Rapture Becomes Her (26 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Rapture Becomes Her
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Keeping her face averted, she pulled what remained of her gown tighter around her. “I
do
owe you,” she insisted. “If not for you, he would have raped me.” Her gaze lifted. “Thank you—you saved not only my honor, but perhaps my life.”
“I think we’re even,” Barnaby said quietly. “Your Jeb saved me and now I have done nothing more than return the favor.”
Emily started to argue the point, but decided it would be a poor way of showing her thankfulness. She forced a smile. “If you say so, but you will always have my deepest and most heartfelt gratitude.”
Almost as if he had not heard her, his fingers gently skimmed the purple bruise he’d noticed earlier and he asked, “Did he do that?”
She nodded.
The black eyes hardened. “Then it’s a good thing I killed him, isn’t it?”
“I’m sure it’s wicked of me,” Emily admitted, “but I cannot help be glad that he is dead. He was a terrible man.” Thinking back over those tense moments before he had killed Ainsworth, she frowned. “Why did you wait? Why didn’t you attack him the instant you entered the room?”
When he made no reply, she didn’t think he would answer her and he seemed far more interested in wrapping her in the sheet he ripped from the bed. Once she was swaddled in the concealing sheet, as if she was a featherweight, he swung her up into his arms.
Turning on his heel, with her cradled securely against him, he walked toward the door and it was then that he answered her. “Ainsworth spouted a great deal of nonsense, but he was right about Americans having some odd habits,” he said evenly. “And one of those odd habits is a strong aversion to killing an unarmed man—I had to wait until he went for a weapon.”
“But how did you know he had a weapon?” she asked, astonished.
Barnaby smiled and dropped the briefest kiss on her nose. “He was a snake, my love, and all snakes have fangs—I just had to wait for him to show them.”
Chapter 14
B
arnaby carried Emily swiftly through the darkened house. Reaching his horse, he tossed her lightly into the saddle. Leading the horse and heading toward the back of the house, he said, “Now let’s find Lamb and discover what he has been up to.”
When they arrived at the rear of the house, there was no sign of Lamb, but in the deepening darkness, Barnaby spied Lamb’s horse tied in front of the old barn and a sliver of light peeking out from beneath the heavy doors. Motioning Emily for silence and handing her the reins, Barnaby crept to the barn.
He disliked leaving Emily alone, but he would have disliked her seeing her cousin’s corpse even more. She’d seen enough violence tonight. Barnaby didn’t regret killing Ainsworth; his only regret was that Emily had had to see it and he didn’t want her to see another dead man, especially not one who was related to her.
Ear against the thick wooden doors, he listened a moment, frowning when all he heard was the sound of a man sobbing. Not Lamb.
Gingerly he opened the door and looked inside the building. A lantern hung from the center beam, illuminating the scene. His arms folded across his chest, Lamb leaned negligently against a post near the middle of the barn; slumped on the floor across from him was Jeffery . . . a Jeffery still alive. There was no sign of blood, but Jeffery was sniveling and wiping ineffectively at his nose.
Stepping into the barn, Barnaby asked, “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing,” Lamb said disgustedly, glancing at Barnaby. “Is she all right?”
Barnaby nodded. “Shaken at the moment, but I expect she’ll be her usual fractious adorable self by this time tomorrow.”
“Ainsworth?”
“Dead,” he said flatly.
Jeffery jerked around to gape at him. “You k-k-killed Ainsworth?”
“He’s dead,” Barnaby said in that same flat tone.
Jeffery sat up straighter, his tears drying. “And Emily? She’s . . . safe?” He swallowed. “He didn’t . . . ?”
“Let’s worry about you and your part in this, shall we?” Barnaby replied, puzzled by Jeffery’s continued existence. Why hadn’t Lamb killed him?
“Me!” Jeffery said astonished. “I didn’t do anything.” Scrambling to his feet, he said earnestly, “This is all Ainsworth’s doing. He
made
me help him. You must believe me!”
Barnaby looked at Lamb and Lamb shrugged. His gaze once more on Jeffery, Barnaby asked with morbid fascination, “If you had nothing to do with the abduction, why are you here?”
Jeffery tugged at his already disheveled cravat, his eyes sliding away from Barnaby’s. “I’ll not deny that I knew what he planned, but I could not stop him—he would have killed me, just like he did Kelsey.”
“Kelsey? The fellow that ran Emily and Anne off the road that night?” Barnaby demanded sharply.
Jeffery nodded. “Yes. Kelsey knew we were, er, meeting here and he’d learned from that doxy of his that Anne had gone to visit my mother. He came to tell Ainsworth and extort money from him.” Looking sick, he added, “Ainsworth paid him and then killed him—and forced me to bury Kelsey’s body behind the stables.”
“You want me to believe that your only part in this is that you helped conceal a murder and stood by helpless when he abducted your cousin? That you’re as much a victim as Emily?” Barnaby growled, disgust and fury roiling through him. It took all his willpower not to leap on Jeffery and beat him into a pile of blood and bone.
Jeffery started weeping again and wiped at his nose. Hanging his head, he muttered, “I’m sorry. So sorry. I know I should have done something, but I swear he would have killed me.”
“You sniveling coward,” Barnaby snarled, and rage getting the better of him, he took a step nearer, the thirst for blood strong. “Rather than lift a finger to help her or tell others what was planned, you stood by and would have allowed Emily to be raped.”
“Oh, it’s better than that,” Lamb said idly, calming some of Barnaby’s rage. Lamb’s icy blue eyes on Jeffery, he commanded, “Tell him why you’re here hiding.”
Jeffery risked a glance at Barnaby and flinched at what he saw in the other man’s face. His voice barely above a whisper, he said, “Ainsworth likes . . . liked to hurt his women and I couldn’t bear to stay in the house and hear her scream and cry for help, so I, uh, stayed out here.”
“While his cousin is being subjected to a brutal rape, her charming relative hides in the stable, crying and feeling sorry for himself,” Lamb commented without inflection. Straightening up from his position, he added, “He wants killing, but he’s so pitiful and disgusting, I couldn’t bring myself to touch him.”
Revolted by Jeffery’s actions, in spite of his rage, Barnaby could only agree with Lamb. It would have given him satisfaction to kill Jeffery, but the man was such a self-serving weakling that he could hardly bear to breathe the same air, let alone touch him. Emily was safe, he reminded himself, and because of that his fists unclenched and he swung away from Jeffery. Fighting down the revulsion that clogged his throat every time he thought of Jeffery cowering in the barn, leaving Emily to Ainsworth’s attentions, Barnaby muttered to Lamb, “We’d best be on our way. Cornelia will be worried, and the sooner I have Emily at Windmere, the better I shall feel.”
“But—but—what about me?” cried Jeffery, stumbling forward a few steps. “And what about Ainsworth’s body?”
Barnaby flashed him a cold stare. “You seem to be able to dispose of bodies when it suits you—I suggest you take care of it.”
“But
you
killed him!” Jeffery protested. “I didn’t. I didn’t have anything to do with his murder.”
“And who says I did?” Barnaby purred. “As far as anyone is concerned, I was never here. Nor was Emily or Lamb.” He smiled, his teeth bared. “I’m sure that your great-aunt and any number of other people will be willing to attest to the fact that we, none of us, ever left The Birches. While you . . . well, everyone knows that you’ve been gone all day with your good friend Ainsworth. . . .”
Leaving Jeffery gaping at him, thinking of Emily waiting for him, Barnaby stalked swiftly from the barn, Lamb following him. Shoving the door open, he nearly knocked down Emily.
Emily had been in the act of opening the door from the opposite side when he came storming out of the building. Catching her when she stumbled backward and noting the stout piece of wood she carried in one hand, he hid a smile. Spirited and resourceful, that was his woman. “What were you going to do?” he asked lightly. “Club him to death? Believe me, sweetheart, he isn’t worth wasting your time on.”
“I was coming to help you,” she said stiffly, “but it took me a few minutes to find a weapon.”
“We thank you, dear lady,” Lamb said diplomatically from behind Barnaby, “but your assistance is unnecessary this time.”
Emily sniffed, but dropped the improvised weapon and allowed Barnaby to escort her to his horse. Once they were mounted, Barnaby gulped in several breaths of fresh, clean air. “I don’t mean to offend you, my sweet,” he murmured into her ear, “but I’d prefer a night lost in a London sewer to spending any more time in the presence of your cousin.”
Emily couldn’t argue with that but she asked somberly, “Is he dead?”
Barnaby hesitated. He’d gone into the barn certain that if Lamb had not killed Jeffery that he would. “Will you be disappointed if I tell you we left him alive and feeling sorry for himself?”
Emily sighed and Barnaby felt the tenseness leave her body as she leaned more fully against him. “No,” she admitted. “He is a pitiful creature and I loathe him, but I do not want him dead . . . at least not by your hand.”
Barnaby dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Then it’s a good thing we left him alive, isn’t it? Besides, he serves a purpose—we left the disposal of Ainsworth’s body to him.”
Emily caught her breath, all of tonight’s events flooding over her. Full of remorse, she said in trembling tones, “I’ve made a terrible mess of everything, haven’t I? Everything that Cornelia feared would happen happened and I’ve brought shame and disgrace on her . . . and put you in an invidious position.” Head down, she muttered, “I shall say that I killed him. No one needs to know that you and Lamb were even here.”
Barnaby’s arm tightened around her slender waist. “You have it half right, sweetheart. No one knows that
any
of us were here tonight.”
She laughed bitterly. “And how do you explain my unexpected disappearance? And my return with you and Lamb?”
“You, my misguided darling, remembering one last thing you wanted to tell Jeb, hurried after him before he was out of sight. You took a shortcut through the woods, hoping to overtake him before he reached the main road.”
“That’s the most ridiculous tale I’ve ever heard,” she said acidly. Curiosity had her asking though, “How do you explain my torn gown and why I was gone so long?”
“In the gathering darkness you fell, ripping your gown and twisting your ankle, which made it difficult for you to walk back to the house. Lamb and I, having set out in a gallant search for you, found you seated on a downed tree.” He ended cheerfully, “And now we’re bringing you home.” When she remained silent, he added, “I think the twisted ankle is a nice touch, don’t you? Of course, you’ll have to limp for a few days but overall . . .”
“It might do,” she said after a thoughtful pause. “Jeffery isn’t going to want to reveal his part in what happened tonight. . . .” She tapped her lower lip with a finger. “Walker and the other servants will know otherwise, but they will say nothing.” She brightened. “And if Jeffery is foolish enough to say anything different, it is really our word against his, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” said Barnaby. “And who is going to believe that Viscount Joslyn, strange American though he is, and his manservant were involved in such sordid doings?”
For the first time since Jeffery and Ainsworth had burst out of the woods, Emily felt that last knot of anxiety loosen and disappear. Joslyn would bear no blame for tonight’s doings and Cornelia would be able to face her neighbors with her head held high: her great-niece had not brought shame on the family.
Her cheek pressed against his broad chest, Emily listened to the steady beat of Joslyn’s heart, gratitude, tangling with another powerful, confusing emotion in her breast. He saved me, she admitted drowsily, unconsciously snuggling deeper into his secure embrace. Just before sleep took her, the stray thought crossed her mind that it was just as well he hadn’t been serious about marrying her . . . although being married to him wouldn’t have been so
very
bad. . . .
 
The removal to Windmere was not without conflict. Once Emily was at home and everyone assured that all was well, her ruined gown changed and her hair combed, feeling more like herself, she argued that there was no longer any reason for them to seek sanctuary at Windmere. She lost the argument, Cornelia siding with Barnaby.
“Ainsworth may not threaten us any longer,” Cornelia agreed smoothly, “but I see no harm in accepting his lordship’s very kind offer of hospitality for a few days.” She beamed at Barnaby who lounged nearby. “We owe him a great deal and it seems a shabby thing to throw his generosity back in his face—all the more so when we are packed and the coach is waiting in the driveway.”
Emily eyed Cornelia and Joslyn suspiciously. They were, she decided, far too cozy with each other for her liking. After Cornelia had seen for herself that Emily was indeed unharmed, she had left her to the care of Sally and returned to the green salon to join Joslyn. Emily would have given a small fortune to know what they talked about while she had been absent, and she couldn’t shake the uneasy notion that she had been the topic of conversation. Still a bit shaky from her ordeal, in the face of Cornelia’s defection and the real debt of gratitude she owed Joslyn Emily capitulated.
 
Waking the next morning at Windmere in the impressive rose-and-ivory bedroom, for one terrible moment, not recognizing her surroundings, she lay there frozen with fear. Was Ainsworth going to walk through the door and pick up where he had left off last night?
Heart banging painfully in her chest, she jerked upright, her gaze traveling over the elegantly draped rose-figured ivory silk hung bed, the similarly hued rug on the floor and the gracious furnishings, and she realized suddenly that she was safe at Windmere. The home of Viscount Joslyn wasn’t exactly unknown to her, but her previous visits had only been as a casual guest of the previous viscount: she’d never stayed overnight at the magnificent house—or at the express invitation of the owner. Her heart rate slowing, Emily pushed back a heavy fall of silvery hair and, still slightly disoriented, wondered what the day would bring.
Cornelia had been in her element when they had arrived at Windmere last night and she had taken as her due the superior service of the various servants in green-and-wheat livery who had wafted them from the coach and into the mansion. Giving no sign that it was anything unusual for my lord to return home with two female neighbors as guests, Peckham, after removing their cloaks, had clapped his hands and ordered their trunks and bandboxes carried upstairs.
Barnaby took one look at Emily’s wan features and suggested that the ladies might wish to retire for the night. Smiling at the two women he said gently, “There is no need for you to socialize with my cousins tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

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