Desire Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Gillian grimaced. Nan knew her too well and with the familiarity of a longtime servant, Nan wouldn’t hesitate to question what her mistress was about. With Mrs. Marsh such was not the case. In the short time of her marriage to Luc, she and the housekeeper had established a cordial relationship, but Mrs. Marsh didn’t know her. A bit in awe of the new mistress, Mrs. Marsh would follow orders and not object or argue with her when she left her at the draper’s shop—as Nan would.

  As the hour grew near for their departure for the village, Gillian’s greatest fear was that Luc would return and insist upon escorting her. Finally seated in the hooded gig, the brooch nestled inside her velvet and ribbon reticule lying on the seat between her and Mrs. Marsh, Gillian urged the horse forward. Sweeping out of the lane that led to Ramstone, she glanced in the direction that Luc would take on his way home from Windmere and her heart jumped when through the rain, she spied a lone rider in the distance. Praying it wasn’t Luc and that if it was she’d be far enough ahead of him to make the idea of following her dubious, she headed the horse in the opposite direction of the rider and drove toward the village. And a meeting that hopefully would finally put Charles’s wretched vowels in her hands.

  As the horse sloshed down the road toward the village, the rain fell harder, turning the road muddy and making travel cold and uncomfortable—even with a warmed brick at her feet and a heavy wool blanket across her knees. The days were short in early December, and Gillian was uneasy about the hour of the meeting—sunset. Wandering around searching for an abandoned fisherman’s cottage in gathering darkness was not something she was looking forward to. The rain and the possibility of a storm blowing ashore didn’t make the prospect any more appealing.

  Her mind only half on the fabric samples before her, Gillian glanced out the chintz-hung window of the cozy shop, aware of the passing minutes and the creeping gloom brought on as much by the rain as the lateness of hour. How long, she wondered, as she nodded and exclaimed over the samples in front of her, before she could make an excuse and leave?

  Occasionally, Gillian asked Mrs. Marsh’s opinion about a particular sample, but in her mind a clock was ticking away, aware of time passing second by second, minute by minute... . She felt guilty using Mrs. Webber’s service to hide the real reason she had come to the village, but once she’d seen the selection offered by the old woman, she soothed her conscience, knowing she’d be making some handsome purchases. The selection was impressive, and Gillian had already decided that the mulberry velvet with a cream strip made into drapes would look stunning in the main salon at Ramstone and the burgundy and gold-flecked damask would be perfect for Luc’s bedroom.

  A look at the painted china clock on an old bombe chest in the corner of the room told Gillian that she could not linger longer. Rising to her feet, she said to Mrs. Webber, “If you’ll excuse me, I have an errand to run.” Smiling she added, “I’ll leave Mrs. Marsh here to continue to look at your excellent samples, and she can discuss with you the amount of the mulberry velvet and burgundy damask we’ll need. I shouldn’t be gone very long.” Clutching her reticule, Gillian turned away, opened the door to the shop and made her escape.

  Chapter 21

  Climbing into the gig, Gillian clucked at the horse and drove down the street toward the Coast Road, her mouth dry with fear and her stomach in knots. She glanced at the reticule beside her on the seat and, grabbing it, shoved it to the floor and beneath the blanket. What she was doing was full of risk, perhaps even foolish, she admitted, but she had no intention of skipping into the fisherman’s cottage and simply producing the brooch. At least, she reminded herself, I wasn’t completely stupid. I did leave a note for Luc in case... .

  Tendrils of fright coursed through her when she considered the “in case.” All the horrifying things that could happen to her—murder, rape or abduction—had crossed her mind more than once, and because she wasn’t entirely foolish, she’d written a letter to Luc, enclosing the note she’d received along with Charles’s vowel. Though determined to handle this alone and hopefully return home without incident, the idea of traipsing off and meeting a stranger in a secluded place with not one person knowing where she had gone made no sense to her. If she did not return home by seven o’clock, Nan was to give her letter to Luc.

  Nan’s eyes narrowed when Gillian handed her the letter and explained what she wanted. Seeing the barrage of questions forming on Nan’s lips, Gillian begged, “Just do as I ask, Nan. Please.” Nan hadn’t liked it, but she’d nodded, and Gillian took comfort knowing that if she did not return by seven o’clock that once he’d read the note, Luc would be looking for her.

  Gillian bit her lip. Mrs. Marsh would raise the alarm before then, she thought with a mixture of dread and relief. If she didn’t return to Mrs. Webber’s drapery shop within the hour, or less, inquiries would be made and word would spread through the village. She groaned. There was no time to waste.

  A stiff wind was blowing, and peering through the sheets of rain, she almost missed the cottage. Seeing it, a forlorn and shabby bundle of wattle and stone near the edge of a cliff in the distance, she drove cautiously forward. Leaving the road, she halted the horse in front of the building and stepped down from the vehicle, leaving her reticule with the brooch inside it concealed under the blanket on the floor.

  Keeping the reins in her hand, she stood there indecisively, the wind howling and plucking at her pelisse, the rain lashing with growing ferocity against her. Even to escape the nasty weather, the last thing she wanted was to enter that beastly little hovel, but if there was any chance of retrieving Charles’s vowels, she had no choice. After fastening the reins around a stump of driftwood, she resolutely faced the cottage.

  It appeared deserted, and she wondered if the writer of the note had decided not to meet her after all. Reluctance in every step, she walked to the gaping door of the cottage. She hesitated, and staring at the yawning black opening before her, her instinct warned her of danger.

  Except the danger didn’t come from inside the cottage. The storm hid the man’s approach, and Gillian’s first warning was when her horse threw up its head and shied and snorted. She spun around just as a bulky figure bore down on her.

  Gillian had no time to react; a coarse blanket was thrown over her, and trapped in its thick folds, it took but a moment for the man to grab her and prevent escape. She fought wildly, terror galvanizing her, arms and legs flailing in all directions. She kicked and clawed, but engulfed in the blanket, her struggles failed.

  “Be still, you tiresome bitch,” growled a voice in her ear, “or I may strangle you and throw your body over the cliffs.”

  Recognizing the voice, ice spurted in her veins. Stanton. She wasn’t surprised, but if she had been frightened before, remembering his dark, heavy features, his cold, empty eyes, her fright doubled. Never doubting that he’d do as he said, she froze.

  “That’s better,” he said. Shoving her forward, she half-stumbled, half-fell in the direction of the cottage. Unable to see and fueled by momentum, she hit the rear wall with a loud thump. She slammed hard into the wall, and a cry broke from her. Dazed, she fought to get her bearings, but hearing movements behind her, she spun around; the last thing she wanted was Stanton at her back.

  Her spine against the wall, trapped in the suffocating folds of the blanket, Gillian heard rustling sounds, the clink of metal and then a faint glow appeared under the blanket near her feet. A lantern?

  Hard hands grasped her shoulders and shook her. “Where is it?” Stanton demanded.

  Pushing aside her terror, Gillian frantically considered her next move. He shook her again, rattling her teeth. “I don’t have it with me,” she prevaricated desperately.

  Stanton cursed viciously and to her shame, she cowered away.

  “Don’t play with me! Where is it? You were to bring it with you.”

  “I, uh, I wanted to m-m-make certain you were going to d-d-deal honestly with me before I brought the b-b-brooch,” she lied, hating
the quaver in her voice. Gaining courage, she asked brazenly, “How do I know you have the vowels? How do I know you won’t give me one or two in exchange for the brooch and then come back and want something more for the rest? It didn’t s-s-seem wise to bring it with me today.”

  “You’re lying,” guessed Stanton. “I’ll wager you have it on you... .” An ugly laugh came from him. “If I have to strip you bare as the day you were born to find it, I shall do so.”

  She sensed him moving toward her and she stumbled back. “Wait!” she cried and struggled free of the blanket.

  In the wavering light of a small lantern set on a rickety table, she faced Stanton. “Show me the vowels, and if I am satisfied, I will give you the brooch,” she said with more bravado than confidence.

  Stanton’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t bring them with me.”

  Her heart sank and she muttered, “You didn’t trust me any more than I trusted you.”

  “Who the devil cares whether you trust me or not,” Stanton snarled. “I want that bloody brooch.”

  Gillian thrust her chin forward. “And I want those vowels. All of them.”

  “If you don’t give me that damned brooch right now, I’ll have you peeled out of your clothes before a cat can lick its ear.” He smiled nastily. “Then we’ll see if you’re telling the truth or not.”

  The thought of his hands on her, ripping her clothes from her body, added to her terror, and throwing out a warning hand as he stepped forward, she cried, “Stop!” Relieved when he stopped, she said hastily, “I don’t have it on me, but I can get it in ... in a matter of minutes.” Sticking to her position she muttered, “But I insist upon seeing the vowels.”

  This wasn’t how Stanton had intended their meeting to progress, and frustration ate at him. He didn’t want to believe that she didn’t have the brooch on her, but he couldn’t take the chance that she was telling the truth. Wasting time stripping her down to determine for himself the truth of the matter hadn’t been part of his plan. Her assertion that the brooch was nearby, or at least someplace not far away, gave him hope that he still might walk away with the brooch.

  Stanton had no intention of allowing her to leave here with the vowels, let alone alive. But he had brought the vowels with him, figuring at some point, he’d have to show them to her. His plan was simple, and Townsend’s suicide had given him the idea. Along with the vowels, in his vest pocket was a folded sheet of paper and in the pocket of his greatcoat rested a quill and a small bottle of ink. The bitch was going to write a farewell note to her husband, a note that would be delivered to Ramstone by a street urchin several hours from now. Her body would be found over the cliffs and that would be that. Marry in haste, repent in leisure; the new Mrs. Joslyn had been overcome with repentance and taken her own life. Tidy and simple. His hands closed into fists. But first he needed the brooch.

  He studied her small form in the faint light of the lantern, wondering whether she was telling the truth or not. Torture was easy enough, but he didn’t think he had the time to waste. He hadn’t missed the speculative glint in St. John’s eye when he’d shoved away from the table at The Ram’s Head. Blast him! St. John wasn’t above questioning what he’d been about when he returned, and the longer he was gone from the tavern, the more questions that arrogant bastard would have.

  Stanton was wise to worry about St. John. Giving Stanton a few minutes’ head start, St. John followed him from the tavern. The rain and deepening gloom simplified the task of tracking Stanton’s movements as the other man rode out of the village toward the coast. From a distance he watched as Stanton guided his horse down a narrow draw, dismounted and tied the animal to a piece of brush. When Stanton removed a folded bundle and took it with him when he clambered up the draw, St. John wondered if he was on a fool’s errand.

  St. John glanced through the rain at the barren landscape, the sound of the surf crashing against the cliffs echoing through the draw. Beyond the decrepit hut fifty yards or so in the distance, he could see nothing that would induce Stanton to leave the comforts of the tavern. Stanton wasn’t in the petticoat line, and St. John had trouble believing that it was a woman that had prompted his desertion of The Ram’s Head. So why was Stanton here, creeping toward the small building? He had nothing to go on but suspicion and instinct—that and the fact that Stanton had been by turns boisterous and surly all afternoon, fidgeting in his chair until finally Padgett had asked him if something was wrong. Stanton glared at Padgett, snapped a denial and then a few minutes later mumbled an excuse and barged out of the tavern.

  Unlike Stanton, St. John double-checked that no one followed him and once Stanton reached the hut, he dismounted and secured his horse near the entrance of the draw. Like a wraith St. John drifted through the rain, his keen eyes fastened on Stanton’s dark form at the rear of the cottage.

  Because of the weather, most sensible folk were inside by the fire, and the sight of a hooded gig traveling slowly toward the front of the hut made St. John’s brow rise. So Stanton was meeting someone, but whom? And why such secrecy? When Stanton disappeared around the side of the building, St. John risked climbing out of the draw. There was no place of concealment and shrugging, he hurried toward the cottage, hoping the rain would give him cover and that Stanton would be too preoccupied to notice him.

  Seconds later, pressed against the frail walls of the abandoned building, St. John was startled at the sound of an object hitting the wall and a woman’s cry. Even above the wind and rain, he heard Stanton’s voice and that of the woman. His heart pounded with thick, savage strokes as he realized what he was hearing. He wouldn’t have recognized Gillian’s voice, but from the exchange between Stanton and the woman, the topic, he knew it had to be her. His hand closed into a fist as the knowledge that he had been right crashed through him. He smiled fiercely; he knew why that brooch was so important to Stanton... . Reaching into the pocket of his greatcoat he withdrew a pistol and slid around to the side of the cottage, edging toward the front. He’d waited for over two long years for this moment. Vengeance would be his before many minutes passed... .

  Intent upon what was happening inside the cottage, St. John almost missed the arrival of the horseman who rode up and stopped his horse beside the hooded gig. It was the clink of the bridle as the man dismounted that alerted him to the newcomer.

  Knowing it was Gillian Joslyn inside the hut allowed St. John to identify the tall figure that swung out of the saddle. Luc Joslyn. Just what he needed—a jealous husband, come in search of an erring wife. Torn between a curse and a laugh, St. John hesitated, uncertain what to do next. Show himself and pray he could wave Joslyn over without giving away their presence to those inside the cottage? Or let events play out with no help from him?

  Luc had been the horseman Gillian had spied as she’d turned onto the main road. Seeing the hooded gig come onto the main road from Ramstone’s drive, Luc had known it was his wife. More on a whim than any other reason, he’d kicked his horse into a gallop and continued toward the village. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to Mrs. Gilbert and learn what gossip she’d heard about a possible run by Nolles and that was excuse enough for his actions. After all, he’d told himself, with no sweet wife waiting for him, returning to Ramstone didn’t hold the appeal it would have if Gillian had been there to greet him.

  Having the intention to escort her back to Ramstone when she finished at the draper’s shop, Luc had not lingered long at The Crown. Mrs. Gilbert’s news had been disappointing in that she’d heard not a whisper of Nolles’s plans. “No one has said a thing,” she complained as she served Luc a tankard of ale. “Most of the talk has been about the squire’s death and speculation about having Mr. Simon Joslyn living at The Birches.” She’d shook her head. “Not a breath about Nolles or what he might be up to.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “There has been some curiosity about the fine gentlemen from London that have been frequenting Nolles’s place, though. Broadhaven isn’t exactly Brighton, and people are wondering why they’re here. We
’re a fishing village used to the ways of our local gentry to be sure, but not the likes of them. Drunkards, gamblers and womanizers the lot of them. The feeling is that Mr. Stanton’s inheritance of his great-grandmother’s place isn’t necessarily a good thing.” Luc shrugged and, leaving his ale half-finished, said his farewell and headed outside. Mounting his horse, he turned the animal in the direction of the draper’s shop.

  Luc was over a block away when he spied Gillian’s small form dashing out of the draper’s shop and entering the gig. He’d thought to hail her, but decided between the wind and the rain she wouldn’t have heard him anyway. Expecting her to turn around to drive back to Ramstone, he’d halted his horse to wait for her. To his confusion, she drove off in the opposite direction. Another errand?

  More mystified than suspicious, Luc trailed behind her, wishing she’d chosen a more agreeable day to discharge what had to be minor duties—or left it to the servants. His greatcoat and boots kept him warm and dry, but he wouldn’t deny he was looking forward to sitting by his own fire and enjoying a brandy ... with his wife in his lap. If she didn’t accomplish her tasks soon, they’d be riding home in the dark. And the rain.

  He didn’t consciously hang back, but once she left the village and it was obvious she wasn’t doing any shopping, he found himself allowing the distance between them to lengthen. There wasn’t, he argued, any need to catch up with her. Let her take care of her business and then he’d make his presence known in time to escort her home.

  When she’d turned onto the Coast Road he’d been even more puzzled, knowing only a few fishermen lived out this way. What the devil?