Desire Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  As the horse stepped forward, there was a shout from the vicinity of the creek. “Get him, boys!”

  At the shout and the rustling, crackling sound of bodies breaking through the brush, the horse reared. Struggling to control his mount, Luc had no time to reach for the pistols he carried in the pockets of his greatcoat. In seconds, he was surrounded by the group of men who scrambled from concealment amongst the shrubs and trees that lined the creek. It was too dark to count the constantly shifting forms in the darkness, but he knew there were several.

  The reins were snatched from him and rough hands dragged him from the saddle. Luc fought with all the skill he’d learned in dark alleys and gambling dens that few gentlemen had ever seen, but there were too many of them and he was overpowered. But not, he thought with fierce satisfaction, tasting blood in his mouth, without inflicting some painful damage to his captors.

  “Bloody hell!” swore one of the men holding his right arm. “I think he’s broken one of me ribs. No one said he’d be any trouble.”

  From Luc’s left, the other man snarled, “Oh, stop your complaining! I’ve got a split lip and I ain’t whining, but sweet Jesus! He’s got a sweet pair of fists.”

  “That’s enough from the pair of you,” ordered a third man, coming to stand in front of Luc.

  It was too dark to see their faces, but having grappled with them, Luc knew they were big, burly men and that there were at least four of them—these three and the man holding his horse. Yet even as that thought crossed his mind, he sensed the presence of a fifth person standing a short distance away.

  The first vicious punch to Luc’s stomach banished any of his concern about a fifth person. Held prisoner by the two men on either side of him, he could not fight back and could only endure the savage beating that followed. The fellow knew what he was about, and by the time Luc slumped, barely conscious, between his two captors, he ached in every bone and knew that on the morrow—if he survived until tomorrow—there wasn’t going to be a part of his body that wasn’t bruised and bloody.

  The man brought his right arm back, ready to begin anew when the fifth person ordered, “Enough. Drop him.”

  Luc crashed to the ground in a bloody heap, aware only of how much he hurt. From his position in the shadows, Nolles minced over and surveyed Luc’s sprawled form with satisfaction. “And now a little something from me,” he purred. Taking careful aim, he landed a vicious kick to Luc’s head.

  Pain rocketed through him and Luc knew no more.

  Chapter 7

  When Luc woke several hours later, he was in his bed at the Dower House, his body one long, exquisite ache. Grateful to be alive, he glanced around the familiar room, not surprised to see Lamb seated in a chair near the bed; on a bedside table reposed a pewter tray holding what he guessed was food and drink.

  Luc wasn’t surprised to find Lamb keeping watch over him, and wryly he admitted that while he and Lamb were often at loggerheads, Lamb was always there to nurse him through his latest mishap. His lips twisted. And give him a tongue lashing in the bargain.

  From the sunlight dancing around the room, Luc deduced he’d been unconscious for quite a while. “How did I get here?” he croaked.

  Lamb started and leaped up. Looming over Luc, he stared down at him, infuriated again at the damage done to him and the fright he’d felt when Luc’s body had arrived at Windmere in the back of a farmer’s cart just after dawn. “Farmer Fenwick was on his way to market when he found you unconscious in the road about a mile from the turnoff to Windmere.”

  Luc started to nod, but at the blinding pain in his head, he halted that movement. “Thank God for Farmer Fenwick,” he managed. “How long was I out?”

  “It’s not yet nine o’clock—do you remember the time when you were attacked?”

  Luc concentrated, trying to recall the exact sequence of events of the previous evening. Dinner at High Tower. He hadn’t stayed late and he’d almost made it to Windmere before he’d been attacked. Frowning, he said, “It had to have been around eleven or eleven thirty.”

  “So you’ve been unconscious about ten hours.” His voice noncommittal, Lamb added, “That must have been a pretty good knock on the head.”

  “Wasn’t a knock ... Nolles kicked me in the head.”

  Lamb’s gaze narrowed and something dark and ugly moved in his azure eyes. “Nolles? You’re certain?”

  “As certain as I can be—I didn’t actually see him, it was dark and I was barely conscious when he kicked me. But I’d swear it was his voice I heard.” His gaze met Lamb’s. “I know you’re convinced that I leap from the frying pan into the fire at will, but I can think of no one else in the area who would have reason to assault me.”

  Lamb didn’t rise to the bait and fortunately for the harmony between them, Barnaby entered the room before further words were exchanged.

  Pausing just inside the threshold, Barnaby glanced from one man to the other, relieved that they hadn’t yet started needling each other. Walking to Luc’s bedside, he stared down at his half brother and shook his head. “Tell me,” he said with a twisted smile, “do you go looking for trouble or does it just find you?”

  Luc risked a grin and winced when his split lip made itself felt. “In this case,” he said, “I plead innocent. I was riding home after dinner at High Tower and minding my own business.”

  Lamb snorted. Looking at Barnaby, Lamb said, “He thinks it was Nolles, and I’m inclined to agree with him.”

  Pulling up a chair, Barnaby sat down by the bed, wondering how many times in the past this sort of scene had played out. It was a familiar scenario—Luc hurt, Lamb looking to murder someone, with Luc usually second on his list right behind the person who had caused Luc’s injuries, and himself in the position of peacemaker and anxious brother. Not, he reminded himself, that Lamb wasn’t anxious—Lamb just didn’t like being anxious about either one of his nephews.

  Watching Lamb gently lift Luc up and help him drink a sip or two of warm chicken broth from a cup, he almost smiled. The biggest of the three American Joslyns, while Lamb’s features marked him as a member of the Joslyn family, the crisp curl of his black hair and the dark gold of his complexion hinted at an African ancestry in his bloodline. Lamb was a magnificently built man, strong and powerful, a fierce warrior when needed, yet he could be, Barnaby admitted, one of the gentlest men he knew.

  Settling Luc back against the pillow, Lamb ordered, “Now tell us what happened.”

  The tale didn’t take long, and when Luc finished speaking, his black eyes furious, Barnaby growled, “That sounds like something Nolles would do.”

  “Things have been quiet since Nolles and his gang were rousted from that old barn of Barnaby’s last March,” said Lamb, glaring at Luc. “You know that Nolles has just been waiting for a chance to get back at Barnaby, and what do you do, but bring yourself to his attention by traipsing into The Ram’s Head the other night.”

  “As Nolles himself reminded me, it’s a public place,” Luc said mildly. Before Lamb could take exception, he added, “And I agree with you that Nolles has been biding his time before trying to cause trouble for Barnaby, but I have a hunch there was more to my beating than just sending a message to Barnaby.”

  “What do you mean?” Barnaby asked.

  Luc grimaced. “Not to offend you, but this might not be about you... . Mrs. Gilbert mentioned that one of her regulars was at The Ram’s Head and overheard Townsend whining to Nolles about Townsend’s, ah, misfortune the night I was there. It’s possible that Townsend set Nolles on me.”

  “Thereby allowing Nolles to kill two birds with one stone. Do a favor for a friend and thumb his nose at me,” Barnaby said, nodding. “It would explain the timing of the attack.”

  “I agree,” said Lamb, returning to his seat on the other side of Luc’s bed. He looked at Barnaby. “Nolles is a separate problem, but sooner than later, you’re going to have do something about Townsend.”

  Barnaby pulled on his ear. “He’s Em
ily’s cousin, and while he is a poor excuse for one, he is the squire,” he reminded Lamb. “So far as we know, he’s done nothing illegal, and though we suspect it, we have no proof he was behind the attack on Luc. Besides which he owns and lives in Emily’s family home, The Birches—I can hardly turf him out of his own house, and even if he is the cause of your attack, I would mislike killing him.”

  Almost as one, Luc and Lamb said, “I wouldn’t.” They grinned at each other, for the one moment in perfect harmony with each other.

  Barnaby shook his head. “No. I’d like Cousin Jeffery gone, as in out of our lives, but,” he said with a warning look at first Luc then Lamb, “not dead. I’m afraid we’ll have to think of another way to be rid of him.”

  Luc shrugged and groaned as bruised muscles screamed in protest. “Vermin is vermin, Barnaby,” he said as the pain ebbed. “Just like Nolles, he’s a rat and should be exterminated.”

  “But not by us,” Barnaby retorted. “And presently, we have no way of going after Nolles either.” He looked disgusted. “As much as it goes against the grain, we’ll have to turn the other cheek with Nolles and hope that an opportunity to catch him out arises ... soon.” He paused, thinking. “Knowing Jeffery and Nolles, if Jeffery is aligned with Nolles,” he said after a few seconds, “I’ll wager it won’t be very long before Jeffery is no longer useful to Nolles and Nolles takes care of Jeffery for us. Perhaps luck will be on our side and they’ll take care of each other.” He sighed and shook his head. “But as long as Jeffery has something Nolles finds useful—such as The Birches, I don’t think we’ll see a falling-out.”

  Luc’s gaze sharpened. “You think Jeffery is allowing Nolles to use The Birches to hide contraband?”

  “I suspect so,” Barnaby admitted. “Nolles has to be stockpiling his smuggled goods somewhere, and with The Birches conveniently near at hand, I think the odds are better than even that he’s using the place—with Jeffery’s blessing. From the gossip I’ve heard from Lord Broadfoot and Sir Michael and a few others, Jeffery’s mostly to be found at The Ram’s Head ... which leaves The Birches deserted and available for other uses.” Dryly, he added, “Jeffery is usually in one of the private rooms gambling—and from what I hear, gaming deep.”

  “The man is nearly bankrupt yet he is always to be found at The Ram’s Head ... gambling,” Luc murmured. “I wonder if Nolles is staking him and taking a cut of his winnings? It would explain why Nolles came after me.” Despite his painful lip, he half-smiled. “If Nolles is staking him, it wasn’t only Jeffery’s money, I, er, Harlan won on Friday night, but Nolles’s as well.”

  The three men considered Luc’s words, Lamb saying after a moment, “It fits. If Nolles is staking Townsend, he wouldn’t take kindly to the trouncing”—his lips twitched—“Harlan gave Townsend the other night.”

  “So what do we do next?” Luc asked, looking from one man to the other.

  “For now, nothing,” Barnaby said, rising to his feet. “I am preparing to leave for London on Monday.” When both men looked at him, he added, “Lawyers and matters to do with the estate. I’d hoped for a brief trip, but Emily and Cornelia have taxed me with all sorts of items that they insist must be purchased before the baby arrives.” He smiled ruefully. “If I am fortunate, I will be home in less than a fortnight.” He eyed Luc’s swollen, purpling face and shaking his head, said, “You took quite a beating last night—it’ll be awhile before you can show that handsome face of yours in public.”

  “So what explanation are we going to give for Luc’s sudden seclusion?” asked Lamb.

  “As much as it wounds my pride,” Luc muttered, “the best excuse would be that I took a spill from my horse last night.” He grimaced. “People will think I was foxed, but a fall, especially if I sprained my ankle rather badly when I landed and am unable to walk on it ...”

  Barnaby nodded. “Yes, that should do it. A fall would explain the bruising.” He glanced at Luc, his eyes amused. “You did fall on your face, after all, but perhaps, instead of a sprained ankle, is it possible that your horse kicked you in the head and while you were unconscious stepped on your ankle? That would explain why you were lying in the middle of the road unconscious.”

  Luc made a face. “I’ll never live it down, but it would just about cover the situation.” He eyed Barnaby. “You’re a very good liar.”

  Barnaby bowed. “One does try to rise to the occasion.”

  Barnaby might have been willing to wait to go after Nolles, but Lamb had other ideas. Concealed in the shadows outside The Ram’s Head, like a tiger waiting for prey, Lamb bided his time. No one knew where he was or what he planned and that suited him fine. Barnaby would have tried to talk him out of it and Luc ... Rage roiled through him when he thought of Luc’s battered face and body, and his jaw bunched. Luc, he reminded himself, was in no condition to argue about anything.

  Even though he allowed Barnaby to think the matter was settled, Lamb couldn’t shrug off the attack on Luc. And that was why on the night following Luc’s brutal beating, he was loitering, hidden, next to Nolles’s inn. Whatever Barnaby thought, Nolles needed a lesson ... a warning.

  Patiently Lamb waited in the darkness, knowing that eventually Nolles would leave his establishment and walk the few steps to the large house Nolles owned adjacent to the inn. In the time that Lamb had been stationed in the narrow alley between the two buildings, the noise from The Ram’s Head had diminished and he watched from his place of concealment as the place had emptied out. It had been several minutes since the last drunken reveler staggered home and the tired barmaids trudged away. He spied Townsend as the squire stumbled to his horse, and after several tries, managed to hoist himself into the saddle and disappeared in the darkness.

  Lamb manfully suppressed the urge to reach out, jerk Townsend into the alley and give him a taste of what Luc had suffered. I should have killed the bastard when I had the chance, he thought, remembering that night in the barn of the deserted farmhouse when Townsend’s friend, Ainsworth, had held Emily captive. His lips twisted with distaste. Emily’s cousin had been such a miserable weakling that neither he nor Barnaby could bring themselves to kill him. Townsend’s turn will come soon enough, he promised himself.

  A sound alerted him to the approach of another person and he tensed. When Nolles’s small stature appeared framed in the opening to the alley, fast as lightning, Lamb reached out with one big hand, fastened it into the collar of Nolles’s jacket and effortlessly plucked him off his feet and into the darkness. Nolles’s startled scream was closed off by Lamb’s other hand clamping over his mouth.

  “Quiet, little man,” Lamb murmured. “We don’t want anyone else at our party, do we?”

  Shifting his grasp from the back to the front of Nolles’s jacket, Lamb slammed him up against the wall of The Ram’s Head. Nolles fought to free himself, but despite his violent thrashing, Lamb easily avoided his flailing arms and kept Nolles pressed against the wall of the inn, his feet dangling inches from the ground.

  Impatiently Lamb shook him like a cat with a mouse and said, “Stop it. A few minutes more of this and you’ll annoy me.” His hand closed around Nolles’s throat, and bringing his face closer to Nolles’s, he said gently, “And you really don’t want me any more annoyed with you than I already am, do you?”

  There was something about that gentle tone that froze Nolles where he was and his frantic struggles ceased.

  “That’s better,” said Lamb, removing his other hand from Nolles’s mouth. As Nolles opened his mouth to shout, Lamb placed a silencing finger against Nolles’s lips and warned, “Scream and I’m very much afraid that I’ll have to hurt you ... badly. And believe me, I’d enjoy doing it.”

  Except for the sliver of moonlight, the night was dark, and here in the narrow alley there was nearly total blackness. Nolles peered through the heavy shadows, but he could not make out any features—but from the ease with which he had been taken, he sensed a big man. A very big, very dangerous man. The man’s size and cu
ltured tones gave him a clue to the identity of his captor, that and the knowledge that the Joslyns were the only men who would dare lay a hand on him.

  “You’re Lamb, Joslyn’s man,” he blurted.

  “More importantly,” said Lamb, “I am Luc Joslyn’s uncle ... and I don’t take kindly to little snakes like you thinking you can attack him—any Joslyn—and not expect punishment.”

  Nolles swallowed, enraged, but also fearful of the powerful hand around his throat. “W-w-what are you going to do?” Blustering, he said, “You’ll hang if you murder me.”

  Lamb laughed. “Little man, I have no intention of murdering you.” With his free hand, he brought forth the knife he carried and laid it tenderly against Nolles’s cheek. “I’m giving you a warning this time,” he said, and in one quick motion, sliced a long furrow on one side of Nolles’s face.

  Nolles screamed and struggled.

  “Oh hush,” murmured Lamb. “It’s enough to scar but it won’t kill you. It will, however, be a reminder... .” Lamb bent nearer and in a voice that filled Nolles with terror, he promised, “Touch anyone of my blood again, anyone who bears the Joslyn name, and next time ... next time I will kill you.”

  Lamb stepped back and, removing his hand from around Nolles’s neck, let him drop to the ground. Leaving Nolles slumped on the ground holding his face and sobbing, Lamb melted into the darkness.

  Gillian and Sophia heard the news of Luc’s accident on Sunday when they attended church with Silas. Mindful not to cause his master any discomfort, Silas’s coachman drove the lumbering barouche to the village church and the footman who had accompanied them tenderly wafted Silas from the carriage. The Ordways arrived with only minutes to spare, and it wasn’t until after services that there was time for any conversation. People spilled out of the church into the fall sunshine, a few neighbors and friends lingering to inquire after Silas’s injury.