Happiness flooded through her. It wasn’t, perhaps, the declaration of undying love she yearned for, but it was a step in that direction. A smile curved her lips. “Very dear?” she teased, unabashedly seeking more.
Luc’s features softened and he kissed her with a tenderness they had never shared before. When his head lifted, he stared into her eyes. For a long moment, they stayed thus, staring into each other’s eyes as if the most important answer in the world were written there. Never breaking the look, Luc shook his head. “No. I misspoke,” he murmured. “Very dear is a pale description for what I feel for you.” His fingers trembling, he fondled a strand of sable hair. “I love you, Gillian—more than I have ever loved anyone or anything in my life.” His lips twisted. “I may be master of my house, but you rule my heart... . I adore you, m’amie.” A whimsical smile crossed his dark face as he finished simply, “My life, my happiness is in your hands.”
Gillian thought her heart would stop beating, so powerful was the emotion that filled her. He loved her, she thought stunned. Loved her. Joy, bright and shimmering, cascaded through her. “Oh Luc!” she cried, love infusing her face with a luminous glow. Flinging her arms around his neck, she strained against him, her lips caressing his chin, his jaw, any part of him she could reach. “I love you,” she breathed against him. “Love you. Love you. Love you!”
Laughing, Luc swept her up into his arms and, her skirts flying, whirled her about the room. “No more than I love you, my pet. You could not love me more.” With his arms full of warm femininity, Luc sat down in the only chair in the room. Love shining out of his eyes, he stared at her. “I do love you, you know. I have for what seems like forever.”
“Oh Luc,” she breathed, nestling her face against his neck, her fingers locked within his.
They stayed thus for a long time, tender murmurings the only sound in the room. As lovers have always done, they spoke of things vital to them and them alone, their ramblings broken only by sweet kisses and gentle caresses and quiet laughter.
Gillian could not imagine a happier time, but as the minutes passed, like a serpent slithering from beneath a rock, the items she had kicked under her bed intruded. The urge to tell Luc was overwhelming, but she wanted nothing to taint this moment, and so she pressed nearer to his warm body and held her tongue. Later, she thought, later, after dinner when we are alone for the night. But just as she came to that conclusion, the memory of his private meeting with Cornelia crept into her mind. What had the other woman told him? Whatever it had been, recalling that silent ride home, it had put Luc into a withdrawn, introspective mood. The meeting might not have had anything to do with her, but convincing herself of that was impossible.
Ask him, she told herself. Just ask him. The question trembled on her lips, but just as she had not wanted to sully this magical time with ugly events from the past, she didn’t want to risk asking questions that could disrupt their growing rapport.
Luc was thinking about his meeting with Cornelia, too. The first flush of elation fading, the information Cornelia had given him this afternoon droned annoyingly at the back of his mind. Confirmation of Gillian’s innocence by Cornelia, via Hugh, had been gratifying, but it hadn’t been necessary to him—his heart had long ago concluded that his sprite was no murderess, but the bargain Charles had made with Winthrop ... He could feel the rage coiling up through him and fought it back. Charles was dead. And Winthrop would escape unscathed, because to go after him would only hurt Gillian. He didn’t like it, but he could see no way to get at Winthrop without harming Gillian. A thought occurred to him and he smiled. Not a nice smile. Winthrop was a gambler... .
Beyond the friendly game of cards or wager, Luc had sworn that his gambling days were behind him, but he decided, with a cold glint in the azure eyes, that in Winthrop’s case, he would make an exception. Yes, sometime during the next year or so, an opportunity would arise... .
Gillian stirred in his arms and he glanced down at her, delight and pleasure in the love they had found tumbling through him. His, he thought, dazed. His wife. His darling, dearest sprite. And Charles Dashwood had been willing to defile her for his own ends. His gaze wandered over her soft, relaxed features. Would she tell him? Did she, would she, trust him enough to tell him of that infamous trade?
It would be simple for him to tell her that he knew about it, but perversely, even with her admission of love, he wanted more. He wanted her to feel comfortable enough with him, wanted her to trust him enough to tell him herself. Greedy? Arrogant? Unreasonable? Luc half-smiled. Undeniably.
He frowned. Charles’s vowels. They were out there somewhere, and he would have to find them. Find them and destroy them. In the meantime, he thought, pulling Gillian closer to him, there was his enchanting bride to enjoy.
Except for the niggling apprehension about Luc’s meeting with Cornelia and the resurfacing of Charles’s vowels, the following hours passed in a delirious blur for Gillian. Luc loved her! She’d known it. Sensed it, but to have had him actually say the words ... Like precious jewels she held those words of love to her, marveling and treasuring them. Luc loved her.
That night when they made love, it was as if for the first time, each one discovering new pleasures, new sensations and new heights, each one reveling in the knowledge that it was love that guided each caress, each kiss.
Lying in Luc’s bed, wrapped in his arms, her body sated in ways she had not thought possible, as their heartbeats calmed, Gillian knew that she could not postpone telling him about the note much longer. But not yet, she thought. Just not quite yet.
Behind her joy, thoughts of the note were never far from her mind. After Luc left her room that afternoon, she’d extracted the brooch, note and vowel from beneath her bed and stuffed them in the back of a drawer, wishing she never had to think about them ever again. But she did. Just not yet, she bargained with herself, hoarding the sweetness of the moment. Not yet.
She tried to recapture her happier mood, but failed. The note and Cornelia’s private meeting with Luc bedeviling her, she wiggled around, unable to sleep.
Aware of her restlessness, Luc glanced over at her and asked, “What is it?” Her hand lay on his naked chest, and he picked it up and pressed a kiss to the tips of her fingers. “What keeps you awake, m’amie?”
Gillian stilled. Tell him. Now. She hesitated, wondering how to begin. Perhaps his conversation with Cornelia would give her an opening? Without thinking she blurted out, “What did you and Cornelia talk about this afternoon?”
In the darkness she couldn’t see his features, but she felt his body stiffen, and mixed with guilt from the past, the note, all her anxieties and fears rushed back. But he loves me, she reminded herself. Whatever Cornelia had told him, it hadn’t, couldn’t have anything to do with what they felt for each other. She was being silly—and nosy. But as the seconds passed and Luc continued to lie stiff and silent beside her, her doubts grew.
After what seemed an age, he said flatly, “It was a private matter.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to call them back. It was a private matter, but she was at the center of that private matter. I should tell her, he thought wearily, but wanting her to tell him herself had taken on paramount importance. He couldn’t explain his reasons, but he suspected that not telling her had to do with knowing that when she trusted him, trusted him without reservation, she would speak of that night. Until then, he would love her and hope that the day would come when there were no longer any secrets between them.
“Of course, I understand,” Gillian said from beside him, hurt and angry by his short answer. Any notion of sharing with him the contents of the note vanished. She forced a yawn. “My goodness, I’m sleepier than I realized.”
Luc knew he’d made a misstep. “Gillian, I didn’t—”
“Well, I’m for sleep,” she interrupted brightly. Yawning again, she said, “Good night.” And turned her back on him.
Luc stared impotently into the darkness. He’d handled that badly, and he didn’t blame h
er for being annoyed with him. He sighed. Was he being unreasonable for wanting her to tell him herself? A week, he decided. I’ll wait a week and if she has not spoken of what happened at the duke’s hunting lodge that night by then, I will tell her what Cornelia related to me.
Despite their best intentions, the next morning, breakfast was a strained affair between the newlyweds. Luc escaped to his office as soon as he could and was relieved when a note from Barnaby arrived at Ramstone a few hours later. Folding the note and placing it in his vest pocket, Luc had gone in search of Gillian. He found her and Mrs. Marsh, the housekeeper, busy mending linens in a small, cozy room on the second floor near the back the house. Luc dropped a kiss on Gillian’s cheek and murmured, “Barnaby has some things he’d like to discuss with me. I should be back no later than midafternoon.”
She gave him a clear-eyed look. “More private matters?”
Luc had the grace to look uncomfortable. “My dear, I, ah—”
Just as she had last night, she interrupted him, saying, “No matter—I intend to drive into the village to the draper’s shop this afternoon. Emily mentioned yesterday that Mrs. Webber, she used to be a fine needlewoman, and her sister, Mrs. Grant, opened the shop only a few months ago. Emily says they have a nice selection of fabrics.” She flashed him a smile and added carelessly, “Don’t worry if I run late—you know how it is when women shop.”
Luc trusted neither her smile nor her words, but he could not say why. He wouldn’t say that she was sulking over his refusal to discuss his meeting with Cornelia, but she had certainly put a distance between them. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but he was aware that he probably had with his blunt reply last night. His lips quirked. He wasn’t exactly being open and honest with her either, yet he expected her to trust him? He snorted. Perhaps, he thought, as he rode toward Windmere, a week was too long to wait to explain about Cornelia and his meeting with her.
Shown into Barnaby’s study, Luc wasn’t surprised to find Lamb, Mathew and Simon already there ahead of him. After offering Luc some punch and seeing him settled like the others around the fire, Barnaby said, “Hugh and the others left this morning for Parkham House. I didn’t want to call a meeting between us until they were out of the house.” He grimaced. “Hugh is too clever by half, and though there was no love lost between the brothers, I’d just as soon he not learn that Jeffery was so closely aligned with Nolles that he gave our smuggler leader free rein at The Birches.”
Luc nodded. After taking a sip of the hot punch, Luc said, “The new moon is tonight, and I’ve noticed the past day or so that the barometer has dropped. Even after yesterday’s rain it’s still falling, storm coming in.”
“No moon and a storm,” observed Lamb. “A perfect set of circumstances for the smugglers.”
Barnaby rubbed his chin. “I’m thinking it’s time that we bring in our Preventive Officer, Lieutenant Deering.”
Over his cup of punch, Mathew regarded him. “Why now?”
“My wife’s cousin is dead and her former home is presently no longer holding smuggled goods. She won’t have to bear the shame of having the world know just what a bounder Jeffery was or that he was storing contraband in her old home.”
“How do you know that?” Luc objected. “It’s true the cellars are cleared out now, but that may have been in anticipation of the arrival of new contraband. This time tomorrow the place could be bursting with smuggled goods.”
Barnaby smiled and nodded toward Simon. “For the past several days, The Birches’ new owner, along with several servants borrowed from Windmere, have been staying in the place to drive home the point to Nolles that things have changed. Drastically. Even if Nolles thought to continue to use the cellars, with Simon and a half-dozen servants bustling about the residence, he’d have to abandon that plan.”
“So what is our plan?” Luc asked, frowning.
Barnaby sighed. “I shall have a talk with Deering. Alert him to the fact that we believe that Nolles and his gang are expecting a shipment from France any day.”
“And what,” inquired Mathew dryly, “causes you to believe that? No matter what sort of a friendly relationship you have with him, Deering’s not going to simply take you at your word.” He took a long swallow of his punch. A challenge in his gaze, over the rim of his cup, he stared hard at Barnaby. “You may have been able to bamboozle him with that neat and tidy tale of Tom being shot by smugglers, but don’t you think Deering will get suspicious about your intimate knowledge of the comings and goings of a smuggler’s gang? He may be young, but he is honest and intelligent.”
Luc grimaced. “Mathew’s right. How would you know with any certainty that Nolles is preparing for a new shipment? You can’t mention Townsend’s part or the use of The Birches, so what does that leave you with?” Luc grinned. “Intuition?”
“Don’t forget his glib tongue,” Lamb offered, smiling. “Don’t forget, Barnaby was able to get us over some heavy ground with Deering earlier in the year. But unless we have some information that comes from other than Barnaby’s ‘suspicions’ of a run by Nolles, I don’t see how we can bring Deering into the situation.”
Barnaby glanced at Simon and cocked a brow. Simon shook his head. “No. I’ve heard nothing. Of course, I didn’t go to The Ram’s Head for a few nights following Townsend’s death, so there is no telling if something significant occurred. Certainly, beyond expressing false sadness over Townsend’s death, nothing was said last night in my hearing to make me think that a landing is in the offing.”
A scowl marring his handsome features, Barnaby stared into his cup of punch. “Blast it! Nolles must be expecting a shipment, but we have no way of passing that information on to Deering.”
“Or where he will store the goods when landed before transporting them to London,” Lamb muttered.
“Vraiment? You have been unable to find out anything about a new hiding place?” Luc asked.
“It’s not something I can ask outright,” Lamb replied. “Remember, the villagers aren’t opposed to smuggling—not when half of them earn much of their money from the trade and the other half have relatives connected to the smuggling. Add to that they’re a closemouthed bunch, and even though I’ve lived here for a year, I am, after all, to most of them an outsider.”
“If Nolles does have somewhere else to hide his goods, what about Stanton’s place, Woodhurst?” Simon queried. “It’s inland a little farther than The Birches, and if Stanton is one of the investors, why not use it?”
“I should have thought of it myself,” Lamb said. “You stayed there a few nights; what do you know of the place?”
“Not a great deal, but there is only a pair of servants, a man and wife, the Archers. Cornelia knows of them and says their reputation is unsavory,” Simon replied. A look crossed his face. “They’re reputed to be friends of Nolles’s.”
“Anything else?” asked Lamb, sitting forward in his chair.
Simon hunched a shoulder. “Woodhurst is about five miles from the village and sits in the middle of a woodland park. Stanton mentioned that there’s around a hundred and twenty acres with the place.” Looking thoughtful, he added, “It is isolated, now that I think about it. There are no near neighbors.”
“Cellars?” asked Barnaby.
“That I can’t tell you. I was foxed most of the time I stayed there and really only saw a few rooms.” He frowned. “Stanton treats the place like a temporary camp of some sort. I don’t believe he will be spending much time there.”
“Stanton is not known for his love of, er, pastoral charms,” murmured Mathew. “His milieu is London and the hells and whorehouses that abound.”
Rising to his impressive height, Lamb said, “Since there is nothing else in the offing, I think I shall ride over to Woodhurst this afternoon and see what I can spy.”
“I’m going with you,” said Mathew.
Everyone looked at him, surprised. Mathew scowled and muttered, “I’ve been at Windmere nearly a fortnight and have done nothin
g but partake of Barnaby’s hospitality—which wasn’t the reason I came here in the first place.” He shot Simon a look. “I know that you were behind the invitation that brought me here and that Barnaby provided the bait—a chance to get at Nolles.” His mouth tightened. “As I said, I’ve done nothing these past few weeks. Accompanying Lamb will at least give me the feeling that I am doing something to bring about Nolles’s downfall.”
Lamb wasn’t happy about having Mathew following at his heels like a puppy, but a glance from Barnaby stilled the objections on his tongue. With something less than enthusiasm, Lamb said, “There’s no need for us to hurry away—at this hour Stanton and Padgett are probably still sleeping off last night’s overindulgence.” He looked to Simon for confirmation.
Simon frowned. “Perhaps not.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It’s nearly noon, and while they have no set routine when I stayed there, they were usually up and riding to The Ram’s Head for breakfast at this hour. The, ah, comforts of Woodhurst and service of the Archers provide little incentive to linger.”
“Very well,” Lamb said. Slapping his knees, he stood up. His gaze on Mathew, he asked, “Shall I have our horses saddled?”
With a spark in his eyes that had been missing for a long time, Mathew nodded.
Gillian never considered that a female had written the note, but one thing was certain, a female would have known how difficult it was for a respectable woman of the upper class to go anywhere alone ... and without anyone knowing her destination. Her comment to Luc about visiting the draper’s shop had been brilliant. Since she’d woken that morning, she’d been anxiously thinking why she needed to go to the village, knowing her errand had to be something she couldn’t send a servant to handle. A visit to the draper’s shop to select fabrics for the house settled that problem.
Of course, it was unthinkable that she ordered a horse saddled and rode into the village alone: the rain banished the idea of riding anyway—which meant she had to use a vehicle. One she could drive herself, and the rain made an open vehicle out of the question. While it wasn’t ideal, the hooded gig in the stables fitted her purpose. She still had the problem of having an escort to solve, and her choices came down to Mrs. Marsh or Nan. The choice was easy: Mrs. Marsh.
Desire Becomes Her Page 34
