Desire Becomes Her Read online

  Anticipation licked along Luc’s veins. Crossing swords with a suspected murderess would prove amusing and break the boredom of a long winter. His gaze traveled over that lush mouth and surprisingly generous bosom for one so slender and that earlier tingle in his groin reasserted itself. Hmmm. It might also prove exceedingly enjoyable in the bargain.

  Dinner behind them, Luc did not linger, but as he prepared to depart, he said, “When the weather clears, since your uncle will be unable to do so, may I have the pleasure of escorting you ladies for a ride around the neighborhood?”

  Before Gillian could refuse, Silas exclaimed, “Excellent suggestion, my boy.”

  “Of course, if you would like to accompany us,” Luc said slowly, “we could take your barouche and those grays you’re so proud of and go for a drive instead.”

  Silas shook his head and indicated his broken arm. “Thank you, no. Until the bone knits, the ride home in my phaeton the other night was enough jostling for me.” Slyly he added, “I’ll admit it’s a tempting idea, though—you’d get to see my grays in action.”

  Luc smiled and shook his head. “I’m not in the market for a team—no matter how well matched.” When Silas would have pressed the issue, Luc held up a hand, saying, “Buying those four horses of yours would also entail my purchasing a proper vehicle for them to pull.” He gave a theatrical shudder. “Tooling around in a barouche such as yours would make me feel like a settled family man.”

  “You may find yourself a settled family man one of these days,” Silas observed and at Luc’s skeptical look, added, “If you are not careful, you’ll end up a crusty old bachelor like myself.”

  Bowing in the direction of the two ladies, Luc quipped, “But if I have two such lovely young women as your nieces to tend me in my old age, who is to say it would be such a terrible fate?”

  “Coming it too strong, my boy,” Silas said, smiling. “But enough of this wrangling—the ladies will expect you on the first fine day to squire them around the neighborhood. And as is befitting a man of my age, I’ll remain home by the fire sipping hot punch until you return.”

  Gillian leaned forward and protested, “But, Uncle, we wouldn’t enjoy ourselves knowing you were here at the house by yourself while we were gallivanting about the neighborhood.”

  “The lady has a point, sir,” Luc murmured. “Perhaps the ride should be postponed until you can accompany us.”

  “Nonsense!” said Silas forthrightly. Bending an affectionate look on Gillian, he added, “How do you think I will feel, knowing you are denying yourself a pleasure to sit by an old man? No. I insist that you go. It will only be for a few hours, and it will be good for you to get out of the house for a while.”

  Her reluctance obvious, Gillian gave in. “If it is your wish, Uncle,” she said with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

  Silas beamed. To Luc he said, “We’ll expect you the first fine day.”

  Entering the Dower House forty-five minutes later, Luc walked into the library, and despite the hour, approaching eleven o’clock, discovered he had guests. His half brother, Barnaby, and their uncle, Lamb, like Luc born on the wrong side of the blanket, were seated in a pair of high-backed fawn mohair chairs arranged near the fireplace. Partially filled snifters of brandy rested on the green-veined marble-topped table situated between the two chairs. A low fire burned on the stone hearth and cast dancing shadows into the room; the only other light came from a pair of candles on the mantel.

  Luc grimaced, having a fair idea for their visit. Ignoring them, he stalked to the long mahogany lowboy that, these days, held an array of Baccarat decanters filled with various spirits and glasses and, selecting a snifter, poured some brandy from one of the decanters. Looking over his shoulders at the other two, he asked, “Refills?”

  Both men nodded and once Luc had added to their snifters and returned the decanter to the lowboy, he picked up his snifter and sprawled on the green and cream damask sofa across from them. After taking a swallow of his brandy, he looked at Barnaby and said wearily, “I suppose this is about my visit to The Ram’s Head.”

  “Christ! What were you thinking?” burst out Lamb. “Or were you, as usual, not thinking? Didn’t you stop to think that Nolles could have had you knocked in the head by one of his gang and had your body thrown over the cliffs into the sea with no one the wiser?”

  Not recognizing the anxiety beneath Lamb’s words, Luc’s lips tightened. “If that happened, at least you’d have the satisfaction of knowing I lived down to your low expectations for me.”

  Lamb smothered a curse. To Barnaby he growled, “You talk to him. He’ll listen to you.”

  Barnaby sighed. It seemed that from the moment twelve-year-old Luc had stepped foot on Green Hill after his mother died and had met fourteen-year-old Lamb, they’d been at each other’s throats—when they didn’t have each other’s back. At ten Barnaby had been the youngest, but right from the beginning he’d been cast in the role of peacemaker, continually running interference between the two older, strong-willed men. The three of them shared a bond of blood and an affection that was as powerful as it was unshakeable—even if Lamb and Luc would rather have their tongues torn out than admit to the steadfast tie that bound them all together.

  Picking his words with care, Barnaby said, “Lamb has a point. If he got the chance, Nolles wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.”

  Grudgingly Luc admitted, “Though it pains me, I’ll concede that our dear uncle has the right of it this time. I wasn’t thinking when I decided to visit The Ram’s Head.” He stared down at the amber liquid in his snifter. “I wasn’t in the mood for the cheerfulness of The Crown and Mrs. Gilbert and her lovely daughters. Perhaps I was even looking for trouble, something to distract me. The queen’s death ...” He tossed down a swallow of brandy. “It won’t happen again.”

  Lamb grumbled, “Let us hope so.” But there was no heat in his voice.

  “Who told you I was there?” asked Luc with a lifted brow, glancing at Barnaby.

  Barnaby smiled. “Lord Broadfoot, for one. He came by this evening while you were gone to thank you for saving Harlan’s hide.”

  Luc looked innocent. “I beg your pardon? I had nothing to do with it. I merely saw that young Harlan arrived safely home.”

  Lamb snorted, but the azure eyes so like Luc’s held amused affection. “You want us to believe that Broadfoot’s whelp, drunk as a wheelbarrow, was able to best a hardened gambler like Jeffery at Hazard?”

  “But it must be true,” Luc protested, his expression guileless. “How else could Harlan arrive home with his own vowels. . . and a few from Jeffery in his pockets?”

  Lamb grinned at him. “Don’t try to bamboozle me, my clever buck.”

  “How much did you take Jeffery for?” asked Barnaby.

  Luc shrugged. “I cannot remember. Enough to make it painful for him and perhaps make him think twice before preying on fledglings.”

  “Did you see Lieutenant Deering when you were at Nolles’s place?” Barnaby asked, swirling his brandy around in his snifter.

  “Non,” said Luc, looking surprised. “Was our favorite riding officer there?”

  Barnaby nodded. “Yes, he was.” He smiled. “Broadfoot wasn’t the first to tell me of your visit to The Ram’s Head. I met Deering on the road yesterday afternoon returning from my visit to Farmer Calkin.”

  “Ah, yes, the damaged barn roof,” Luc murmured. “How did that go?”

  “Well, for once Calkin had a legitimate complaint. The roof is beyond repair.” Barnaby sent Luc a level look. “But you will not distract me from my meeting with Deering.” He swallowed some brandy and said, “It appears that Nolles and his gang have reorganized after the blow we gave them in February. Deering says that during the last month or so, there has been an increase in the smuggling activity in the area—rumor has it that Nolles has a new financier.”

  “Another one such as Cousin Thomas?” asked Luc, referring to their cousin killed by his brother, Mathew, back in Febru
ary.

  “That I don’t know, but most likely,” Barnaby answered. “He can’t prove it, but Deering doesn’t feel that Nolles is putting up the money for the runs to France. He suspects that Nolles has made contact with a wealthy landowner in the neighborhood or, and this is Deering’s best guess, someone in London is financing the smuggling—as Thomas did.”

  “One hopes that this new investor is not another relative of ours,” Luc muttered.

  “I doubt that Mathew has the stomach for any connection with smugglers—killing Thomas devastated him and discovering his brother was financing the Nolles’s gang did nothing to ease his anguish. I think we can eliminate Mathew, don’t you?”

  Luc made a face and nodded.

  Lamb spoke up, saying, “And can you imagine Simon doing such a thing?”

  Thinking of affable, charming Simon, the youngest of the English Joslyn brothers, Luc shook his head. “Non! Simon and Thomas may have been at daggers drawing, but his grief was deep over his death.”

  “Simon’s mourning is more, I think,” observed Lamb, “for the pain and guilt that Mathew suffered than for Thomas’s death.”

  The other two men nodded.

  Discovering that Thomas Joslyn had been the shadowy figure behind the handsome sums of money that had filtered through Nolles’s fingers on their way to France to buy shipload after shipload of contraband goods for sale in England had stunned the entire family, but Mathew most of all. Already reeling from the horrific knowledge that he had shot and killed his own brother, the discovery of Thomas’s unthinkable alliance with a vicious gang of smugglers had only added to the guilt and horror that consumed Mathew.

  “Has he stirred from Monks Abbey yet?” asked Luc, mentioning Mathew’s estate some distance away.

  Barnaby shook his head. “Simon is worried about him. Says he locks himself in his rooms at night and drinks himself into a stupor.”

  Thinking of the staid and proper Mathew drinking himself into a stupor, Luc frowned. “We shall have to do something about that. It was an appalling situation, but he’s had enough time to lick his wounds and realize that none of it was his fault.”

  “I agree,” said Barnaby.

  Glancing at Barnaby, Lamb said, “You’ll have to do something very un-viscount-like and annoy him enough to bring him posthaste to the steps of Windmere.” Lamb half-smiled. “Once we have him here, we’ll figure out a way to shake him from the worst of his grief. Simon will help.”

  Luc grinned. “I’m sure that I can think of something for Barnaby to do that will upset Cousin Mathew enough to wrest him out from behind the walls of Monks Abbey.”

  “Of that, I have little doubt,” said Lamb flatly. “No matter where you are, you have a decided knack for being at the center of most upsets.”

  Luc scowled at him. “And would you expect any less of me?”

  Barnaby sighed. He loved the pair of them, but Christ! Sometimes it was hard not to give in to temptation and knock their heads together.

  To Luc’s disgust the inclement weather—showers and drizzle—stayed around for a while and it was Wednesday before the proposed ride with Silas’s nieces could be undertaken. The drizzle had slackened the previous morning and the moment the sun came out, Luc sent over one of Barnaby’s footmen with a note to Silas, making the arrangements for the ride.

  The sun a pale orb in a cloudless blue sky, Luc set out for High Tower astride a bay gelding with two hind socks. Anticipating the prospect of crossing swords with Mrs. Dashwood, the ride seemed shorter than usual and soon enough his horse was trotting up the driveway leading to Silas’s house. As the house and tower came into view, his gaze locked on the turreted tower from which Edward Bramhall had thrown himself decades ago. Did Bramhall’s ghost haunt Silas’s dreams during the darkest hour of the night, he wondered, or did his friend never give the unfortunate young man’s fate any thought at all?

  Pushing aside useless speculation, Luc dismounted, and after handing the reins of his horse to the stable boy who ran up to meet him, he walked to the front door. He’d hardly taken his hand from the black iron knocker before the oak door swung open and Meacham ushered him inside.

  Giving Meacham his curly-brim beaver hat and York tan gloves, he asked, “How is your master doing this afternoon?”

  Meacham’s eyes held satisfaction. “He’s in high gig, sir—as pleased as if he was going to go with you.” A smile flitted across his face. “I’ll warn you, though—he’s not given up on trying to sell you those grays of his.”

  Luc laughed. “He can try, Meacham. He can try.”

  The remnant of Luc’s amusement was still evident on his face when he strolled into the front salon where Silas, Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Easley waited for him. The ladies were again seated on the cream and russet sofa and Silas was in the high-backed chair across from them.

  Greetings exchanged, after a few minutes’ conversation, Silas asked, “Would you care for some refreshment before you leave?”

  Luc shook his head. “No, thank you, sir.” He glanced at the window. “The days are short and it is already gone one o’clock. If we are to take advantage of the best part of the day, we should be on our way.”

  Silas agreed, and promising to have some hot punch waiting for them when they returned, he urged them on their way.

  The day was pleasant for late October and, despite feeling guilty at leaving Uncle Silas behind, Gillian was delighted to be outside in the thin sunshine. For just a while, seated upon one of her uncle’s magnificent horses, the sun warm on her face, a faint sea breeze caressing her cheeks, all the pain and disagreeableness of the past two years vanished. As High Tower fell behind, she reveled in the pleasure of the moment and her spirits lifted. She slanted Luc a glance. Enduring his company, she decided, was a small price to pay.

  They rode abreast down the road with Luc between the two women and a groom riding a respectful distance behind the trio. Mindful of his feminine charges, Luc kept the horses at a sedate pace and resigned himself to plodding along. He didn’t mind their slow progress—an ambling walk allowed conversation and gave him an opportunity to determine if his suspicions about Mrs. Dashwood were correct.

  After they had ridden a few miles, Mrs. Dashwood asked, “Mr. Joslyn, since the road doesn’t appear too muddy, would you mind if we picked up the pace?” She flashed a smile at her cousin. “Sophia and I love a good gallop.”

  “As you wish,” Luc replied, taken aback by the sheer charm of the smile she had given her cousin.

  The words had barely left his lips before Gillian and Sophia, using their heels, urged their mounts forward. In an instant the horses transitioned from a walk into a trot and seconds later settled into a smooth gallop. Luc and the groom had no choice but to harry after the two women as they sped down the country road.

  Both ladies were, Luc observed as he pounded down the road behind them, intrepid riders, easily controlling their horses and their bodies moving as one with their mounts. This was no race and after a few minutes Luc and the groom caught up with the galloping pair. Aware they were on an unfamiliar public road, the two women didn’t keep the horses at a gallop for long and eventually they brought their animals back to a trot and then a brisk walk.

  Her face glowing, tendrils of sable hair escaping from beneath her green hat with its saucy pheasant feather, Gillian glanced at her cousin and exclaimed, “Oh, Sophy, wasn’t that wonderful? I had forgotten the joy of a good horse beneath you.”

  Sophia, looking as delighted as Gillian, nodded. “It was indeed! Most exhilarating. There is nothing like a ride on an excellent horse to bring a smile to your face and ease your mind.” To Luc, Sophia said, “We are indebted to you, Mr. Joslyn. It was most kind and thoughtful of you to suggest a ride.”

  “It is my pleasure,” Luc replied, tearing his gaze from Gillian’s vivid face. Mon Dieu! The sprite was enchanting. Conniving, too, if his suspicions for her arrival at High Tower were correct. And dangerous, he reminded himself, thinking of her murdered
husband.

  Irritated for reasons he couldn’t explain, he said briskly, “I am new to the neighborhood and your uncle would be able to show you more of the area, but if you like I can show you one or two of our more well-known landmarks.”

  Gillian said, “It is the ride we are enjoying, Mr. Joslyn—not so much the destination. Lead on, if you please.”

  They continued on the main road for some miles, Luc indicating the location of various places known to him as they rode. Turning off the public road a short while later and leaving it behind, Luc guided them across the undulating, green velvet chalkland spread out in all directions around them. As they rode, he said, “This is very different from fields and woodlands of Virginia, but it has a beauty that takes one’s breath away, oui?”

  Gillian nodded absently, her gaze on the grazing fat, gray-and brown-faced Sussex sheep. She spied the occasional cow or horse; now and then smoke rising into the air from behind the low hills hinted at a dwelling, but none came into view.

  Topping a hill, Luc brought their horses to a halt. “The Cuckmere Valley,” he said simply.

  An exceptional view spread out in all directions and Gillian’s breath caught in pleasure. Like a lazy snake, the Cuckmere River flowed through the broad valley below them toward the sea; uneven banks of trees and shrubs strung here and there evidence of the narrow creeks that meandered through the rolling, green countryside. A glimpse of the glinting blue waters of the Channel could be seen through a break in the rising cliffs in the distance.