Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Vowing not to give him the enjoyment of watching her struggle, she did not try to escape his touch—it would have been useless anyway. Ignoring the gorge rising in her throat while he fondled her breast, beyond the loathing glittering in her eyes, she betrayed nothing. When he trailed a hand down her thigh it took all the willpower she possessed not to give him the satisfaction of flinching and trying to jerk away.

  His fingers returning to her breast, Ainsworth smiled. “Oh, lay there like a log if you wish, it matters not to me,” he said. Something ugly moved in the gray eyes. “Because you see, my lovely, I can make you move if I want to.” His fingers dug into her breast and in one swift movement he bent down and bit her nipple.

  Pain and shock roared through her and she arched upward, screaming.

  Outside in the hall, Emily’s scream cut through Barnaby like a rapier. Fury and fear spurring him, he sprang forward, tried the doorknob and finding it locked used his shoulder as a battering ram. He hit the door and, propelled by his powerful assault, the wood splintered and the door burst open, banging explosively against the interior wall.

  Barnaby charged into the room, the knife readied in his hand. It took him only a second to take in the scene, Emily’s spread-eagle body on the bed and Ainsworth in the dark blue robe standing beside her.

  At the sound of Barnaby’s shoulder against the door, Ainsworth had straightened, but his fingers were still on Emily’s breast and he stared at Barnaby in openmouthed astonishment. His gaze dropped to the knife and his hand slid away.

  After that first, frantic glance at Emily, Barnaby halted a few feet from the bottom of the bed and kept his attention solely on Ainsworth. Grim-faced, the two men regarded each other across the small room, violence swirling in the air between them.

  Despite the desperate situation, Ainsworth thought of a ploy that might save his life and allow him to snatch victory from defeat. Joslyn was making no attempt to attack him and gambling he could still turn this around in his favor and drive away the other man, brazenly, Ainsworth drawled, “I’m afraid you’re too late.” He smiled. “The deed is done. She is mine.”

  “He lies!” shouted Emily, straining against the bonds that held her, fury at Ainsworth replacing the sweet relief that had coursed through her when Joslyn had crashed into the room. Fixated on each other, neither man paid her any heed and desperately she cried, “He lies, I tell you! He is a lying serpent!”

  His cold eyes watchful, Ainsworth said, “Well, of course, she would say that.” Barnaby only stared at him with a predator’s unblinking stare and Ainsworth added, “I’m sure she’d prefer a viscount to a mere mister, and your fortune to mine, but she’ll have to settle for being plain Mrs. Ainsworth and be happy with what I can provide.”

  “I think not,” said Barnaby softly. “When she leaves here tonight with me, it will be as my affianced bride.”

  Ainsworth nearly choked on the fury that spiraled up through him. To have come this close and failed. It was intolerable ! His gaze strayed a second to his clothes on the chair just a few feet away. He carried a small pistol cunningly concealed in his jacket pocket, and if he could reach it . . . Sidling nearer the chair, he said indifferently, “The choice is yours . . . if you want another man’s leavings.”

  “I don’t believe you—and even if I did, it would make no difference,” Barnaby said coolly. “I mean to marry her.”

  Emily gaped at Barnaby. Joslyn wanted to marry her? Absurd! His outrageous statement had to be a ploy to throw Ainsworth off guard. Joslyn couldn’t want to marry her! Or could he? Heart thudding, her thoughts whirling, she could not tear her eyes away from that fierce, dark face.

  “I’d heard that Americans had some odd habits, but I didn’t realize that it included wedding damaged goods,” Ainsworth sneered, moving imperceptibly nearer his clothes and the pistol.

  Barnaby shrugged, not betraying by so much as a flicker of an eyelash the rage that coiled inside of him. His gaze fixed on Ainsworth, he waited with a skillful hunter’s patience for the other man’s next move.

  Emily was bewildered by Joslyn’s imperviousness to Ainsworth’s taunts. Why didn’t he do something? Ainsworth was unarmed and Joslyn had the knife. Why didn’t he use it? She studied him, noting for the first time the vigilant yet apparently relaxed stance. He appeared in no hurry to strike, but there was no doubt in her mind that he had every intention of killing Ainsworth. Why the delay? Slowly it dawned on her that he was holding back for a reason, that he was enduring Ainsworth’s taunts and deliberately allowing Ainsworth time.... But time for what? Why didn’t he kill the bastard?

  Like Emily, Ainsworth wondered why Barnaby had not gutted him in an instant—if positions were reversed, he would have . . . and enjoyed it. An Englishman, he thought contemptuously, wouldn’t have hesitated—or endured the insults he had thrown at him. Convinced Joslyn was no danger to him, Ainsworth edged toward the chair. His leg brushed the edge of the chair and satisfaction flooded him. The pistol was inches away. . . .

  Disdainfully, Ainsworth presented his back to Barnaby and reaching casually for his jacket, he said, “Since nothing I say appears able to dissuade you from this foolish course, I shall leave the pair of you to your fate.” His fingers found the pistol and with the weapon firmly in hand, he whirled around, expecting Joslyn to still be standing by the bottom of the bed.

  But Joslyn was no longer there. The instant Ainsworth turned his back, moving with the speed and grace of a hunting cat, Barnaby closed the distance between them and he was ready when Ainsworth swung around with the pistol in his hand. Only when Ainsworth faced him did he strike, and with one careless blow, Barnaby knocked the pistol from Ainsworth’s grasp and drove his knife deep into Ainsworth’s chest.

  With disbelief Ainsworth stared down at the knife protruding from his chest. His eyes wide and astonished, he sank to the floor, gasped and died.

  Barnaby’s face expressionless, he reached down and pulled the knife free. Wiping the blade clean on Ainsworth’s jacket, he turned around and stepping next to the bed, cut Emily free with swift, sure strokes.

  Emily had never considered herself a watering pot, but the moment she was free, she sprang up and, kneeling on the bed, flung her arms around Barnaby’s neck and burst into tears.

  One hand gently caressing the back of her head, the other wrapped possessively around her slender body, he held her near. “Shush, now,” he murmured. “Shhhh. I have you safe and you need never fear that craven again.”

  Once the first storm of weeping had passed, she lifted a tearstained face to his and asked, “How did you find me?”

  “I found your reticule and at a most opportune time,” he said, “Walker related to me the information Jeb had learned from Sam.” He brushed a damp curl back from her cheek. “Do you know, I think we shall have to do something rather magnificent for young Sam—he is the hero of the piece.”

  Emily didn’t deny the importance of Sam’s part in her rescue, but in her heart, this big, tough American would always be her hero. At the moment she had needed him most, like an avenging god, he’d burst into the room and saved her from a horrid fate. Burrowed next to him, his arm firmly around her waist, he felt so warm, so large and solid that she never wanted to leave the protection of that strong embrace.

  She sighed with pleasure and snuggled closer, the wool of his jacket scratching her bare breasts and belly. Suddenly aware that she was as good as naked and that she was clinging to him like a silly damsel in a Gothick novel, Emily froze. Her arms dropped from around his neck and, concentrating on her task, she dragged the remnants of her gown across the front of her body. Keeping her head down, she muttered, “I owe you more than I can say.” Remembering his stunning announcement that he intended to marry her, hoping to set his mind at ease, she added hurriedly, “And of course I understand that you weren’t serious about marrying me. I know you said that just to distract Ainsworth.” She risked a glance at him and smiled nervously. “I will not hold you to it,” she assured
him.

  Barnaby considered her tearstained features for a long minute. The silvery-fair hair hung in wild tangles about her pale skin, the thickly lashed gray eyes were dark with emotion and there was the slightest quiver to that tempting rosy mouth. She had never looked lovelier to him—even with an unsightly bruise forming along her jaw, and if he’d had any reservations about the state of his heart, they were settled.

  He cursed the moment, aware that he could hardly declare himself when she had just endured a violent abduction, a near rape and a dead man lay on the floor just a few feet behind them. Sighing he said, “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

  Emily didn’t know whether she was relieved or devastated by his acknowledgment that he had not been serious when he had told Ainsworth he meant to marry her. Reminding herself that she didn’t care, not really, she looked away and said, “I am indebted to you. If you had not arrived when you did . . .”

  “But I did,” Barnaby said, with an effort letting his arm drop from her waist. “And you owe me nothing.”

  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

  Barnaby 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 clo
gged 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.”