Desire Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Startled, Gillian glanced up at him as he loomed before her. His eyes fixed on hers, he stripped the shirt from his body and stepped boldly between her thighs. She gasped when he half-smiled and slowly slid her gown upward, stopping the fabric at the top of her thighs.

  “This wasn’t the way I planned it,” he said huskily, “but I cannot stop myself.” He dropped a kiss on her mouth. “You make me lose my head. I can think of nothing but the softness of your body... .” His fingers caressed her thigh, climbing until they brushed against the patch of curls between her legs. “And your heat and dampness and what I feel when I am inside of you.” His lips left hers and his dark head bent, and with a sigh his mouth traveled from one breast to the other before his teeth and tongue scraped and laved the raspberry dark nipples.

  Gillian shivered at the touch of those teeth and tongue, desire flowing hot and wanton through her. She scooted to the edge of the desk where she could push against the rigid evidence of his arousal. Her thighs clamped against his lean hips and she arched up when his fingers found her.

  His mouth never leaving her breasts, he parted the curls between her thighs, toying with her, his fingers sliding teasingly over the swollen folds, stroking her, probing, yet not giving her what she wanted. Gillian’s arms tightened around him and she rocked against those insidiously exploring fingers, seeking relief from the demands of her own body. Her lips found his ear and she nuzzled the ridges with her tongue; his quickened breathing exciting her.

  Aflame, lost in desire, Luc’s fingers left off their teasing and two of them sank deep within. Gillian moaned, rising up to meet the invasion, shivering as he worked them within her. Each thrust, each twist of his fingers sending a jolt of desire through her. She ached. She yearned. She needed. Desperately.

  But Gillian yearned no more desperately than Luc. He could think of nothing but the sweetness of her breasts, the heat and dampness his fingers found and the maddening feel of her tongue delving into his ear. The soft, unconscious sounds of pleasure she gave, the movements of her sleek little body against his seeking fingers, all heightened his lust for her.

  Gillian cried out when his fingers were removed as he dealt with the front of his pantaloons. A second later, he sighed as his organ sprang free, the hot tip brushing against her mound. His mouth came down hard and hungry on hers, his hands fastened around her hips and he lifted her to meet the broad invasion of his heavy phallus. Slowly he pushed into her, groaning at the pleasure of her tight, wet heat fisting around him. Buried in her, he savored the moment; then, unable to stop, he plunged deeper, only to withdraw and plunge again and again into the slick heart of her.

  He was big and she wiggled to accommodate his bulk, enjoying every solid inch of him. Her arms closed around him, and kissing him as urgently as he was kissing her, her tongue flicked like fire against his. With her naked breasts crushed against his chest, her body breached by his and her mouth locked with his, Gillian’s senses spun out of control. She was helpless against the needy desire that commanded her and she clung to him, reveling in and meeting each hard thrust of his body into hers.

  It was a passionate joining that could not last, and all too soon, Gillian felt that rush, that incredibly exquisite burst of sensation that heralded the zenith of pleasure. Her scream was muffled against his lips and she convulsed around him.

  A carnal growl ripping from him, Luc pumped into her one last time and let the scarlet tide take him. Racked by waves of pleasure, he slumped against her, so sated he didn’t think he’d ever be able to move.

  Soon enough the reality of where they were filtered into his brain and reluctantly, he shifted away from her. Still between her splayed thighs, he straightened and deftly arranged himself and fastened the front of his pantaloons.

  Lost in a dreamy haze, Gillian was only partially aware of Luc’s movements or her own wanton state. The desk was cool and smooth against her back and her thighs dangled over the edge of the desk. Her pink-tipped breasts were naked; the lilac gown was bunched up around her waist and her hair was spread out in a sable cloud across the desk.

  His eyes drawn compulsively to her, Luc thought she was the loveliest sight he had ever seen. Powerless to stop himself, he bent forward and dropped a passionate kiss between her thighs.

  Gillian sighed and looked at him with eyes cloudy with passion. He moved, his lips gently caressing her tender breasts. Against her breasts, he muttered, “I do not think if I have you every hour of the day that I shall ever tire of you.” He flicked his tongue over a nipple. “Even now, after what we just shared, I can feel my desire for you burning within me.” He slid upward, his mouth brushing over hers, the azure eyes staring deep into hers. “You have bewitched me.”

  She raised a hand and caressed his dark cheek. Huskily, she said, “No more than you have me.”

  Luc laughed, delighted. Straightening, he swung her up into his arms and strode to the chair before the fire. With her settled in his lap, he said, “And so, Madame wife, perhaps our marriage will not be the disaster everyone thinks, oui?”

  Gillian nestled her head against his shoulder. She was astute enough to know that their lovemaking changed nothing, but at the moment, she was too satisfied, too comfortable to worry about any dark clouds that might appear on the horizon. Luc was right. Perhaps this marriage of theirs would not be a disaster. Perhaps, she thought wistfully, he might even come to love her... .

  Chapter 18

  The Joslyn party returned to Windmere shortly after Luc and Gillian had departed for Ramstone Manor. Emily was tired, these latter weeks of her pregnancy taking their toll, and having turned ninety in August, Cornelia was no more loathe than Emily to linger, both ladies retiring to their rooms for a brief nap before evening.

  With the ladies absent, Barnaby, Mathew and Simon, joined by Lamb, adjourned to Barnaby’s study. Once everyone had been served refreshments and had found a comfortable seat, Barnaby raised his glass of hock and said, “A toast to my brother and his bride.”

  After the toast was drunk, they wasted little time on Luc’s marriage, Barnaby asking abruptly, “Has anyone heard when the Coroner’s Inquest for Canfield will be held?”

  Lamb nodded. “I spoke with Mrs. Gilbert after the wedding this morning. It’ll be held Monday morning at The Ram’s Head.”

  “Any question that the verdict will be other than accidental death or by misadventure?” asked Mathew.

  “Not according to Mrs. Gilbert,” Lamb answered. “It’s accepted that the fellow was drunk and that what happened was a tragic accident. With two, er, respectable witnesses and no one to gainsay them, the inquest is a mere formality.”

  The topic of Canfield was dropped, but more discussion about Nolles and the others followed. Finishing off his glass of hock, Barnaby said, “At the moment, gentlemen, we are at a standstill. Until there is another shipment, we can do nothing to bring Nolles down. And as long as he is using my wife’s former home as a storehouse for his smuggled goods, I am reluctant to go to the authorities with any information or suspicion that we have.”

  Simon groaned. “Which means,” he said bitterly, “that I am condemned to more nights gambling and drinking at The Ram’s Head. By Jove, I never thought I’d long for a quiet night by the fire with a book.”

  “Well, I have a bit of news for you that may indicate that your nights of purgatory may soon be ending,” Lamb said with a sly smile.

  All three men looked expectantly at him. “I meant to say something earlier,” Lamb confessed, “but with the frivolities surrounding the wedding there hasn’t been time for a meeting between us and it wasn’t of grave importance.” His glance swept over the others. “While you fine gentlemen were asleep in your beds last night, I wandered toward The Birches and damn near stumbled over three laden wagons driving away from the place.”

  “Damn it, Lamb!” Barnaby burst out. “If you’d been discovered, Nolles would have had you killed in an instant. You could have been murdered, your body disposed of, and I’d never
know where to find you.”

  “Point taken,” Lamb acknowledged, unfazed. “Do you want to hear what I discovered?”

  Barnaby shot him a look. “The wagons,” Lamb said, “were headed toward London, and since the place was now deserted, I decided that another reconnoiter of the cellars wouldn’t come amiss.”

  “Naturally, you just had to take another chance at being discovered,” Barnaby growled.

  Ignoring Barnaby, Lamb said, “Luc reported to us that there was still a nice little haul of goods stored in the cellars, but I found the place nearly empty. It looked as if they were clearing out the last of the goods to make room for another shipment.”

  “So watching Nolles is even more important now,” Barnaby said.

  “The moon is on the wane ... and it’s been awhile since we’ve had a serious storm,” added Lamb. “I’ll wager that sometime soon, Nolles will be greeting a shipment from France.”

  Barnaby looked at Simon. “Your presence at The Ram’s Head is even more vital than it was.”

  Simon sighed. “I know. I just wish I found the company more congenial.”

  “What about St. John?” asked Mathew. “I thought you liked him.”

  “I do. But while I’d like to, I can’t ignore the possibility that he could be involved with Nolles and the smuggling.” Simon grimaced. “Linking Padgett, Stanton, Canfield and Nolles together is no stretch, nor is throwing Townsend in with them, but if this is such a clandestine operation, I would think they’d limit the number of people who know the truth.”

  “Perhaps, assuming that it was Padgett who contacted Nolles, those two are the only ones that know the whole truth—the others just know bits and pieces—or simply benefit from the operation,” offered Mathew.

  “Canfield obviously knew more than was healthy,” observed Barnaby. “His death may have been an unfortunate accident, but you’ll never convince me. They killed him for a reason—most likely to shut his mouth before he became dangerous.”

  Mathew glanced at Barnaby. “How involved do you think Townsend is?”

  Barnaby shrugged. “My best guess is that Townsend is merely a tool and that his involvement is recent—within the past six months or less. It’s no secret he’s run his legs off. Right now it’s to his advantage to let Nolles use him ... and The Birches. He’s benefiting from the association, but I suspect that once Nolles has no use for The Birches—or my wife’s cousin, that Jeffery will suffer a fatal accident.”

  Mathew looked horrified. “You think that Nolles will kill him?”

  “Of course he will,” snapped Simon. He leaned forward, his eyes locked on his older brother. “We’re dealing with men who will murder without a second thought anyone who gets in their way or has served their purpose. I know it’s hard for you to hear, but Tom was right in the thick of it.” When Mathew looked to protest, he rushed on, “Don’t forget he was prepared to murder Barnaby in cold blood and Lamb, too, for that matter.” His voice tight, he added, “Tom’s friends may have glided elegantly through the ton but these men are no gentlemen. They’re merely murderous rogues garbed in fine clothes.”

  Stiffly Mathew replied, “I’m aware of that. I am not as blind and naïve as you seem to think I am.”

  Simon snorted, not convinced. Rising to his feet, he said, “If you’ll all excuse me, I’m going to get a few hours of sleep before I ride to The Ram’s Head. It may be dawn before I return.”

  The door barely shut behind Simon before Lamb rose to his feet, saying, “I’m going to ride to The Crown and see what I can glean from the village gossip.”

  Barnaby sent him a long look. “You seem to be visiting The Crown often these days. Is it just to gather information?” A smile curved his handsome mouth. “Or can it be that one of those delightful daughters of Mrs. Gilbert has caught your eye?”

  To Barnaby’s astonishment, he detected the faintest hint of red winging across Lamb’s cheekbones, before Lamb looked down his nose at him and said regally, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Barnaby had spoken in jest, but judging by Lamb’s reaction, he wondered if he hadn’t hit upon the truth. Lamb in love? And, more astonishingly still, he thought, with one of Mrs. Gilbert’s daughters? But which one? Only half-listening to a comment made by Mathew, he decided it would behoove him to pay a visit to The Crown one of these days. Soon. He shook his head. Lamb in love? He grinned. Wait until he told Luc.

  When Simon arrived at The Ram’s Head, he discovered that the others were there before him, Townsend already drunk: that night and the next three followed the same course as the others. At some point before he left for another night of drinking and gambling, Simon, Mathew and Barnaby would meet and Simon would relate the previous night’s occurrences. The reports were boringly similar: drinking and gambling, with little to distinguish one night from the other. On Wednesday evening when Simon walked into Barnaby’s study, he discovered that Luc had joined them.

  Marriage, Simon thought, appeared to agree with Luc. He’d didn’t think he’d ever seen Barnaby’s half brother look so carefree ... or happy. Simon wouldn’t say that the other man glowed, but it was obvious that Luc was a contented man.

  Luc endured the good-natured teasing about his newly wed state from the others, but eventually, he asked Simon, “And evenings at The Ram’s Head? Are they continuing to be the same?”

  “There’s not much change—just which one gets drunker or loses the most money,” Simon answered. He frowned. “And yet ... I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something amiss in the group.”

  Barnaby looked interested. “What?”

  Simon shrugged. “It’s hard to describe, but there seems to be a ... coolness between Townsend and the others.” He paused, frowning. “And St. John ... there’s something between him and Stanton... . There’s always been a coolness between the pair, but I’ve noticed that St. John studies Stanton, watches him almost as if he’s waiting for Stanton to make a mistake ... or, I don’t know. Something.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me—St. John and Stanton. I’ve always thought that St. John didn’t fit within that set and Stanton is the worst of the lot. As for Townsend ... if he’s been drinking as heavily as you say, perhaps he’s even disgusted those hardened rakes,” offered Mathew.

  “No. It’s not Townsend’s drinking,” said Simon, shaking his head. “They’re all heavy drinkers ... except St. John. It’s just that there’s a way that Nolles sometimes looks at Townsend ... and Padgett has been more openly contemptuous of him.” He shrugged again. “It’s probably nothing—I’m just being overly suspicious.”

  Barnaby frowned. “The Coroner’s Inquest came back on Monday as we expected: accidental death. If Canfield was murdered and Townsend was privy to it, they might feel he has become a liability.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Mathew, “but they are still using his place to store their smuggled goods. Surely, they still need him?”

  “Not according to Lamb,” said Simon. “The cellars have been emptied out, remember?”

  “Yes, but we believe in anticipation of the arrival of new shipment from France,” Mathew reminded them.

  “Unless,” Luc said quietly, “they’ve found another place to use... .”

  “That’s occurred to me,” Simon said. “And if they have ... I wouldn’t want to be Squire Townsend.”

  Swinging off his horse and walking into The Ram’s Head a few hours later, Simon’s thoughts were still on Townsend and the rift he sensed between the squire and the others. Since the hour was still early, not many minutes past ten o’clock, the gentlemen had not yet retired to one of the private rooms for deep gaming and were at their usual table in the main room of the tavern. Of St. John there was no sign. As usual the place was loud and boisterous, full of fishermen, day laborers, farmers, a pair of revenuers and several hard-eyed individuals Simon identified as Nolles’s men.

  Simon strolled over to where Nolles and the others sat and, pulling up a chair, joined them. Greetings were
exchanged, and catching the eye of one of the barmaids as she bustled about, Simon ordered a tankard of ale.

  The conversation was general and, sipping his ale, other than a comment about the Coroner’s Inquest held two days ago, Simon did more listening than talking. He noticed that the others ignored Townsend, almost as if the squire wasn’t there. Not that Townsend had much to offer, Simon reminded himself, but he sensed again that something had changed within the group. Canfield’s death could account for it, but he doubted it. And considering that Canfield had died less than a week previously and had supposedly been a friend, no one seemed to be mourning his passing. Except, Simon thought, perhaps, Townsend... .

  Townsend was unusually silent and his features were pale and haggard with dark circles under his eyes that told of sleepless nights. He appeared mesmerized by the snifter of brandy in front of him, only stirring from his contemplation of the liquor when his snifter was empty and then only to order another one. Not yet drunk, Simon decided, but if he kept it up, it wouldn’t be long before the fellow was passed out cold at the table.

  When conversation lagged, Simon asked, “Where is St. John? I thought to see him here this evening.”

  “Said he had a meeting and would join us later,” Padgett drawled.

  “Most likely with that yellow-haired wench,” muttered Stanton.

  “Ah, yes, the buxom Mrs. Perryman,” murmured Nolles. “She’s new to the village. Claims to be a widow, but I have my doubts.” A nasty smile curved his lips. “She seems to have made many friends ... all male.”

  “Trust St. John to find amusement in this boring, benighted village,” said Stanton.