Rapture Becomes Her (25 page)
Read Rapture Becomes Her Online
Authors: Shirlee Busbee
Panic shot through her and she bucked and twisted against her bonds, the memory of Ainsworth’s abduction rushing back. What a fool, she had been, she raged, not to pay more attention to Cornelia’s warnings. But why me? she wondered. It was
Anne
Ainsworth had wanted and if he had been gone to Newhaven all day, there was no way he could have learned that Anne had escaped his grasp. . . .
Anne
Ainsworth had wanted and if he had been gone to Newhaven all day, there was no way he could have learned that Anne had escaped his grasp. . . .
Fighting back the horrified hysteria that rose in her throat, Emily struggled to make sense of her situation. Concentrating on something else helped calm her and allowed her to ignore her own desperate straits . . . and what might be her fate . . .
It was apparent, she admitted bitterly, that Ainsworth and that weasel Jeffery had learned somehow of Anne’s departure from The Birches. How? When? But none of that mattered right now, Emily told herself, battering back another wave of panic. What mattered was her escape.
In the light from the lone candle sitting on a short, battered chest of drawers against the wall, she studied her surroundings. Beyond the bed, the chest of drawers, a chair next to the chest heaped with a pile of men’s clothing and a pair of gleaming boots on the floor beside the chair, there were no other furnishings—nothing that gave her any sense of where she was being held.
The room was small and under the overpowering scent of cinnamon and cloves that permeated the air, she caught the faint, musty odor associated with deserted, unused houses. From her position on the bed she could see that the ceiling and walls were roughly hewn—utilitarian and economical with no sign of style or elegance. Turning her head, she studied the bedposts to which she was tied. Made of good, solid English oak, they were square and without adornment. Like the chest and chair, practical and simple, they served a purpose, but no craftsman had ever touched them.
This was no gentleman’s house and, turning over possibilities, she decided that most likely she was in an abandoned farmhouse. But where? And how would anybody find her before it was too late . . . before Ainsworth came and . . . The panic she had held at bay ripped free and even knowing it was helpless, like a vixen with her foot in a steel trap, Emily fought the bonds that held her so securely. It was a silent, desperate fight but futile, and after several minutes, her wrists and ankles torn and bleeding from her struggles, she collapsed exhausted against the mattress.
The room was cool and she shivered, unbearably aware of her nakedness. For just a moment, she let despair take her and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. How arrogant she had been! And, oh, so damned,
damned
confident she had nothing to fear from Ainsworth.
damned
confident she had nothing to fear from Ainsworth.
Reflecting on her shortcomings accomplished nothing and, determined that Ainsworth would not find her cowering and broken, twisting her head brushed aside the signs of tears. Her mouth set. She didn’t see a way to escape the fate that awaited her, but she wasn’t going to give Ainsworth the satisfaction of hearing her plead or beg.
The door opened and she stiffened. Through slitted eyes she watched Ainsworth amble into the room. In one hand he held a candle and the other a snifter and a crystal decanter of amber-colored liquid she suspected was brandy—probably some she had smuggled in from France.
Ainsworth wore a dark blue silk robe with a gold thread running through it and her mouth went dry when she realized that it was his clothes on the chair and that he was naked beneath the robe.
Setting the candle, snifter and decanter down on the chest of drawers, Ainsworth walked back to the door and Emily heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. He returned to the chest of drawers and after pouring some brandy from the decanter into the snifter, he finally rotated in her direction and looked at her, his eyes traveling over her body.
Her flesh shriveled under that avid gaze, but she forced herself to give no sign of the revulsion roiling through her.
“Your charms are far more bountiful than I would ever have expected,” Ainsworth said, crossing to stand beside the bed. He reached down and cupped one breast. “Now who would have ever thought that you had these charming little apples hidden away?”
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.
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?
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.”
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 . . .”
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.”
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