Rebel Baron

by Henke, Shirl

  He shrugged. “A little. One day, when you're older, I'm certain she'll tell you about it. But it's for her to tell, not me.”

  “You want her to tell you about it, too, don't you?”

  “Girl, you are a wonder,” he said with a grin. “Your mother could not ask for a finer daughter.”

  Suddenly, looking at him this way, she could see Brandon Caruthers, Lord Rushcroft, not as the violent older stranger who had frightened her, but rather as the male relative she'd never had and always wished for. Impulsively she leaned over and planted a light kiss on his cheek. “And she could not ask for a finer husband either, I think.”

  Standing at the bedroom window, Miranda looked down on the tender exchange below. It was scandalously bold and highly improper for Lori to be alone with Brand, but they were young and would soon be affianced. She could see them laughing and smiling at each other...hear the soft, deep drawl of his voice and Lori's clear, crisp English soprano carrying on the summer breeze, although she could not make out what they were saying.

  And then Lori kissed him before turning and dashing inside.

  Miranda gasped with the sudden pain of it, remembering how she'd held her hand after his lips had touched it. What would it feel like to place her lips to his beard-roughened cheek? Foolish, foolish old woman, she berated herself, ravaged by guilt. Her heart throbbed with a sorrow so deep it seemed to crush her very soul.

  Soon Lori would be up to bid her mother good night. How could Miranda face her daughter when she was in love with her child's husband-to-be?

  Chapter Twelve

  “This shall be ever so exciting,” Lorilee exclaimed as the ladies made their way across the open field where Brand was offering Jon his choice of weapons for their contest “I understand Lord Rushcroft is quite famous for his marksmanship.”

  “Considering how many men he must've killed in that barbaric war, I don't doubt he's a crack shot,” Abbie said sourly, clearly displeased that the women had been forced to take a carriage such a distance from the house for something as boring as a shooting contest.

  “A man tested on a battlefield is ever so romantic, don't you think, Mother?” Lorilee asked.

  “From what I've read about modern warfare, marksmanship has little to do with victory,” Miranda replied. “The objective is simply to overpower one's foe, usually by throwing more men into the field, regardless of casualties. That is one reason why the Union forces were able to defeat the Confederates. Their war was as senseless a bloodbath as ours in the Crimea.”

  It was not the reply Lori had hoped for, but she could still turn it to her advantage. “You and Lord Rushcroft understand history so well. I'm certain Abbie and I never will.”

  “Nor do we wish to,” Abbie added with a flippant toss of her curls. Then she smiled sweetly at Lori and asked, “Oh, would you mind terribly if Jon accepted an invitation from Mr. Winters and his wife for tea tomorrow...now that you're practically affianced yourself and all?”

  Miranda could have pulled Abigail's artfully coifed hair out by the roots. The petty girl knew how Geoffrey Winters' betrayal had hurt Lori. “I'm not certain—”

  But her daughter surprised her, shrugging with seeming indifference. “I would be happy to meet the baron's new neighbors. Since Pelham Manor is adjacent to Rushcroft Hall, it would be impolite to decline, wouldn't it, Mother?”

  Unsure, Miranda nodded. Was Lori so taken with Brandon Caruthers that all thoughts of Pelham's worthless son had been banished? That would be wonderful. It would, she repeated to herself.

  “I understand they have a houseguest visiting them from the baron's home...someplace called Kentuck, I believe.”

  “That is Kentucky,” Miranda corrected the girl, whom she was growing to dislike more by the moment.

  “Mother knows so much more of the world. Just as the baron does. I've never been interested in geography or politics, much less warfare,” Lori said with an ingenuous smile.

  Miranda wondered at that odd pronouncement. Her daughter had always been a bright and curious student. But before she could consider it further, they were hailed by the men. Brand wore a simple hunting coat and riding breeches that emphasized his broad shoulders and long, powerful horseman's legs. He looked quite ruggedly masculine compared to Jon Belford's dandyish appearance in an expensive woolen suit with high starched collar. The baron's face was darkly tanned, burnished by sun and wind, while the younger man's pale complexion indicated that he spent a good deal more time in drawing rooms than he did outdoors.

  To any proper Englishwoman, the earl's son should have been far more pleasing, but Miranda perversely found herself admiring Brand's lazy drawl and sunny smile as he greeted them. His sun-bleached hair tumbled across his forehead and he combed it back carelessly with one hand. She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat and willed her heart to slow its rapid beat.

  Even that scar adds to his appeal. Damn the man! Guiltily she looked at Lori to gauge her daughter's reaction. If the girl was smitten, she concealed it well, making her curtsy to the gentlemen with equal charm and indifference. I'm seeing what I wish to see.

  “Well, now, I'm delighted you ladies are interested in our humble masculine pastimes,” Brand said, winking at Miranda. She looked utterly fetching in a simple day gown of moss green cotton, which contrasted dramatically with the richness of her burnished red hair. He forced himself to turn his attention to Lori and Abbie. “I promise, we won't take long,”

  “Mother was explaining about marksmanship and warfare. I imagine it's quite romantic,” Lori said.

  “Not really. Target shooting and hunting for game one plans to eat is well and good, but war...well, that is another matter altogether; and I can assure you it isn't romantic in the least,” he replied gently.

  “You were on the losing side, I understand,” Belford said, as if that explained the baron's aversion to war.

  Insufferable pup. Yesterday afternoon, Brand had regretted daring the young fool to a shooting contest. He'd been angered by the boy's arrogance and wanted to take him down a peg, but in the clear light of morning, the gesture seemed petty. He had decided to play the gracious host and lose gracefully—until just now.

  “Yes, we lost the war. If not for that, I wouldn't be here,” he replied curtly.

  “You cannot mean you'd have turned down entering the peerage to remain a Kentucky horse farmer!” Abbie exclaimed disbelievingly.

  “I fear he would have done precisely that, impossible as it is for you to imagine,” Miranda said dryly. When she turned to the baron, she had a gleam in her eyes.

  He returned the look before asking Jon Belford briskly, “Shall we begin?”

  He motioned to the tin dishes suspended from tree limbs at intervals between twenty-five and seventy-five yards distant and indicated Varley's son should choose his target.

  In spite of the breeze that would make the shots more difficult, Jon chose the farthest one. And missed. He tried again on a closer target with the same result, biting his lip and clenching his jaw in frustration. “My weapon appears to be a bit off,” he said stiffly.

  “I'll check it...with your permission?” Brand asked, extending his hand for the pistol.

  “Certainly,” Jon replied, handing over the gun.

  Brand opened the cylinder and examined it, then snapped it closed and aimed with negligent ease. He smoothly pulled the trigger and hit the closest mark dead center. Without hesitating, he fired a second round at the next target, then the farthest one. All three tins spun like tops. “No, I don't believe the weapon is malfunctioning. Perhaps you're more accustomed to long arms, shooting moving targets such as deer or grouse. During hunting season, we'll have to give it a go.”

  “I shall look forward,” Belford replied, red-faced.

  “Mother, a thought just occurred,” Lori said with a bright smile. “Since you insist on going to the City alone on business, perhaps learning to shoot a pistol would be a wise precaution. What do you think, my lord?” she asked, turning to
Brand.

  “I'd be delighted to give you instructions, ma'am,” he said with a lazy grin, daring her before she could refuse. “After all, with so many unpropertied creatures about, a propertied female must know how to protect herself and her possessions.”

  “Well, my ears are aching from the noise, and that awful smell of gunpowder gives me a headache,” Abbie declared, oblivious to the interplay between Mrs. Auburn and the baron.

  “I shall be delighted to take you back to the house, my dear,” Jon replied.

  “I'll join you,” Lori chimed in, looking at her mother. “You and Lord Rushcroft can meet us in the drawing room for luncheon.” She gave Miranda a quick peck on the cheek before seizing Abbie and Jon by their arms and setting a brisk pace back to their carriage.

  “I have two fully operational Adams revolvers. You have my word they're not defective in any way,” Brand said to Miranda as the younger trio set off.

  “The only thing defective here is Varley's impertinent son—and the chit he plans to marry,” she blurted out before realizing how improper such a pronouncement was. But before she could retract her rash words, Brand threw back his head and gave a hearty laugh.

  “I was going to let him win until he made that ugly remark about the war.”

  A grudging glint of amusement danced in her eyes as she replied, “Considering he could not hit a single target, I doubt that would’ve been possible, unless you contrived to shoot your own foot off. A stretch for even the most charming of Southern gentlemen.” She mimicked his drawl almost perfectly.

  Brand convulsed with laughter. “Believe me, I'm not that charming,” he replied, stepping closer to her. She smelled faintly of lavender. Quashing an insane urge to pull the pins from her gleaming mass of hair and bury his hands in it, he offered her the second gun, butt first.

  Miranda stared down at the weapon. No, not the gun, but the lean, elegant hand holding it. He was without gloves once more. She could see several small white scars and fine tufts of gold hair on the backs of his long fingers. “I—I don't know ...”

  “Here, don't be afraid of it,” he murmured, curving her fingers around the grip of the Adams. “I'll guide you, and I promise 'pon my honor not to shoot either of our feet off.”

  “But I might,” Miranda murmured breathlessly as he stood behind her, guiding her to raise her arm and point the pistol to the closest target.

  “Now place your index finger on the trigger...just so, and line up the sight on the barrel with the rear notch. See?” His hand held hers as he helped her aim, looking over her shoulder.

  Miranda could smell the clean essence of male, shaving soap and sunshine that she always associated with him. Biting down on her lip, she forced the thought aside and concentrated on following his instructions. If only she did not feel the heat of his body, the pressure of his larger hand curving around her smaller one, the warmth of his breath whisper soft against her ear.

  I will do this.

  “Now squeeze gently,” he murmured.

  She did, and the tin dish went spinning with a small hole in it. “I can't believe I hit it!” she cried with a whoop of joy.

  “You're a far better shot than Varley's cub, and this is only your first try,” he said with a beaming smile.

  She looked up at him with mock indignation. “Considering how abysmal he is, that is a poor compliment indeed. Besides, you guided my aim, so I can scarcely take credit.”

  “Not true. You're too modest.”

  “Now there's something my business rivals would deny vehemently,” she replied, backing away a step. His nearness made her dizzy. Or was it merely the ringing in her ears from the shot?

  “Let's try it again,” he suggested, once more moving close to her and guiding her aim.

  Miranda tried to pay attention to what he was saying, but it was difficult when she was so keenly aware of his body close to hers. She'd never realized quite how tall he was...or how hard his muscles would feel when he touched her, however innocently. She focused on the second dish and forced herself to take a steadying breath before firing.

  Once more the tin pinged. ”I did it again!”

  “You're a natural,” he said with a grin. “Here, let's try—”

  Before he could say more, another shot rang out from the woods across the field.

  “Down!” Brand cried out, pulling her beneath him as he rolled to the ground. At that same instant a second shot whistled directly above them.

  Miranda lay on the warm earth with his long body covering hers protectively. She was breathless, crushed by his weight yet oddly comforted at the same time. For all his leanness, he was surprisingly heavy. She could feel the muscles in his arms and legs, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed much more rapidly now than when they were standing. She grew very still.

  “Are you hurt?” he whispered.

  “Only out of breath from—no, no, I'm not hurt,” she quickly amended.

  “We have to keep that tall grass between us and whoever is shooting.” As he spoke he slipped a cartridge into the chamber of his pistol. “At least we have two guns and some ammunition.”

  “You don't think whoever that is will come closer, do you? Surely someone will hear the shooting.”

  “Since we're here with pistols to fire at targets, I doubt anyone will pay attention.” His eyes traveled along the edge of the woods, searching the treelike in the distance for any sign of movement. “But our enemy is obviously using a rifle. If Sin or the old gamekeeper hear it, either would know something's wrong.”

  “And if they don't?” she whispered.

  “Then we're in considerable trouble.” Brand knew that if they remained lying on the ground out in the open, the man trying to kill them could circle closer and finish the job. He could see nothing moving in the direction from which the shots had come, but that only indicated their enemy knew the territory and was experienced at this sort of thing. Hardly reassuring.

  Feeling Miranda's soft curves beneath him was distracting him, and he could not allow that. Spying a small shed about fifty feet across the field where the yardman kept his tools, he said to her, “We're going to make a run for that shed. When I pull you up, I want you ahead of me. Pick up your skirts and run like hell, Miranda. No time for modesty. All right?”

  When his face loomed above hers, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her mouth, Miranda could scarcely focus on what he was saying, but somehow she managed to croak, “No modesty. Yes.”

  With that, he stood up and pulled her in front of him, shoving her toward the shed door, which, as in so many of the Hall's outbuildings, sat ajar on rusted hinges. She grabbed her skirts in both hands and took off, hearing his footsteps directly behind her. When she almost stumbled on a rock, his arm shot out and grabbed her elbow, urging her onward. Another shot, this time closer, whizzed by them.

  He could be killed by a bullet meant for me! As she ran, she prayed, practically diving through the door with Brand on her heels.

  “Stay down,” he commanded as he shoved the door almost shut and peered out of the crack. When he heard the sound of voices and Sin yelling for Fergus the gamekeeper to check the woods, he turned to Miranda with a grin. “I think we've been rescued.”

  “Thank heaven,” she breathed.

  “I didn't know English ladies played at sports. You sprint like an Olympian goddess.”

  Miranda felt suddenly light-headed now that the danger had passed...or had it? She stared into Brandon Caruthers' fierce tiger's eyes and shivered.

  “Wait here.” With that, he was gone, calling out to St. John to guard her as he joined Fergus in a search of the woods.

  ****

  They found nothing but a set of footprints that quickly vanished in thick field grass at the opposite side of the stand of oaks and dense underbrush. That field lay on Pelham land, and Geoffrey Winters was in residence over the weekend. For once, Brand would be happy to pay a teatime visit.

  Within the hour, the forma
l invitation from Pelham Manor arrived requesting the honor of their presence for tea, just as promised. The note indicated the Winters, too, had a weekend guest. Such a neighborly gesture, Brand thought cynically as Jon and Abbie exclaimed in delight. He wondered how Lorilee would feel about socializing with the woman for whom Winters had deserted her and decided to ask Miranda's advice.

  But she had been skittish when he returned from the fruitless search of the woods and had avoided him since. Wanting to speak with her alone, he learned from Lori that she'd retired to a small sunroom off the main parlor. Bright golden light shone through the newly washed windowpanes and set her dark red hair aflame with brilliant highlights. He stood in the doorway, silently staring at the heavy mass of it, caught in a loose chignon at her nape. He wondered what it would look like falling freely down her back.

  She sensed his eyes on her and looked up from the book she was reading. Her expression mirrored his. Startled…bemused…hungry…

  Blinking to break the spell, she said, “Good afternoon, Major. I trust you're feeling well.”

  Needing to break out of his dangerous reverie, he put on a lazy grin and answered, “As well as a man who's narrowly escaped death ever does. The more important question seems to be, how are you faring, ma'am?”

  “I'm fine, thank you. Oh, I took the liberty of borrowing a book from your library.” She held up a moth-eaten volume.

  He strolled casually into the room and glanced at the title on the spine. “Shakespeare again. No wonder you can quote the bard so well. The selections left in the library leave little enough choice. I'm happy you found something to your liking.”

  They stared into each other's eyes in silence, she looking up at him, he down at her. Finally Miranda broke the quiet connection by asking, “Is there something in particular you wanted, Major?” The moment she spoke the words, she knew heat was stealing into her face. The man made her commit gaffes she never would with anyone else! His slow smile revealed his understanding of her unintentional double entendre.