Desire Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  He was far enough back that by the time he’d turned on the Coast Road, her gig was already stopped in front of the fisherman’s hut and there was no sign of her. The hut was abandoned, and the first icy trickle of anxiety ran down his spine. Frowning, he halted his horse beside the gig and dismounted.

  A sensation of wrongness swept over him and he started forward. The sight of a tall figure garbed in a greatcoat motioning him to the side of the building stopped him in his tracks. Through the rain and deepening shadows, Luc regarded the other man suspiciously. Sacrebleu! What was Gillian about?

  His hand closing around the pistol in the pocket of his greatcoat, Luc stalked forward. Recognizing St. John, he opened his mouth to demand what was going on, but a finger to St. John’s lips stopped him.

  St. John shook his head and indicated they step away from the building. A few yards from the cottage, in a low voice, St. John said, “I beg your indulgence. Your wife is safe, but she is meeting with Stanton.”

  At Luc’s expression of angry astonishment, aware that time was precious, St. John added hastily, “It is not an assignation. At least not the kind one would expect. By means I can only guess at, Stanton has gained possession of some vowels signed by her first husband. He got your wife here by promising to exchange them for a brooch Dashwood gave her shortly before he was murdered.”

  Luc’s eyes narrowed. “Why does Stanton want a brooch given to my wife by her first husband?”

  “Because it proves that he is a murderer,” St. John declared harshly. At Luc’s look of incredulity, he hurried on, “I am not mad! That day we met you in the village with the others, I recognized the brooch your wife was wearing as one I had ordered fashioned exclusively for the woman I was going to marry—Elizabeth Soule. It is one of a kind and it was stolen from her home on the night she was murdered. I always suspected that Stanton was behind it—he was suddenly flush with money after her death—but I could never find proof. Until now.”

  Luc stared from St. John to the cottage. “Stanton murdered the woman you loved,” he said in a furious undertone, “and you delay me while my wife is in there with him?” He swung around to charge the cottage, but St. John caught his arm.

  Luc turned on him like an enraged tiger, and his blue eyes blazing, he snarled, “Unhand me or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  “And if you interrupt them, you may destroy the only chance of clearing your wife’s name,” St. John snapped.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Only that if we eavesdrop for a moment or two, Stanton may betray himself further.” When Luc violently rejected that notion by jerking his arm free and started again for the cottage, St. John said urgently, “It is a chance, perhaps the only chance, to prove her innocence. I swear to you that she is unharmed and if she appears in danger we will strike immediately.”

  Luc paused. Every instinct demanded he whisk Gillian away from Stanton immediately but he had to weigh those feelings against the possibility that St. John was right and her innocence could be proven. If St. John was to be believed, she was in that cottage with a murderer, a man who had murdered twice already. Was clearing her name worth risking her life? He shook his head. Non!

  St. John caught his arm again. “Please,” he begged, his green eyes beseeching. “I’ve waited over two years for this moment; all I ask is a moment’s delay.”

  Something in the other’s man expression moved him, and Luc said thickly, “A moment only. That is all I can give you ... and if she is harmed, by God I’ll kill you.”

  Their hurried exchange took only moments, and as one the two men crept to the cottage, St. John circling around to the front on one side of the doorway, Luc pressed against the wall on the other side of the door opening. Stanton’s and Gillian’s voices carried clearly through the doorway to the waiting men.

  Inside the cottage, tamping down her terror, Gillian held her own against Stanton. As the minutes passed he’d cursed her, threatened her and demanded that she give him the brooch; she stubbornly refused. In the wavering light of the lantern they stared at each other, at an impasse.

  Regarding her balefully, aware of the time flying by, Stanton finally growled, “Suppose I do have the vowels on me. You say you don’t have the brooch. Why should I show them to you?”

  “Because if you don’t show them to me,” she responded tightly, “you will never get your hands on the brooch.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits and his face flushed with rage. “You’re a cheating bitch just like that husband of yours.”

  Gillian’s head lifted. “How dare you!” she gasped, furious. “My husband is an honorable man. He may be a gambler, but Luc Joslyn would never cheat!”

  Stanton laughed unpleasantly. “I’m not talking about Luc Joslyn, you silly little fool, I’m talking about Dashwood, your first husband.”

  “Charles?”

  “Charles?” he mimicked. “Yes, bloody Charles. If not for him, you wouldn’t be here and I’d have gotten rid of that damned brooch years ago.”

  Uneasy at this turn of the conversation, Gillian asked cautiously, “What does Charles have to do with my brooch?”

  He flashed her a calculated look, and she had the sensation that he’d made a decision. One she wouldn’t like.

  “He wouldn’t give it back,” he said slowly, advancing on her. “He won it from me and when I tried to redeem it at Welbourne’s lodge that night, he refused.” His hands closed into fists. “Just as you’re refusing to do now.”

  Gillian’s eyes widened and her mouth went dry. “You!” she blurted without thinking. “It was you. You murdered him.”

  His lips twitched in a travesty of a smile, and he bowed. “At your service, Madame.” His smile fading, he said, “And I’m afraid you’re about to meet his fate, but first you’re going to write a note for me to Luc.” He reached inside his greatcoat for the sheet of paper and a second later had retrieved the quill and ink. Placing them on the table, he said, “It will be a tragedy, your suicide.”

  “You can’t kill me. You don’t have the brooch,” Gillian argued desperately, her gaze moving from his face to the implements on the table.

  “That’s true, but I’m willing to wager that you did bring it with you. You said that it wasn’t far away, and I’m gambling its hidden in your vehicle.”

  Her face gave her away and Stanton smiled. She was going to die, she thought, terrified. She’d never see Luc again. Never feel his strong arms around her again. No! She would not accept that her life ended here and now at the hands of this monster.

  “Get over here,” Stanton growled, “and write the bloody note before I decide to kill you without it. It makes no difference to me. You’ll be just as dead.”

  “Go to hell!” Gillian shouted and, with a strength and determination borne of fear, launched herself at him.

  Several things happened at once. Gillian rushed forward, her fists hitting Stanton soundly in the chest, catching him off guard. He stumbled back, and she dashed around him at the same instant Luc came flying into the cottage, his pistol aimed and ready. St. John followed, his pistol leveled on Stanton, both men fanning out on either side of the small room.

  Intent upon escape, Gillian screamed with rage and terror as a hard arm grabbed her and pushed her into a corner behind a tall frame. “Hush!” commanded Luc, one lightning glance assuring him that she was unharmed.

  Gillian’s heart was galloping in her chest, and she was never so grateful to see Luc’s lean features in her life. Nothing mattered but that he was here and she would live, she thought on the verge of hysteria. Nothing. The vowels. None of it mattered, and she cursed her pride that had placed her in such danger.

  From across the short distance that separated them, Stanton stared at the two men. He was gambler enough to know that he had lost, but he didn’t yet know the extent of his loss.

  A sickly smile curved his lips. “Gentlemen, this isn’t what it looks like,” he muttered. He glanced at Luc. “I assure you that your wife
has not played you false. We were merely, ah, taking care of some old business.” When Luc’s glittering blue eyes never moved from him and the pistol remained fixed on him, Stanton said, “There, uh, seemed to be a misunderstanding and I’m afraid I inadvertently frightened her. I apologize.”

  “He killed Charles,” Gillian said from behind Luc. “He told me so and that he planned to murder me.”

  “We know,” Luc answered. “We overheard everything.”

  Stanton blanched, his gaze going to St. John’s face. What he saw there caused him to take a step backward.

  “The vowels,” Luc said coldly. “Give them to me. Now.”

  “Of course,” Stanton said eagerly. But when his hand went to his greatcoat, Luc snapped, “Slowly. And if there is anything else in your hand when you remove it from your coat, you’ll not draw another breath.”

  Stanton did as ordered, tossing a small pile of papers onto the table. Luc took a few steps forward, swept them up and, trusting St. John to keep Stanton still, turned around and thrust them into Gillian’s hands. Their eyes met. “I would have retrieved them for you,” Luc said softly.

  “I know,” she said huskily. “But it was something I needed to do myself.”

  Luc swung back to Stanton. “It is you who will be writing a note, but a far different one than you would have forced my wife to write.” Nodding to the single sheet of paper, he said, “Write your confession to the murders of both Elizabeth Soule and Charles Dashwood.”

  Stanton balked. “You’re mad! I’ll not do it. You can’t prove anything.”

  Grimly, Luc said, “Both St. John and I can testify to what we overheard. And my wife as well. Write it.”

  “I’ll not hang,” snarled Stanton, his eyes darting around the room.

  “I promise you,” drawled St. John, “that you will not hang.”

  Luc glanced sharply at him.

  “You’ll let me go,” questioned Stanton, his disbelief clear.

  “I swear on Elizabeth’s grave that you will not hang,” said St. John.

  With two pistols aimed at his heart, already scheming to find a way to turn the tables, Stanton nodded. Bending forward, he opened the bottle of ink, snatched up the quill and wrote quickly. When done, he picked up the sheet of paper and held it out toward St. John.

  His eyes fixed on Stanton, St. John said, “Luc, read it and make certain the bastard wrote the truth.”

  Luc took the paper and scanned the scrawl. “He did. He admits to killing both Elizabeth Soule and Charles Dashwood.”

  A queer smile curved St. John’s mouth. “Take the confession and your wife and leave us.”

  Without a word, Luc tucked the confession inside his greatcoat and swept Gillian out of that small cottage and into the stormy night. They exchanged not a word, until Luc had put away his pistol, tied his horse to the back of the vehicle and, gathering up the reins of the horse harnessed to the gig, joined her on the seat under the protection of the hood.

  Inside the cottage, his eyes fierce on Stanton, St. John said, “Knowing you, you did not come here without being armed. Put your weapon on the table in front of you. Slowly.”

  “Going to kill me in cold blood?” sneered Stanton, withdrawing his pistol and carefully laying it on the table.

  Motioning him back, St. John picked up the pistol and threw it outside. “No. I’ll leave the cold-blooded killing to you,” St. John answered. Placing his own pistol on the table, he stepped an equal distance away from the table.

  “I’m giving you more of a chance than you gave Elizabeth,” St. John said, his green eyes bright and feral. “If you can reach my pistol before I do, you might live.” His teeth gleamed whitely in a tiger’s smile. “I promise you one thing—only one of us will leave this miserable hovel alive.”

  Seated in the gig, her eyes fixed on the doorway, Gillian asked in a fearful tone, “What will happen?”

  “St. John will kill him.”

  Gillian gasped and Luc bent a fierce glance on her. “As I would in the same position. Stanton murdered the woman St. John loved and planned to marry.”

  “But how do you know that?”

  “The brooch. St. John had it made especially for her. It was one of a kind. He recognized it that day we met him and the others in the village when I was escorting you home to High Towers.” His eyes fastened on the doorway of the cottage where the light from the lantern danced, Luc added, “There was no time for full explanations, but St. John suspected Stanton killed her. He needed proof. Tonight he got it.” His gaze shifted to her. “I’m not certain whether to kiss you or wring your neck,” he said dryly.

  Gillian looked up in the gloom. “I would much rather you kissed me.” When he only stared at her, she said, “Luc, I had to get the vowels. I can’t explain it, but it was wrong to expect you to untangle something that Charles had caused.” He snorted and she added indignantly, “I did leave a note for you. Along with the note Stanton had sent me. Nan was to give it to you at seven o’clock if I hadn’t returned.”

  Luc’s hands closed around her shoulders and he dragged her next to him. “You little fool, you would have been dead by then.”

  She smiled mistily at him. “But I’m not ... wouldn’t you much rather kiss me than scold me?”

  He laughed reluctantly. “Yes, ma coeur, I would indeed.” His mouth came down on hers and he kissed her, feeling all the rage and terror he’d felt when he knew she was in danger fade away. She was safe. And in his arms and he intended to keep her there forever. Lifting his head a long while later, he murmured, “You ever do anything like this again and I will beat you.”

  Nestled against him, Gillian smiled, not believing a word of it. “Never.” Her eyes moved to the cottage and she shivered, knowing a man would die tonight. The wind was howling, the rain lashing against the hooded gig and any sound that might have carried from the cottage was drowned out by storm, but she could not help imagining what was going on inside and she shivered again.

  Luc felt her shiver and pulled her even closer. Dropping a kiss on her temple, he said, “It won’t be long now.”

  “What if ...” She swallowed. “What if St. John fails?”

  “That’s why we’re still here,” he answered simply, taking out his pistol again. “If St. John doesn’t come out of that cottage and Stanton does ... I’ll kill him. One way or another St. John will have his revenge.”

  Not even the storm could mute the sound of a shot that came from inside the cottage. Gillian jumped, and her eyes fastened painfully on the doorway.

  Luc stiffened, relaxing when he recognized the tall, dark form that appeared in the faint light seeping out from the doorway of the cottage.

  In swift strides, St. John closed the distance between them. There was barely enough light to reveal a cut over his right eye and an ugly gash along one cheek. “Poor fellow,” St. John said quietly. “He killed himself.” He looked expectantly at Luc. “And now if you will be so good as to give me the confession, I will see that it surfaces at the right time and in the right place. The confession will clear your wife’s name and explain his suicide.”

  Luc reached inside his greatcoat and handed it to him. “I’ll trust you to do so, mon ami.”

  St. John nodded. “It will be my pleasure.”

  Gillian spared no sympathy for Stanton; he had already murdered two people and if events had turned out differently, he would have murdered her. She fumbled around for her reticule and opening it, found the brooch. She handed it to St. John, saying shyly, “I think this is yours.”

  He held it in his hand for a long moment. His voice thick with emotion, he said, “Thank you, Madame.” And then he was gone into the night and the storm.

  Luc slapped the reins and turned the horse, then, one arm around his wife, their bodies close together, they slowly drove away into the rainy night.

  Epilogue

  Christmas at Windmere that year was one of quiet joy. Sitting cozily ensconced in a tall wingback chair of blue velvet by
the fire roaring in the fireplace, Cornelia sighed with pleasure, enjoying the warmth.

  Silas, sitting in the twin to Cornelia’s chair on the other side of the fireplace, said, “That’s precisely how I feel.” His eyes twinkled in his little gnome face. “It has been a most exciting and enjoyable day, but I find that this quiet time by the fire is my favorite part.”

  Cornelia nodded. Silas was right. After partaking of the rich meal of chestnut soup, oysters, roast goose, haunch of venison and sirloin, new peas from the greenhouses of Windmere, creamed cauliflower, mincemeat, apple pies and a damson dumpling, to name a few items served, it was pleasant to doze by the fire.

  The scent of evergreens wafted in the air; archways, mantels and banisters dripped with branches of evergreen and holly; mistletoe hung in strategic places throughout the grand house; and silver bells with scarlet ribbons festooned either side of doorways. Even the weather had cooperated for Christmas, and while drifts of new-fallen snow blanketed the countryside, it hadn’t prevented guests from traveling to Windmere to share the holiday with Lord and Lady Joslyn and their firstborn child.

  Ten days previously Emily had given birth to a daughter, Noel, named for the season of her birth. If Barnaby had been disappointed at not having sired an heir, no one could tell from his demeanor or manner. He doted on Emily and his daughter. Girls, he explained proudly to anyone who would listen, didn’t run in the Joslyn family; his sister, Bethany, was the only girl in over three generations, yet he was lucky enough to be the father of what had to be the most beautiful female born in all of England. Next to her mother, he added, his dark eyes, warm and loving, gazing upon Emily’s face.

  At present, Noel’s eyes were the solemn blue of a newborn, but Cornelia suspected that in time they would be the same brilliant azure for which the Joslyn family was famous. Right now pale downy fuzz covered the baby’s head and would, no doubt, grow out to be the same silvery-fair color of her mother’s hair. Of Barnaby’s swarthy coloring there was no sign, but Cornelia and the rest of the family had already recognized the confident curve in the tiny jaw and the willful jut of her chin as having been inherited from her father. It was fortunate, Cornelia admitted, that Noel had inherited many of Emily’s far more feminine and lovely features than her father’s bolder facial characteristics.