by Henke, Shirl
Lori voiced her mother's worst fears when she asked, "Do you think she'd harm me to spite the baron?" Before Miranda could respond, she continued, "That would make no sense whatever, since it has been you, not I, who's been the target of all these ‘accidents."
“I must admit you're right.” Miranda did not sound convinced. “However, just as a precaution, from now on you'll go nowhere without a pair of sturdy and loyal footmen to see to your safety.”
“Only if you promise to do likewise,” Lori countered. Her expression turned grave. “I know you've come within a hairsbreadth of being killed several times in London and now here. Please be careful, Mother,” she admonished, grasping Miranda's hands in hers. “Stay close to the baron. He's used to such danger and can protect you better than anyone else.”
Miranda knew that was true. She could still feel the bullets whizzing around them and Brand throwing her to the ground, covering her with his own body, then offering himself as a human shield while he helped her to the shed. The other feelings, when he'd lain on top of her, pressing her into the soft earth...those she pushed to the furthest recesses of her mind.
And now her daughter's trust made her feel horribly guilty.
* * * *
Lori surprised everyone that evening by insisting on a picnic. Miranda's protests that such an outing might not be safe after the incident that morning fell on deaf ears as Jon and Abbie joined Lori's cause. Even the baron added his agreement, saying that if they invited the Winters and Mrs. Wilcox, surely they'd be safe. Jon had given him an odd look at that point, but did not make any comment other than agreeing to send an invitation for the Sunday outing.
While the women gathered in the parlor after dinner, Brand left Belford to his own devices, which meant turning him loose on what remained of Rushcroft' s badly depleted wine cellar. He wanted to talk with Sin and see what, if anything, his friend had learned through servants' gossip here in the countryside. Making his way across the garden in route to the stables and their outbuildings, he was surprised to hear Tilda's voice blended with St. John's.
Odd that she would walk out with Sin after the way the two of them had fought on the carriage ride from the railway station Friday afternoon. She actually sounded as if she were laughing! Was Sin winning her over? The man had charm enough to draw birds from the trees—but he was seldom motivated to employ it.
Brand waited in the shadows, not wanting to interrupt, but then he heard Sin protesting, “Now, love, don't be so starchy.”
“You are beyond absurd, suggesting such an utterly ridiculous thing! And I am most certainly not your love,” she huffed, spinning about on her heel and taking off toward the house, practically colliding with Brand, who jumped back to avoid her, impaling himself on the thorns of a privet hedge in the process.
She flew by in the darkness without even seeing the lord of the manor.
Wincing as he pulled his tattered shirt from the prickly branches, Brand muttered, “Another bloody tailor's bill.”
“Eavesdropping to learn my technique?” St. John inquired dryly.
“Only if I decide to become celibate,” Brand retorted. “What the devil did you do to set her off? I thought I heard laughter just before that explosion.”
Sin shrugged, heading back inside the dilapidated stables to the temporary quarters he'd furnished for himself while they worked with the new foals. “Oh, she was laughing all bloody right. At me.” He sounded affronted. “I merely suggested the cook could prepare a basket for the two of us and we'd have our own picnic on the morrow.”
“Without benefit of chaperone?” Brand asked. “I'm surprised she didn't slap your face for such impropriety.”
St. John gave a broad grin, revealing a perfect set of teeth. “She was here sans chaperone, was she not? My Goliath will come around. And I'll have a feast for us to share. I've already spoken to the cook.”
“Your self-confidence borders on the suicidal,” Brand replied dubiously, picking a tiny thorn from his shoulder. “What have you heard in the village?”
“This is the first time since he's been out of knee britches that Winters has visited his father's seat except for grouse and fox hunting, which, as you know, take place during the autumn, not the heat of summer.”
“You don't think it has anything to do with his precipitous marriage and its repercussions?”
“If by that you mean that he's without funds to spend in London, no. He's paid some of his creditors from the racetracks. The fellow has an absolute gift for choosing poor horseflesh, yet he has funds to indulge his misspent passion. Oh, still nothing on O'Connell. He's dropped from the face of the earth.”
Brand stroked his jaw consideringly. “Winters is in debt, his father's cut him off, his new father-in-law keeps him on a tight leash, and still he has money. Where is he getting it...and why, if he has it, is he rusticating in the countryside?”
“Perhaps he's only deposited his unfortunate bride here and intends on leaving her after a decent interval?”
“With Reba on his arm? Somehow I doubt even poor Varinia Winters would stand for that insult. What do the gentry hereabouts make of my countrywoman?”
“Allow me to venture that she's not about to win over the vicar,” Sin said dryly.
“Has she had any opportunity to hire someone locally who could’ve fired those shots?”
“I heard rumors about poachers in the vicinity, but I don't know if she'd have any means of employing them. One could scarcely summon them to Pelham Manor like interviewing footmen for positions.”
“My gut tells me that either she or Geoffrey is behind the attempt to kill Miranda.”
At Brand's Christian naming of Mrs. Auburn, St. John's eyebrows rose slightly. “Miranda?” he echoed, watching his friend's face darken.
“Ever since her daughter came to call...oh, hell...I've been thinking ...”
Sin laughed. “Always a dangerous thing, especially when it concerns the female of the species.”
“Then why are you so determined to woo her Amazonian maid?”
“When you grow as old and wise as I, you'll come to understand that there are some challenges a man must accept simply because they are there. No other reason at all.”
Brand gave him a disbelieving snort and headed back to the house.
There he spent a restless night dreaming of Miranda Auburn's fiery hair spread across white sheets, her soft curves beneath his hands, her intoxicating scent filling his senses. Toward dawn he tossed away the covers and paced naked around the shabby room, wondering if down the hallway, the lady in question gave him so much as a thought.
A man accepts some challenges simply because they are placed in his path? Like feeling an impossible attraction for a woman rich enough to buy and sell him a thousand times over? After donning a robe, he took a seat at the window and watched the sun rise. What was he going to do once the danger to Miranda was over? Walk away from her?
"To use your own phrase, Sin, not bloody likely. Not bloody likely at all."
* * * *
The day was cool and clear, the sun brilliant in an azure sky as the party assembled at the Rushcroft stables after Sunday church. In addition to Jon and Abbie, Miranda and Lori, the Winters had been invited on the picnic. As an unavoidable courtesy, Mrs. Wilcox had also been included, but Varinia happily proffered their unpleasant houseguest's apologies that morning at the conclusion of worship. On impulse, Brand extended an invitation to the vicar's son and his new bride, a charming couple who lived in the village nearby.
One servant loaded baskets filled with roast pheasant and venison pies, peas in sherry butter, fresh raspberries with clotted cream, and crusty loaves of bread warm from the ovens. Another hefted ice-filled buckets of wine and even one with a luscious trifle of layered custard and fresh fruits. Although he could ill afford it, Brand intended that the revelers would feast like Queen Victoria herself.
The Winters and the vicar's son and his wife arrived while Sin oversaw the selection of horses
for the houseguests. Lori cooed with delight at the dappled gray mare she was to ride, while Abbie and Jon were well pleased with their fine mounts from the baron's stables. Brand noticed Miranda standing back and recalled her reticence about riding that day in Hyde Park.
“I have the perfect horse for you,” he said, even though she wore a simple cotton gown instead of a riding habit. “I guarantee Milky Way will treat you like the crown jewels. He's that gentle.”
Miranda shook her head even as Lori protested, “Oh, Mother, this is the perfect opportunity to learn. I have another habit, and we're enough of a size that it would fit you.”
Without allowing his gaze to move to Miranda's fuller breasts, Brand could see that otherwise she and her daughter were both slender and could well exchange clothes, although Lori's skirts might be a bit too short for her taller mother. “Go put on the habit while I saddle Milky for you. He's a pure white gelding and quite a gentleman,” he coaxed with a winning smile.
“No, really, I've never been on horseback and...well”—she leaned closer to Brand and whispered, “the great beasts terrify me. There, are you satisfied?”
With a soft chuckle, he threw up his hands. “All right, you leave me no choice then. I shall ride on one of the wagons with you.”
“Don't be absurd. The other young people will ride well ahead of the wagons, and you don't want to miss all the fun,” she pointed out.
“I ride at dawn every day. When I'm working I'm on horseback all day long. One afternoon off won't bother me a whit,” he replied. “I'll drive one team and Sin shall drive the other, provided Miss Tilda will join him?” he asked, giving her a wink.
“Matchmaking, Major?” Miranda asked with a hint of a smile, uncertain what to make of the head stableman's pursuit of her lifetime companion. “Are his intentions honorable?” she teased primly.
“I doubt it, but having seen Miss Tilda in action, I can vouch she'll make certain he behaves himself.”
They shared a laugh as Jon issued last-minute instructions for stowing his croquet set in the second wagon. A disgruntled footman rearranged several boxes in order to accommodate the bulky set. “Where does Mr. Belford think he'll be able to play out in this hilly countryside?” Miranda asked.
"The goats have cleared quite a patch of grass near the small lake where we'll picnic. While we were in church being sanctified this morning, he was out scouting the site," Brand replied
“I'm sure you prayed for his soul,” she said.
“That I surely did. Now who, I wonder, will pray for mine? I can assure you I'm in far greater need than any callow boy.”
“Is that how you see them—callow in their youthful inexperience, I mean? I know none of the other young gentlemen have gone through the crucible of war as you have.” She studied him as he helped her onto the spring seat of the heavy wagon, taking the reins from the stableman standing patiently by.
“I'm older, yes. And war does things to a man. Not always for the better, I fear.” His smile was sunny, but pain underlay what he said.
“I'll pray for you, Major,” she replied quietly.
As the riders took off in a clatter of hooves and laughter, her eyes met his. And held. After a moment he said, “I need all the prayers I can get. Thank you, Miranda.”
He had no right to use her Christian name. They'd been through this before, but somehow she could not summon her earlier indignation. Was it really indignation or a defensive wall she erected to hold him at bay? Today, with the sun warm on their faces, she could not bring herself to spoil this dangerous sense of camaraderie.
As the others vanished over the hill, Lorilee was in the lead. “She's a fine rider,” Miranda felt duty bound to say, reminding them both of his obligations to her daughter.
“Yes, she is. You could be, too, if you'd let me teach you. Why are you afraid of horses?”
“It was nothing, really, just an unfortunate accident when I was a girl back in Liverpool. A team almost ran me down.”
“Ah, so you have always been accident-prone,” he teased, slapping the reins so the horses set out at a leisurely pace.
“The driver was drunk, but fortunately, my father snatched me from harm's way before there was any real danger.”
“I only wish these last weeks' events were that innocent.”
“Do you still believe Mrs. Wilcox could be involved?” she asked.
He nodded. “Well, it seems rather a coincidence that she showed up the same time the attempts on your life began. I only wish Sin and I could find out what she's up to.”
“At least she's not joining us today. I must confess to unchristian pleasure when I learned of her indisposition this morning,” Miranda said.
Brand threw back his head and laughed. “Did you hear why she's indisposed? Seems, according to sweet little Varinia, that Reba switched from sherry at teatime to claret with dinner—a rather significant amount of claret. I imagine she's spending the day clutching a porcelain bowl beneath her chin.”
Miranda's expression was positively gleeful. “I can think of no more suitable retribution. Oh, dear, there I go being unchristian again.”
She did not look one bit penitent. “Do I bring out the devil in you, Miranda?” he drawled with one of those lazy grins.
He was altogether too close to the truth for her to be comfortable. “No—that is, I'm quite capable of devilish behavior on my own. Ask any of the men whom I've bested in business.”
That wall again. She was rich and successful. He was poor and a failure. “We are different,” he said gloomily. “Everything you touch turns to gold. I've managed to lose my birthright in two countries.”
Miranda sensed that she had opened an old wound with her defensive reply and regretted it. “You're the baron, and that can never be taken away from you, any more than can your good name. As to the war...I imagine it must have been terrible to return and find your home in ruins.”
“It was all I had to keep me going in that hellish Yankee prison in Chicago.”
“But you escaped. Not even the—dare I say it?—damn Yankees could bend you to their will.”
He looked at her, trying to read those silver-gray eyes. What was she thinking? How much about his past did she know? Virtually all of it, he'd bet. “Your investigators were thorough. But I know virtually nothing about you. Tell me how you spent your childhood in Liverpool.”
“It was quite boring, really. My father owned an iron foundry, and I was the eldest child.”
“Siblings?” he prompted.
“A younger brother.”
“Would your father have been proud of the way you've succeeded in business?” Brand asked, intuiting the answer.
“No. He believed women should remain at home and have children, not run commercial empires.”
There was a wealth of sadness in her voice. How he wanted her to confide in him. Perhaps in time she would. Then again...perhaps not. I'm a fool to even imagine...
Ahead of them, Tilda sat stiffly beside Sin on the first wagon. Wishing to turn the conversation to a safer course, Miranda asked, “Why is Mr. St. John so intent on pursuing Tilda?”
Brand chuckled. “The challenge.”
In truth, although her companion continually protested her dislike of the horse trainer, Miranda feared that he was breaking down her resistance. Just as the major was breaking down hers. “Has he ever been married?”
“A confirmed bachelor. Until now.”
“I thought you said that his intentions weren't honorable.”
His eyes met hers, and his expression was very serious. ‘The right woman can change that for any man.”
Suddenly all sorts of impossible ideas began tumbling about in her mind as she groped for a proper response. He meant Lori had changed him...didn't he? But then, he'd been engaged before...although she could understand how a woman like Reba Wilcox would sour a man on matrimony.
“I suppose you're right,” she managed to reply, folding her hands primly in her lap to hide their tremb
ling. Once they arrived at the picnic site, she must get away from him before she did something utterly unthinkable.
Brand cursed to himself. He'd frightened her. He was rushing his fences, and he knew better. How the hell could he and Lori end this tangle with their courtship and still allow him to spend time with her mother? It was time for the clever Miss Auburn to give him the boot.
After that...well, who the hell knew what would happen? He was not even sure what he wanted to happen. He desired Miranda Auburn. But did he want to marry her? More to the point, would she even for one moment consider marrying a penniless baron who had been willing to sell himself to her?
Chapter Fourteen
The pool was really more of a small lake in a picturesque setting shaded by tall oaks. Sin had instructed one of the servants to clean and repair the dinghy yesterday so the young couples could take turns using it. That way those who were unwed could spend time in private conversation while remaining in clear sight of the rest of the party.
Once the picnic gear had been unloaded and the guests were milling about, Brand took his friend aside, asking, “Has Tilda agreed to your own private picnic?”
“She's in on our conspiracy with Miss Auburn, old chap. I played that ace, and she agreed to make herself scarce. The rest is up to you and the widow's most clever daughter.”
Looking at all the young people, Brand had his doubts but shrugged. “I'm not certain this whole scheme is wise. It seems to me you'll have a great deal more success with Tilda than I will with Miranda.”
“Never underestimate a pair of women with a plan,” Sin replied sagely. With that, he strolled over to Tilda and made an elegant bow, then assisted her back onto the wagon and drove away without a word.
None of the guests noticed them leave except Miranda, whose soft smile suggested to Brand that she approved of her maid's having a suitor. Behind that prim and businesslike exterior, did there beat the heart of a romantic? Somehow Brand doubted it, especially since he had nothing to offer her except himself. Could that possibly be enough?
