Loren about coming to work for him after all the lambs have arrived. . . .” She snorted. “My husband was too noble to steal him from Jeffery at the height of lambing season, but Loren will soon take up his position as head shepherd at Windmere, yet what of Mrs. Gilbert and Caleb and Miss Webber and the others—what is to be done about them?” Putting down her fork, she picked up a Shrewsbury cake Mrs. Eason had baked this morning and Peckham had placed in the center of the table not five minutes previously. Emily topped her round, caraway-seed-flavored cake with raspberry jam; Cornelia preferred red currant jelly.

  Cornelia nodded as she finished slathering jelly on the warm cake. “I agree it is a problem.” She sent Emily a troubled look. “While you may want to, you may not be able to save everyone, you know.”

  Emily’s mouth tightened. “I have to try. I cannot simply abandon them now that my own need is no longer great.” Her voice hardened with resolution. “Something has to be done—and Barnaby cannot hire everyone in the village to work for him.”

  “True,” Cornelia said, “but your husband can’t give that stiff-rumped Peckham the boot soon enough to please me.”

  Distracted by that enchanting picture, Emily giggled. “Oh, I so agree. He’s insufferable and condescending, isn’t he?”

  Cornelia’s brows rose. “I thought he reserved that treatment especially for me.” Sending Emily a stern look, she said, “You are mistress of Windmere. If Peckham displeases you, send him on his way or tell your husband how you feel about him.”

  Emily frowned. “I don’t think Barnaby likes him very much either, but I have the impression that for some reason he’s willing to put up with him for now.”

  Emily was right. Barnaby didn’t care much for Peckham but for the present he wanted the man where he could keep an eye on him. Lamb reported this morning that the slippery fellow had disappeared again last night—just as he had during the first week of March, little more than a fortnight ago. The fact that, as on the previous two occasions, there had been a storm hadn’t escaped Barnaby’s notice and with his knowledge of the smugglers’ preference for stormy nights to land their contraband, it wasn’t such a leap to connect Peckham’s vanishing act with the landing of smuggled goods. It was too much of a coincidence that the butler only disappeared on the same stormy nights when smugglers were most likely to run their goods ashore.

  Only half listening as Worley gave his report, Barnaby considered Peckham’s behavior. If Peckham did have dealings with any smugglers in the area, he concluded that it would have to be the Nolles gang. His eyes hardened. He had a score to settle with Nolles and his men and, reminding himself that he had yet to pay a visit to The Ram’s Head, he wondered if today would be as good as any.

  After Mr. Worley gathered up his papers and departed, Barnaby continued to sit in his chair, his thoughts unpleasant. The knowledge that someone wanted him dead intruded into his mind. He’d taken what precautions he could to protect himself, remaining securely within the confines of Windmere, but he realized that all he was doing was stalling. Sooner or later, he’d have to expose himself to whoever had tried three times to kill him and he acknowledged he was weary of hiding. His eyes narrowed. Perhaps more than one thing could be accomplished by a ride to the village.

  A plan forming in his head, Barnaby went in search of his wife. The word “wife” lingered sweetly in his mind and he decided that it was a fine word, a word of which he was growing increasingly enamored. Just as he was with his wife, he admitted with a cheerful grin and a tingle of lust.

  The meeting with Worley had lasted longer than he’d expected and Emily and Cornelia were no longer in the morning room: Cornelia had returned to her rooms and Emily had retired to an informal room nearby that she liked for its bright pink chintz and leaf-green decorations. When he entered the room, Emily was going over the day’s menu with Mrs. Eason. Normally, the butler oversaw anything to do with food and drink, but Emily had instituted the routine that Mrs. Eason confer with her over the menus rather than with the butler.

  At Barnaby’s entrance, Mrs. Eason bobbed a curtsy and after a final word from Emily, the cook walked out of the room. Alone with her husband and seeing the sudden intentness in his eyes as his gaze traveled over her as she sat demurely on the sofa, her toes curled in pleasurable anticipation and beneath her gown of mulberry Bombazine her nipples peaked.

  He’d had no intention of making love to her when he entered the r
oom. He’d come to tell her he was going to ride into the village, not, of course, mentioning he would be paying call at The Ram’s Head, but just the sight of her distracted him and the knowledge of what lay beneath that charming gown aroused him. Painfully. Frantically. The need to lose himself in the hot silk of her body drove all thoughts but making love to her from his mind.

  Locking the door behind him, Barnaby dragged her into his arms and kissed her as if it had been days instead of hours since he had last touched her. Her arms closed around his neck and she returned his kiss fervently, moaning when those knowing hands fondled her breasts.

  Emily had been stunned to discover how very much she enjoyed the marriage bed and her husband’s lovemaking. Barnaby had only to look at her and she went weak with wanting and this morning it was no different. She’d known as soon as she caught the expression in his eyes and noted the carnal curve of his lips that he wanted her . . . as she wanted him.

  Her body already aflame for him, she made no protest when he pulled her bodice lower and bared her breasts. His hot mouth tasting her sent a delicious shudder through her and she pressed closer to those marauding lips, her breathing quickening.

  She was honey and heat beneath his mouth and Barnaby lost himself in her sweetness. Full of the same desire and yearning that had Emily warm and willing in his embrace, his lips found her mouth once more and he kissed her with increasing urgency.

  The brush of her body against his was more than he could stand and Barnaby fumbled at the fastening of his breeches and a second later his member, engorged and rigid, sprang free. Emily’s fingers slid along the smooth width, teasing him, making him groan before her hand tightened around him and her hand began to move in the motion he had taught her.

  His mouth lifted from hers and his eyes glazed with desire, he muttered, “I didn’t mean to go this far, I really only meant to kiss you. . . .”

  Her lips red from his kiss, she murmured, “It was only to kiss me that made you lock the door, hmmm?” Her fingers tickled the swollen knob and he shuddered beneath her caress.

  “God, no!” he admitted thickly. “I have visions of making love to you in every room in the place and since we’re here . . .”

  His hands moved beneath her skirts, sliding upward until he found the welcoming dampness between her thighs. His fingers parted the pale gold curls and she clung to him as he stroked that soft flesh until she was writhing and mewling in his arms.

  Breathing harshly, Barnaby backed her to the wall and, lifting her, he panted, “Wrap your legs around me.” She did so, gasping when he lowered her onto his shaft.

  Their mouths met and, locked together, he drove into her again and again, each violent pump of his body into hers tumbling them closer to the edge, until at last they plummeted into the abyss.

  Small tremors still pulsing through her body, Emily leaned weakly against the wall, hardly able to stand when Barnaby finally moved and her legs slid to the floor. Only his arms wrapped securely around her kept her upright and prevented her from sinking into a damp puddle of ecstasy at his feet.

  His forehead resting against hers, his lips brushing hers, he said huskily, “That’s why I locked the door—wouldn’t want to shock the servants.”

  Recalled to her surroundings, Emily giggled, blushed and pulled her gown back into position. Shaking out her skirts she was embarrassingly aware of a damp trickle between her legs. Good heavens, what had she been thinking? Suppose Peckham had knocked on the door? Her cheeks grew even hotter and she wondered if the day would come that making love to her husband whenever and wherever she wanted would seem commonplace. She doubted it.

  Seating herself on the pink chintz sofa once more, she pushed into place the few strands of hair that had come loose from the cherry-and-black plaid silk ribbon Kate had wound through her curls this morning. Feeling more composed, she watched as Barnaby, who had already rearranged his clothing, walked over and unlocked the door.

  Joining her on the sofa, he took her hand in his and, gently kissing it, he murmured, “I find you far too ravishing for my own good. I didn’t mean to fall upon you.”

  She smiled at him. “I can’t recall, but did I scream for help or ask you to stop?”

  Barnaby threw back his head and laughed. “Now I know why I love you.”

  Emily’s smile faltered and uncertainty in her eyes, she asked softly, “And do you? Love me?”

  His hand tightened around hers and dark eyes glittering now with a different emotion, all signs of laughter gone, he said, “It is why I married you . . . because I love you and couldn’t imagine life without you.”

  Her heart leaped and a weight she hadn’t even been aware of slid away. She’d have to have been blind not to know that he had affection for her, and while she knew the state of her own heart, she had never been sure of his. That he had a gallant and generous nature was obvious and the worry that it was those very traits that had prompted their engagement nagged at the back of her mind. A strong streak of chivalry ran deep within Barnaby and, confronted with her situation, it would have been the most natural thing in the world for him to want to rescue her. She smiled tenderly. And Cornelia, Anne, Walker, Jeb and all the others. The niggling fear that pity and kindness had been at the root of his determination to marry her vanished and her fingers clung even more tightly to his. He loved her, she thought giddily. He’d just said so.

  Hugging the moment to her, Emily’s gaze dropped to their hands, his so big and dark, holding her much smaller and paler one. He loved her!

  Barnaby tipped her chin up and, staring down into her eyes, he asked quietly, “What are you thinking, my love?”

  So filled with love for him, she could barely speak, she said thickly, “That I am so very lucky that you love me . . . and that I love you more than life itself.”

  A light blazed across his face and in a shaken voice he said, “I hoped you did, but I was never certain—and it worried me.”

  She stared at him dumbfounded. “You worried?”

  He smiled and dropped a warm kiss on her nose. “I did, indeed. I was marrying an Amazon—most men would have been worried.” Giving her a little shake, he added, “Of course I was worried. I knew you found me attractive and that you responded to my advances, but you were never very forthcoming about your feelings. I couldn’t help wondering if you were marrying me just to provide security for Cornelia and all the rest of your vulnerable chicks.”

  Emily’s mouth fell open and she gaped at him. “But—but,” she spluttered, “I thought you might be marrying me because you felt sorry for me.”

  “Sorry for you?” he said, and burst out laughing. Pulling her onto his lap, he kissed her soundly and said, “Sweetheart, if I felt sorry for anyone, it was my own besotted self. I was mad for you almost from the moment I laid eyes on you, and all you did was keep me at arm’s length and act as if you found me a bearable nuisance.”

  “I did not!”

  “Yes, you did.” His eyes warm and caressing on her face, he murmured, “You’re going to have to make it up to me by loving me until the end of our days.”

  Her heart melted, her arms encircled his neck and she replied demurely, “Well, since I have no other choice, I shall do my best.” Her arms tightened and she cried, “Oh, Barnaby, I do love you.”

  “And I, you, sweetheart,” he swore softly. “Always and forever.”

  They kissed and for a long time, while the storm churned outside, in that charming pink chintz room, there were only the murmurings between lovers.

  Barnaby’s step was light when he finally tore himself away from Emily’s beguiling presence. He was a happy man. His passionate, beautiful wife loved him and he thanked the fate that had brought him to England and Emily. Possessing a magnificent fortune, he thought, after ordering his horse brought up from stables, was a splendid thing, but having Emily love him . . . He grinned; he couldn’t help it—even if it caused Peckham who was crossing the entry hall to stare at him strangely. Having his Amazon love him, B
arnaby decided, now that was a most splendid thing!

  Mindful of the previous attempts on his life, Barnaby didn’t, as he would have normally, ride alone to the village. Lamb was at the Dower House and knowing that there would be hell to pay if he didn’t take either Lamb or Luc with him, a trip to the Dower House was in order. To pick up my nursemaids, he thought wryly.

  Mounting his horse, a lively brown filly with a pair of high white stockings on her rear legs and a big blaze running down her face, Barnaby set out for the Dower House. The day was cool, the wind blowing and a light rain falling, but he was too happy to let sullen weather ruin his mood. He let the filly, Glory, have her head the first half of the ride and she pranced and cavorted unfettered in the cool, damp air, but the last quarter mile he reminded her of her manners. A few minutes later they were trotting sedately up to the front door of the Dower House.

  Walker met him at the door and, bowing low, murmured, “My lord. It is good to see you.”

  “Settling in, are you?” Barnaby asked as he handed Walker his gloves and hat. Having placed the hat and gloves on a narrow marble-topped table in the alcove entry, Walker moved quickly to help him out of his greatcoat. “My brother not being too demanding?”

  Walker grinned. “Oh, no, my lord, Master Luc is very easy to serve. As long as Mrs. Spalding keeps him stuffed with her veal patties and gammon steaks on toast—of which he is particularly fond—and I see to it that the wine and brandy decanters are full, he is a happy man.”

  Barnaby laughed. “That sounds like Luc. Show me to him.”

  Luc was in a pleasant room with wainscoted and green figured silk walls at the side of the house. A Turkish rug in vivid shades of amber, gold, sapphire, emerald and ruby lay on the floor and green velvet drapes hung at the windows. A welcoming fire burned on the hearth of the faded brick fireplace in the corner.