Desire Becomes Her (38 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Desire Becomes Her
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“No, you won’t,” responded Cornelia calmly. When Luc shot her a look full of fire and fury, she said, “Of course, if you want your wife’s name connected to more infamy, by all means, do so. I can give you his direction.”
Luc rocked back on his heels as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown in his face. He regained control of himself. “Yes, of course, you are right.” His eyes fastened on hers. “He will say nothing? Ever?”
She smiled. “Not if he wants to live. Hugh made it clear that not only would
you
come after him, but Barnaby as well, and most likely Mathew and Simon, and if they failed to kill him, he would himself.”
Luc took another deep breath. “And the vowels? Where are they?”
“That’s where it gets interesting. Winthrop claims he lost them to Canfield.”
“Canfield!
Mon Dieu!
Canfield is dead. They could be anywhere.”
“I’m afraid that much is true, but until they surface ...”
He eyed Cornelia with hostility. “Do you think she killed him? Offering a night with her for his vowels is not something many women would stomach.” Harshly, he said, “It gives her a reason to have killed him.”
“It gave her a reason to go looking for him with murder on her mind,” Cornelia agreed. When Luc would have argued, she raised a finger and went on, “From others Hugh learned that the room where Charles was found was in shambles. Overturned tables, chairs, etc. It was apparent a violent struggle had taken place. Charles Dashwood was a man about your size—Gillian would never have been able to cause the damage done to that room. Even with rage driving her, Charles could have easily overpowered her, tossed her aside, if you will. The condition of the room, as well as being found unconscious and the lack of a knife or a weapon were the reasons she was never brought to trial.” Her eyes met his steadily as she said gently, “To answer your question. No. I do
not
believe that she murdered him. It’s my opinion that she is telling the truth and has been unjustly vilified.” She smiled at him. “And we’re going to do something about that, aren’t we?”
Luc smiled dangerously, the azure eyes glinting. “Indeed, we are, Madame. I shall find this villain and prove my wife’s innocence.”
 
Beyond answering her questions in monosyllables, Luc was silent on the drive back to Ramstone, his thoughts clearly somewhere else. Gillian glanced at him several times, uneasy with the grim line of his lips and the rigid cast to his jaw. She desperately wanted to know about the conversation with Cornelia, but coward-like, she could not bring herself to broach the subject. By the time they reached home and he helped her down from the carriage, fear and anxiety were tearing her apart. Cornelia had obviously related something that had disturbed Luc and guiltily she could think of only one event that would cause his reaction: Charles’s murder.
With exquisite politeness Luc escorted her inside the house. Leaving her in the foyer, he said, “I have some business to attend. I’ll see you later.”
Gillian watched his tall form disappear down the hall, wanting to call him back, wanting to scream that no matter what Cornelia had told him, she was innocent.
Innocent!
The moment was lost, and she was left staring at an empty hallway. Dispiritedly, she climbed the stairs to her rooms. She wanted to believe otherwise, but she could not help but think that the specter of Charles’s death was about to destroy her only chance for happiness. What she found waiting for her when she entered her rooms confirmed all her fears and suspicions.. . .
Chapter 20
T
he envelope was lying in the pewter salver resting on a small table in the sitting room that separated her bedroom from Luc’s. Her name was scrawled across the front of it, but Gillian did not recognize the handwriting.
Puzzled, she picked it up and carried it with her into her bedroom, wondering who had written to her. A premonition shivered through her. Whatever the envelope held, it wasn’t, she was certain, something good.
Nan Burton was waiting for her in the bedroom, and laying down the envelope for the moment, she allowed Nan to help her undress. Nan was full of a proposed trip to London Luc had suggested only yesterday, and half-listening to her chatter, Gillian stared at the innocuous envelope, trying to figure out who had written her and why.
“Oh, Madame! It will be so exciting,” Nan declared, her eyes sparkling as she whisked the dove-gray gown off of Gillian and brought forth an older gown of mulberry wool. “Imagine, the gowns and the furniture you will buy! It will be wonderful to finally have proper wardrobes in which to hang your clothes. Master Luc is being most generous, isn’t he? And to think the viscount has offered us his town house to stay in while we are in London.” A blissful expression on her face, Nan burbled, “I can tell you I am so over the moon, I can hardly sleep at night. London!”
Her clothing changed and her hair re-combed, Gillian dismissed Nan. Picking up the envelope, she sat on her bed and studied it a moment longer. Taking a deep breath, she carefully opened it. She shook out the folded piece of paper that had been within the envelope. As she did so, another, smaller sheet of paper fell free and floated to the floor.
Reaching down, she picked it up, her heart leaping to her throat when she realized what she held in her hand. One of the vowels Charles had given to Winthrop.
Dazed, she stared at it for a long time, her eyes going over again and again Charles’s bold signature. Giving herself a shake and putting the vowel on the bed beside her, she read the note that had been with Charles’s vowel.
You have something I want, Charles’s last gift to you. As you can see from the
gift
I have enclosed, I have something you want. South of the village, there is an abandoned fisherman’s cottage about a half mile beyond the fork in the Coast Road. Meet me there alone Tuesday afternoon at four o’clock. Tell no one.
There was no signature. She read and reread the note, an uneasy hope rising in her breast, wanting to believe that she would finally have her hands on Charles’s vowels and that Luc would never have to know... . Because of Silas’s generosity, she breathed easier, knowing that she had the ability to wipe out the debt should the vowels have been presented for payment. The whole notion of Luc knowing about the vowels made her cringe and made her willing to do anything to keep them from him.
Part of her knew she was being foolish, but the vowels were all tied up with Charles’s ugly bargain with Winthrop and Charles’s murder that night—anything connected to that time filled her with revulsion and fright. Canfield’s possession of the vowels had shown her just how dangerous their existence could be, and the knowledge that they now lay in the hands of someone else brought all those emotions roiling back, making her ill and afraid. She stared hard at the note, wanting to believe that an opportunity to finally have the vowels in her own hands lay before her, but she was wary.
Charles’s last gift ... for a second she couldn’t think what the writer referred to and she frowned. Charles’s last gift to her ... She stiffened.
The brooch!
The diamond and topaz brooch she’d worn for the first time on the night Charles had been murdered. Now why, she wondered, would someone be willing to trade a small fortune in vowels for a brooch that could be fashioned and bought for considerably less from any knowledgeable jeweler?
Leaving the bed, she ran over and pawed through her clothes until she found the brooch still pinned to her riding habit. Unpinning it, she walked across the room and, reseating herself on the bed, stared at the winking jewels. Careful examination revealed nothing out of the ordinary about the brooch. There was nothing significant about the arrangement of the precious stones that she could see, nor was there, as she half-hoped, some secret compartment that would hold the answer to why it was so important to the writer of the note.
She’d never cared for the brooch, but she could see that it was a handsome piece of jewelry and that most people would find it lovely. It was an expensive piece, but not worth anything near the amount represented by Charles’s vowels, so why was someone willing to exchange one for the other? And why be so mysterious about it? Why not simply request an interview with her and offer her the vowels in exchange for the brooch? Why want her to meet alone? And the warning to tell no one disturbed her as nothing else had. It was ominous and told her that this would be no simple exchange. The sensation of danger was overpowering.
Hearing the steps of someone crossing the sitting room, she leaped up from the bed and looked around for a place to hide the brooch and the other items. Why she felt the need to hide them escaped her. Whatever the reasons, there was no time; she heard Luc’s voice calling her name almost at the same instant the door to her bedroom opened. She dropped everything to the floor and slid all the items under the bed with one swipe of her foot.
Gillian couldn’t have explained her actions if she’d been placed on the rack. The closest she could come to making any sense of her furtive and out of character reaction was that she was ashamed. Ashamed of everything connected with that night—even if she had been guilty of nothing more than naïveté. Perhaps that was it, she thought as she swung around to face Luc, a smile plastered on her face. She was ashamed that she had ever been that gullible and stupid.
Luc was not gullible or stupid, and one look at Gillian’s face told him that something was amiss. She looked guilty, her face pale, her eyes huge with fright and doing her best to pretend otherwise. Protectiveness rose within him, but he suspected she would repulse any effort on his part to find out what was wrong. And correct it.
Hands behind her back like a child hiding a secret, her head canted to one side, she asked, “H-h-have you f-f-finished your business?”
He nodded, his eyes moving over her expressive face, thinking that he’d like to get his hands on Charles Dashwood for five minutes. Forcing a smile, he said, “
Oui
. It wasn’t very important.” Running a finger down her cheek, he murmured, “Especially not important enough to keep me from you for very long.”
Gillian giggled, as much from nervousness as amusement.
Luc grinned and cocked a brow. “You find my compliments amusing, Madame wife?”
“No. Never,” she said quietly, her lips rosy and tempting. His gaze traveled down her curvaceous form—a form that delighted him and that after the past several days he knew as well as his own, the shape of her breast, the slope of her hip, the taste, the texture and scent of her skin. Looking at her, seeing the fragility, knowing how much just the sight of her filled him with pleasure, he couldn’t help dwelling with incredulous fury on what Cornelia had related to him this afternoon. Gillian had been Charles’s wife, a creature to be loved and treasured, he mused, and that bastard had been willing to toss her, for a night, to cover his debts, into the arms of another man.
Zut!
What he wouldn’t give for that five minutes alone with Charles Dashwood. No, he thought savagely, three would be enough to tear him limb from limb.
Something in Luc’s expression alarmed her and Gillian stepped near him, one of her hands caressing his cheek. “Luc? What is it?”
He looked down into her troubled face and his rage vanished, his heart expanding with so much love for her that he feared that his body could not contain it. “It is nothing,
ma coeur.
” His arms slid around her and he brushed a kiss against her temple. Astonishing both of them, he said, “You are very dear to me.”
Happiness flooded through her. It wasn’t, perhaps, the declaration of undying love she yearned for, but it was a step in that direction. A smile curved her lips. “Very dear?” she teased, unabashedly seeking more.
Luc’s features softened and he kissed her with a tenderness they had never shared before. When his head lifted, he stared into her eyes. For a long moment, they stayed thus, staring into each other’s eyes as if the most important answer in the world were written there. Never breaking the look, Luc shook his head. “No. I misspoke,” he murmured. “Very dear is a pale description for what I feel for you.” His fingers trembling, he fondled a strand of sable hair. “I love you, Gillian—more than I have ever loved anyone or anything in my life.” His lips twisted. “I may be master of my house, but you rule my heart... . I adore you,
m’amie
.” A whimsical smile crossed his dark face as he finished simply, “My life, my happiness is in your hands.”
Gillian thought her heart would stop beating, so powerful was the emotion that filled her. He loved her, she thought stunned. Loved
her.
Joy, bright and shimmering, cascaded through her. “Oh Luc!” she cried, love infusing her face with a luminous glow. Flinging her arms around his neck, she strained against him, her lips caressing his chin, his jaw, any part of him she could reach. “I love you,” she breathed against him. “Love you. Love you.
Love you!
”
Laughing, Luc swept her up into his arms and, her skirts flying, whirled her about the room. “No more than I love you, my pet. You could not love me more.” With his arms full of warm femininity, Luc sat down in the only chair in the room. Love shining out of his eyes, he stared at her. “I do love you, you know. I have for what seems like forever.”
“Oh Luc,” she breathed, nestling her face against his neck, her fingers locked within his.
They stayed thus for a long time, tender murmurings the only sound in the room. As lovers have always done, they spoke of things vital to them and them alone, their ramblings broken only by sweet kisses and gentle caresses and quiet laughter.
Gillian could not imagine a happier time, but as the minutes passed, like a serpent slithering from beneath a rock, the items she had kicked under her bed intruded. The urge to tell Luc was overwhelming, but she wanted nothing to taint this moment, and so she pressed nearer to his warm body and held her tongue. Later, she thought, later, after dinner when we are alone for the night. But just as she came to that conclusion, the memory of his private meeting with Cornelia crept into her mind. What had the other woman told him? Whatever it had been, recalling that silent ride home, it had put Luc into a withdrawn, introspective mood. The meeting might not have had anything to do with her, but convincing herself of that was impossible.
Ask him, she told herself. Just ask him. The question trembled on her lips, but just as she had not wanted to sully this magical time with ugly events from the past, she didn’t want to risk asking questions that could disrupt their growing rapport.
Luc was thinking about his meeting with Cornelia, too. The first flush of elation fading, the information Cornelia had given him this afternoon droned annoyingly at the back of his mind. Confirmation of Gillian’s innocence by Cornelia, via Hugh, had been gratifying, but it hadn’t been necessary to him—his heart had long ago concluded that his sprite was no murderess, but the bargain Charles had made with Winthrop ... He could feel the rage coiling up through him and fought it back. Charles was dead. And Winthrop would escape unscathed, because to go after him would only hurt Gillian. He didn’t like it, but he could see no way to get at Winthrop without harming Gillian. A thought occurred to him and he smiled. Not a nice smile. Winthrop was a gambler... .
Beyond the friendly game of cards or wager, Luc had sworn that his gambling days were behind him, but he decided, with a cold glint in the azure eyes, that in Winthrop’s case, he would make an exception. Yes, sometime during the next year or so, an opportunity would arise... .
Gillian stirred in his arms and he glanced down at her, delight and pleasure in the love they had found tumbling through him. His, he thought, dazed. His wife. His darling, dearest sprite. And Charles Dashwood had been willing to defile her for his own ends. His gaze wandered over her soft, relaxed features. Would she tell him? Did she, would she, trust him enough to tell him of that infamous trade?
It would be simple for him to tell her that he knew about it, but perversely, even with her admission of love, he wanted more. He wanted her to feel comfortable enough with him, wanted her to trust him enough to tell him herself. Greedy? Arrogant? Unreasonable? Luc half-smiled. Undeniably.
He frowned. Charles’s vowels. They were out there somewhere, and he would have to find them. Find them and destroy them. In the meantime, he thought, pulling Gillian closer to him, there was his enchanting bride to enjoy.
 
Except for the niggling apprehension about Luc’s meeting with Cornelia and the resurfacing of Charles’s vowels, the following hours passed in a delirious blur for Gillian. Luc loved her! She’d known it. Sensed it, but to have had him actually say the words ... Like precious jewels she held those words of love to her, marveling and treasuring them. Luc loved her.
That night when they made love, it was as if for the first time, each one discovering new pleasures, new sensations and new heights, each one reveling in the knowledge that it was love that guided each caress, each kiss.

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