What a Woman Desires (3 page)

Mrs. Seton marched toward the outside storehouse and Thomas watched her go. Control was the last thing he had over Monica when she’d lived at the house. She’d controlled him—with her eyes, her heart, her slender figure and beautiful smile. Then she left and never came back.

Striding forward, Thomas snatched the reins from the tree and checked for his rifle and pistol before throwing himself into the saddle and galloping toward the open road.

Monica stood with her feet firmly astride in the dirt and her rifle lodged between her chin and shoulder. With one eye closed, she focused along the barrel of the gun at the smaller of the two men who’d accosted her and Stephanie as they’d approached the outskirts of the village. Even though Monica’s pulse thundered in her ears and her entire body trembled, she would not falter, would not take her eye from the animal in her sights.

Stephanie’s cries as she fought to free herself from her captor battled with the roar of Monica’s heartbeat. The man clutched her beloved friend against his barreled chest with one thick arm, his free hand fondling her breast. What were they to do? The animal molesting Stephanie had been aboard the phaeton before either of them could react, grabbing Stephanie by the hair and dragging her to the ground. Now, it was them against two men. The minuscule opportunity to gain the upper hand had been stolen in the moments of shock and terror as the men had initiated their assault.

“Take the gun from her, for Christ’s sake. What are you waiting for?” the man holding Stephanie yelled at his partner. “There ain’t nothing to her. Get her on the floor.” He laughed. “Isn’t that where we want the pair of ’em anyway?”

Monica’s mouth drained dry even as fire caught in her blood and rushed through her veins. Malcolm Baxter had defiled her body a lifetime ago, and another man would never come near her flesh without her permission ever again. She clenched her jaw and glared at her target. “Move an inch and you’re dead.”

The man watching her through narrowed eyes shifted from one foot to the other as though preparing to pounce. Monica tensed, her finger steady on the trigger. Icy-cold perspiration bloomed on her upper lip. His cold eyes assessed her as he languidly ran his gaze from her boots to her hair. “Why don’t you put the gun down before something happens you’ll regret, eh, missy?”

“The only thing I’ll regret is letting either of you assault me or my friend in any way.” She hitched the gun higher. “Now, why don’t you tell your boss to let go of my friend and the pair of you walk away before I blow a hole in the center of your forehead.”

He glowered. “He ain’t my boss and you ain’t got the guts to shoot that gun.” He grinned. “I can see you shaking from here.”

“Guts? You have the audacity to talk about guts when the pair of you accost lone women in darkened lanes? I think the only person without any guts is you.” Monica glared, her heart hammering. She would not give in. Whether it be her and Stephanie or the two goons, someone would be dead before she surrendered.

The man shook his head. “You’re a real firecracker, ain’t ya?”

Stephanie’s shriek and the ensuing scuffle to her side set Monica trembling once more. The man holding Stephanie dragged her closer to his accomplice. “Here, take this one. I’ll deal with this blue-eyed beauty who thinks she’s a cut above. Someone needs to seal that fancy mouth of hers once and for all.” He shoved Stephanie aside and cupped his manhood. “And I’ve got just the thing to fill it.”

Bitter revulsion coated Monica’s mouth with bile. She swept the gun back and forth between them. “Another step closer and I guarantee at least one of you will go down with a bullet right between your eyes. I couldn’t give a damn which of you it is, but you’ll be facedown in the dirt.”

The bigger of the two men clapped his hands and roared with laughter. “Well, you are the sexiest, boldest piece of skirt we’ve met since we came to this godforsaken village.” He grinned. “I like it. You’ve cheered me up more than I thought any woman possibly could . . . especially if she isn’t underneath me.”

The thundering of approaching hooves wiped his smile and he turned to look along the lane. Indecision battled inside her as Monica glanced from him to Stephanie’s terrified eyes and the man’s gnarled and dirty fingers digging into her friend’s throat.

Her heart hammered as fear enveloped her body and ran cold through her veins. How could she kill a man? She’d be a murderer. It would be her word against his friend’s, because there wasn’t any chance she had the skill or nerve to kill them both.

Closer and closer the thundering hooves came.

A shot rang out, cracking through the sky and sending their captors crouching to the ground.

Monica’s breath left her lungs on a gasp of fear and she lowered her gun, running for Stephanie, heedless of the gunfire or the gunman.

Two more shots and the men flattened to the ground as if desperate to burrow beneath the dirt. Monica didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as they illustrated every inch of their cowardice. She stood paralyzed, her arms tightly clutched around Stephanie as her friend trembled and wept.

The gunman’s massive horse came to an abrupt halt and its rider dismounted so easily, Monica’s heart hitched at the fluidity of such a muscular man. He held one pistol and drew another from the back of his trousers as he strode toward the men. He looked at them where they lay at his feet, seemingly oblivious to her and Stephanie.

“I guess you didn’t heed my first warning, gentlemen. You should’ve used the little brains God gave you and got the hell out of here before I reached you. Now you’ve left me in a quandary what to do. Do I blow your heads clean off where you lay, or give you the chance to apologize to these ladies and then disappear?”

Monica stared at the man’s partially revealed profile, obscured by the shadow of his hat. Familiarity she couldn’t place swept over her. He was tall, almost a foot taller than her, his shoulders broad and his biceps thick. Her gaze drifted along the sinewy forearms revealed by his rolled shirtsleeves. A laborer. She lifted her gaze to his face as he glared at their attackers. His jaw was chiseled despite the stubble that grazed it. She swallowed as shameful intimidation and attraction rolled through her. She imagined his eyes were the deepest blue....

“Get up.”

The sound of his deep, rough voice a second time sliced through her appraisal and Monica stiffened.

“Get up now,” he growled.

Her breath knotted in the center of her chest. “Thomas?”

He turned and their gazes locked for the briefest moment before he looked to the men once more. It was barely a second, maybe two, that he’d looked at her, but the intensity of his gaze lingered on Monica’s skin, burning white-hot heat through her clothes to sear deep into her flesh just the way it had years before. Her heart picked up speed and her body warmed with a desire she hadn’t known in so very long. To trust a man implicitly, to know he cared for her and those closest to her was a rarity she’d taken for granted throughout the years she’d lived in Biddestone.

Her time away had taught her more than Thomas would ever understand. Shame pinched hot at her cheeks. No matter her previous connection with him, the men she’d met since had made her doubt her instincts and not dare to trust again. Yet, the life lessons she’d endured would do nothing to soothe the undoubted scar she’d left on Thomas’s sense of loyalty by leaving Marksville and not once looking back.

“I said, get up.” Thomas kicked the foot of the man nearest him.

Monica flinched, unable to drag her eyes from Thomas. Panic tore through her even as the attackers scrambled to their feet. What would Thomas think of her now that he saw her? Would he resent her career? The choices she’d made?

“Monica, get in your carriage.” Thomas glanced at her, the eyes she remembered so well boring into hers. “You and Stephanie go to the house. Do not look back and do not stop until you are at Marksville. Do as I say. Now.”

She blinked. “I can’t leave you here.”

“You can and you will. Go.”

Swallowing against her arid throat, Monica’s breathing turned harried as fear for their family’s groom welled inside her. “Thomas, please. Leave them. They aren’t worth—”

“Monica, for once in your life will you do as you’re told? Get in the carriage.”

In a flash, her concern became anger. Whom did he think he was speaking to? He might be upset with her decision never to return home, but at least she now knew she was capable of living without a man’s blighted ego and masculine demands. If he thought he could run her as he ran her family’s estate, he’d better think again. Clearly the man possessed more tenderness for her father’s horses than he did a woman.

He faced her again and their glares locked. Monica eased Stephanie from her arms. “Fine. If your ego doesn’t get you killed, I’ll see you back at the house.”

Gripping Stephanie’s elbow, she marched her toward the carriage, her mind racing. Helping Stephanie into her seat, Monica hurriedly covered her knees with one of the blankets. Thomas could get himself shot for all she cared. Hadn’t she known all along how challenging this trip would be? She’d soon make it clear to him that barking orders at her would not be tolerated.

With her head held high, she strode around Wilson to the other side of the phaeton, inwardly cursing when her skirts got caught on the side of the seat. She yanked them and the tear pierced the eerie silence. Damnation! The finale of her humiliation came when the force of her enthusiasm tipped her forward, her cumbersome crinoline adding imploring difficulty to the situation. She steadied herself before almost falling headfirst into Stephanie’s lap.

With her face on fire, Monica daren’t glance at Thomas, suspecting—or rather knowing—he’d be hiding his laughter due to the presence of the two unwelcome ruffians. Despite knowing each other since adolescence, Thomas was still infuriating. Especially when he looked at her as little more than a younger sister rather than a grown woman.

She glared ahead and gathered the reins, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the urge to look at him. Her blood boiled. Whether Thomas Ashby realized it or not, he would soon learn just how much of a woman she was today. After everything she had been forced to endure, there was no fear the man who captured her heart from the day he began working for her father eleven years before would be able to ignore her growth and wisdom.

Tears blurred her vision as the aftershock of their attack—or maybe the shock of seeing Thomas—set in. Her hands shook and Monica finally surrendered. She turned to look at him. He was focused on the men, his back turned to her as though she’d already left.

Pain lashed across her heart as she swallowed her tears and lifted the reins. Thomas Ashby would never see her cry.

The final mile home passed in a blur as she urged Wilson on. She and Stephanie jolted and cried out as they were tossed from side to side; their teeth snapping together and their heads bouncing as though they’d separated from their necks. Her mind should have been filled with the terror of their assailants overthrowing Thomas, hurting or killing him, but she could not rid the trepidation of once again being in the company of the man whom she’d once longed to call her own.

Memories of their laughter and games when out of sight of her parents; the teasing and testing that never quite crossed an invisible line . . .

How had she come to forget his effect on her? She might have forced Thomas from her memory in a bid to move on, to live and forget all the badness she felt every day at home; but she’d be lying if she said it wasn’t Thomas who was always the good and best part of Marksville. He had been everything that made living there bearable.

She straightened her spine. Thomas mattered not one whit. She would do what needed to be done for her parents and Jane, then return to Bath where she belonged.

 

Thomas wiped his bruised knuckles over his bottom lip and they came away bloody. Damn fools. If the bigger of the two hadn’t thought to walk some distance away, turn back, and try his luck at battering Thomas, all would have ended without violence. As it happened, the man decided to trust his single brain cell . . . while his accomplice used his and stayed back. The man had charged Thomas like a tiger released from the wilds of Africa.

One-on-one was always the preferable option in a fight rather than the scales being out of Thomas’s favor, but still, the broken nose—his opponent’s—a suspected broken rib or two—his opponent’s—a guaranteed black eye—his opponent’s—and Thomas’s split lip could have all been avoided if the man who apprehended Monica and Stephanie hadn’t made such a stupid decision.

Thomas stretched and flexed his fingers. It had been a long time since he’d been forced into a fight, yet he couldn’t deny how much he’d enjoyed the acquirement of his single injury and the giving of multiple.

For now, the men were gone and he very much doubted the residents of Biddestone would see them again anytime soon.

If he had to confront a man more than once, and that man was stupid enough to return, then Thomas would do whatever was necessary to ensure the perpetrator didn’t have the chance to bother anyone else in town. The village was a good place. A place he was proud to have lived and worked his entire life. No one—especially an outsider—came to Biddestone and left upset or carnage in their wake.

Mounting Jake, he pulled the stallion around to start the short journey back to Marksville. As much as he wanted to avoid seeing Monica again, he wouldn’t rest easy until he was sure she and Stephanie were safely ensconced in the house and not as shaken as he suspected.

He clicked his tongue and commanded Jake into a gallop. The wind whipped past Thomas as his mind reeled. As soon as he’d drawn close enough to see Monica standing with a rifle on her shoulder, her jaw set and one eye closed as she stared down the barrel, his gut had tightened with unmistakable lust and admiration, as well as an infinite amount of fear for her life.

The woman was toting a loaded rifle, for crying out loud. What was she thinking? Then again, when did she ever think? Damn impulsive, hot-blooded female. He smirked. God, but he couldn’t deny how much it pleased him to see her like that rather than the quiet, untouchable specimen she was as a girl in her formative years. His smile dissolved. A girl who’d grown into a woman in front of his eyes and whom he’d been too blind to see would never be contained within such a gilded cage.