Read Desire Becomes Her Online
Authors: Shirlee Busbee
Desire Becomes Her (41 page)
Luc was over a block away when he spied Gillian’s small form dashing out of the draper’s shop and entering the gig. He’d thought to hail her, but decided between the wind and the rain she wouldn’t have heard him anyway. Expecting her to turn around to drive back to Ramstone, he’d halted his horse to wait for her. To his confusion, she drove off in the opposite direction. Another errand?
More mystified than suspicious, Luc trailed behind her, wishing she’d chosen a more agreeable day to discharge what had to be minor duties—or left it to the servants. His greatcoat and boots kept him warm and dry, but he wouldn’t deny he was looking forward to sitting by his own fire and enjoying a brandy ... with his wife in his lap. If she didn’t accomplish her tasks soon, they’d be riding home in the dark. And the rain.
He didn’t consciously hang back, but once she left the village and it was obvious she wasn’t doing any shopping, he found himself allowing the distance between them to lengthen. There wasn’t, he argued, any need to catch up with her. Let her take care of her business and then he’d make his presence known in time to escort her home.
When she’d turned onto the Coast Road he’d been even more puzzled, knowing only a few fishermen lived out this way. What the devil?
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?
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.”
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!
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!
”
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.”
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?”
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