Rebel Baron

by Henke, Shirl

  “She was making sure we were diverted while they seized Mrs. Auburn,” St. John said when Brand and Mathias caught up to them.

  “No doubt. Come on. We've no time to waste. I'll guard Reba while we ride,” Brand said as he climbed inside the carriage. Mathias and Sin jumped onto the driver's box, leaving the old man standing in the street as they took off in a mad dash toward the warehouse district.

  * * * *

  Miranda stared at Kent Aimesley as if she'd never seen him before in her life. “Why are you doing this?” she blurted out when he entered the small office in the warehouse where she had been confined for the past hour.

  ‘‘Why, indeed,” he replied rhetorically. “You certainly weren't naïve enough to believe I was still carrying an unrequited tendresse for you after all these years? No? Well, then, why do you suppose I went to work for the man you married and stayed to work under a woman when he died?”

  The contempt in his voice and the sneer twisting his mouth made him look like a man she had never known...a dangerous, evil stranger. “Will and I paid you well and advanced you to a position of great importance,” she replied numbly.

  He raised one pale eyebrow and looked down on her with open scorn. “Oh, you paid me well enough—for a bloody glorified clerk! I slaved for you. Without me, that foolish old man—not to mention a mere female—would never have been half as successful as you've been. Now at last I'll receive what is due me.”

  Though it was patently untrue, Miranda knew that Aimesley believed his rantings about how he, not she, was responsible for the vast empire she had built. “Where are Lori and Tilda?” she asked, trying to focus on him so she could figure out how to proceed. “If you've harmed them, I swear—”

  “They're here. A bit uncomfortable amid the boxes and bales, but safe for the nonce. I wouldn't dream of seeing harm come to my new ward.”

  The words were clipped and cold. Miranda's heart froze. “You intend to kill me and Tilda, then take over my business? Become Lori's guardian?”

  “Who else? You're estranged from what little family Auburn left in Liverpool. Only a few distant cousins and an elderly uncle, as I recall. I'm confident the courts will see that I should be her guardian. After all, who better to oversee the young lady's assets...and choose her husband? A nice irony for Will Auburn's daughter after he took you away from me.”

  “You know I had no choice in that,” she replied before realizing what she was saying.

  He stiffened angrily. “You had one after the old man died! But even then you made it quite clear that you had never cared for me.”

  “All you wanted was my money. Not me.” Her voice was flat. How sad that everything in her life seemed to turn on her own inadequacy as a woman. But there were more important things than her fate, she realized as Aimesley gave a hollow laugh. She had to save her daughter from this monster. God only knew what sort of man he'd force Lori to wed. Someone he could control. Someone who would care no more about Lori than Kent Aimesley did about her.

  Miranda felt the big Irishman's malevolent presence behind her. The ruffian leaning against a filing cabinet in a corner of the room had taken her reticule and searched it. Satisfied with the decoy “weapon”—a letter opener he had found—he had not attempted to search her person further. The gun felt heavy, hidden in the folds of a pocket in her full skirt. She might be able to get both men into her sights, but what of the mute? He'd vanished into the interior of the building through another door. Were there more of Kent's employees inside?

  As if in answer to her question, a short, fat man nattily dressed in a gray suit came bustling through the door. “Good. You've got her. After Mrs. Auburn's sad ole drowning accident, the railway contract will come to me.”

  He was an American, but Miranda had never before seen the fellow. “Who are you?” she asked, wondering if she dared to stand up and try moving to get the three men in her sights.

  “You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” he drawled with a nasty snigger. “Fetch her along, O'Connell. Nutter is bringing the old nigra female. You two,” he said, turning to Miranda, “are going on a boat ride...only you ain't comin' back.”

  * * * *

  “We can't ride up and alert them,” Sin warned as they neared the building where Mathias had seen the men take Miranda. He eyed Reba speculatively. “And we'd be wise to keep her bound and gagged while we set about rescuing Mrs. Auburn.”

  “You wouldn't dare touch me,” she hissed.

  “He won't have to sully his hands with you,” Brand replied, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and twisting it into a strong bond with which to tie her hands. When she opened her mouth to let out a warning scream, he stuffed the handkerchief instead into her mouth, then pulled her roughly across the seat. “Don't tempt me to wring your neck, Reba. I'll do it in a trice if anything happens to Miranda.”

  Before she could spit out the gag, Sin offered him a length of leather from the coach's tack with which to bind her wrists and another to secure the gag. They worked quickly, then locked her inside the carriage and set Mathias as guard and lookout while they walked around the corner to search for a way to enter the warehouse undetected. In moments they were inside after utilizing St. John's skills as a lockpick.

  “Comes in handy now and again,” was all he said, shrugging, when Brand lifted one eyebrow in surprise.

  Feeble beams of moonlight glowed through small, high windows. Towering piles of crates, barrels and boxes filled the vast building, giving off the aromas of spices, leather and other exotic goods. Whispering softly, they agreed to split up and circle the room in search of Miranda.

  Halfway around the circuit, Brand came upon a narrow slit of light issuing from beneath a closed door. He moved forward and waited for Sin. As soon as the little man reached him, they decided Sin would create a diversion to draw out whoever was inside while Brand waited to jump him.

  St. John knocked over a large pile of tea crates, creating a fearful clatter. A stocky man brandishing a truncheon flung open the door with an oath and bellowed, “That you, Dusty? Didn' take long to drown the wenches, did it?”

  Brand seized him around the neck in a choke hold that sent the club flying. “Now,” he said as he tightened his hold until the man's eyes began to bulge, “where is Mrs. Auburn? Tell me and be quick about it or I'll turn my friend loose on you.”

  St. John advanced, the long blade of his sword-cane gleaming evilly in the dim light as he jabbed it in the man's gut. “Best heed him, old chap.”

  'T-they took 'em b-both,” he stammered.

  “Both?” Brand asked tightly.

  “The lady 'n the bla—” He cut himself short, noting Sin's dark color, then gulped, “the maid.”

  That's when Sin looked past Brand and their captive into the room from which he had emerged. Lorilee sat bound and gagged, tied to a chair. “It's Miss Auburn!”

  Brand shoved the man into the room so hard, he fell to the floor. While Sin continued holding him at sword's point, the baron took the gag from Lorilee' s mouth. Now he understood why Miranda had dismissed her guards and driver and had come here alone. “I should've thought of this,” he said angrily. “Have you seen your mother?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied, coughing from the dirty rag stuffed in her mouth for so many hours. “Do they have Mother, too? I was so afraid that's what would happen. I haven't seen anyone except the two ruffians who abducted us. But an awful little man who couldn't talk came and took Tilda just a few moments ago.”

  ‘‘Where did they take the women?” Sin asked the man on the floor. “You're not mute, but I can arrange it so you will be if you don't tell us,” he said, raising the point of his blade to the man's mouth.

  His captive paled. “The river. There be a barge out back, off the wharf.” He scooted away from the menacing tip of the blade as he spoke.

  “And you're going to show us the way,” Brand said as he freed Lorilee from her bonds. “Wait here. Lock the door behind us and don't come out unt
il we return,” he instructed the terrified girl.

  They took off at a run, shoving the huffing kidnapper before them as he led the way down to the wharf. A lonely whistle blew in the distance, and the stench of phosphorus and sewage wafted up from the lapping water as they dashed over the wooden planks. The place seemed utterly deserted.

  Were they too late?

  * * * *

  Miranda and Tilda exchanged signals as the men led them toward a barge tied at the end of the long pier. Tilda's bonds had been removed, but her circulation had been cut off for so long that she had difficulty walking. In spite of it, Miranda knew she would be a fierce fighter in the struggle to come. The fat man and Aimesley led the way, while O'Connell and the mute walked behind them. The Irishman had appropriated the hansom driver's truncheon. He kept slapping it in his hand as a reminder of what the women could expect if they gave their captors any trouble.

  I have a gun in my pocket, Miranda mouthed silently to Tilda when she was certain the men behind them could not see. Tilda barely nodded, then flashed her eyes toward the barge, indicating that it would be best to wait until one or two of the men climbed aboard before attempting anything. Now Miranda nodded.

  Unaware, the conspirators discussed the railway contract.

  “We'll sail for home tomorrow, but I'm relyin' on you to take care of everything on this end,” the fat man said.

  “With Miranda Auburn found drowned, no one will question my taking over her business affairs,” Aimesley replied. “I'll quietly withdraw our offer to the Union Pacific for the loan and the shipping contract. Everything. I shall be prostrate with grief, of course.”

  “You wretched miscreant,” Miranda hissed.

  “Never fear,” he said, turning back to her, “I shall take excellent care of your daughter.”

  “I imagine you have a suitable husband already picked out. One who'll do whatever you say.” They neared the barge. She held her breath as O'Connell walked around them and began to untie the heavy ropes securing it to the pier. The little mute stayed in the shadows like a jackal.

  “Rest assured I have the perfect husband in mind,” Aimesley said in a pleased tone of voice. “You were going to marry her to an older man. A pity I don't have a title like your Rebel Baron, and I am a bit older than he— but not as old as Will Auburn when he wed you.”

  “You wouldn't dare! Lori would never consider—”

  “She has no idea I'm involved in this ‘unfortunate accident.’ She'll be prostrate with grief and rely on me. Anyway, I'll give her little choice in the matter.”

  He was gloating, but Miranda reined in her temper, reinforced by a gentle nudge from Tilda, reminding her that this was their only chance. The women exchanged hand signals indicating that Tilda would attack Aimesley while Miranda jumped free so she could pull her weapon from its hiding place.

  The Irishman grunted as he struggled with the ropes. In a moment the ropes would be loose and he would close in on them again. It was now or never. Tilda lowered her head suddenly and ran at the tall, thin man, butting him squarely in the stomach so he flew back against the edge of the barge, which was bobbing waist-high in the water. The fat man reached out with an oath, his fist swinging at Tilda while Miranda stepped back. She could see O'Connell out of the comer of her eye, jumping up to aid his employers as she started to pull the revolver from her pocket. It caught in the folds of her skirt.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  O'Connell was upon her and they struggled until he clipped her jaw with one meaty fist and tossed her over the edge of the barge. He remained unaware that she had a gun. Miranda landed on the hard metal bottom and struck her head a glancing blow. Everything went black for a moment as she struggled to remain conscious. She could hear the curses and shrieks as Tilda vented her wrath on their would-be killers. At the same time she heard other voices echoing down the pier from the wharf above.

  Did one voice sound like Brandon's? Surely the blow to her head was causing her to imagine things! Miranda seized hold of a crude wooden bench and tried to regain her footing so she could withdraw the wretched gun from where it was caught in her skirt, but the world spun crazily around her.

  Then she saw his beloved figure through the fog-drenched light, running down the pier with St. John at his heels. As if they'd rehearsed it, the baron and St. John each chose a target after the major used the butt of his pistol to crack their “guide” on the head, crumpling him to the pier. O'Connell fired at Brandon, eliciting a scream from Miranda, but the Irishman missed.

  Not daring to use his Remington because the women were in his line of fire, Brand took advantage of the diversion Tilda was causing to duck and dodge as he closed on the big Irishman. Sin engaged the mute, who leaped agilely at him with a wicked blade drawn, an inarticulate, growling cry coming from his mutilated mouth.

  Caruthers connected with O'Connell, tackling him so they fell to the rough wooden planks with a deep thud, rolling and twisting. Brand smashed his foe's hand against the splintery edge of a piling, and the gun went flying. But the Irishman had a knife in the other almost instantly. The two of them rolled dangerously near the edge of the pier, wrestling for control of the blade.

  Although Tilda had been struck on the left shoulder by the fat man's fist, she shrugged away the pain and rounded on Aimesley just as he withdrew a small pistol from his waistcoat. Sin watched Tilda from the corner of his eye but then was forced to turn his full attention to the deadly little mute, who held the long stiletto in one hand while a small derringer instantly materialized in the other. Using his sword-cane to slash neatly across the mute's wrist, he disposed of the gun, but the little man ignored his bleeding left hand and began weaving in a deadly arc with his blade while evading St. John's longer weapon.

  “That's for Miss Lori,” Tilda cried as her good arm came crashing down on Aimesley’s wrist when he fired at Sin's back. The shot went wild, splintering the wood of the pier. “And that's for Miss Miranda,” she added, raising her skirts for good aim as her long leg flew upward and the tip of her pointy-toed boot connected solidly with his genitals. Kent Aimesley collapsed in an ungainly heap.

  Brand and the Irishman were evenly matched in size and strength. O'Connell fought like the cornered rat he was, but the baron had an even more desperate need. He had seen this man raise his fist to Miranda. The ruffian would pay dearly for that. Coming up on top of his foe, Brand held O'Connell’s knife hand at bay while smashing the Irishman's face.

  Miranda watched the deadly battle, blinking hard to clear her vision. The big thug once more rolled on top of Brand. Suddenly, sausage-like fingers bit painfully into her upper arm as the fat man jerked her against him. Giving up on aiding Aimesley in his battle with Tilda, he had clamored aboard the barge to use his last desperate bargaining chip.

  “I'll kill the woman,” he yelled just as Brand's fist once again landed a thundering blow to O'Connell's throat. The baron was on top again and pummeling the Irishman insensate. Sin had just succeeded in disarming his foe. He realized the danger to Miranda before Brand emerged from the killing haze enveloping him.

  “For once in her life, Reba told the truth. I say, you look remarkably well for a dead man, Wilcox...a bit bloated perhaps.” St. John studied the pudgy man holding Miranda in his grasp with a gun jammed in her side.

  Earl Wilcox was trembling so fearfully, he could barely hold the weapon to her side. Rivulets of foul-smelling sweat ran down his face, soaking into his starched collar. Miranda remained perfectly still as Brand climbed up and took a step toward them. “No, Brandon, don't—”

  “Yes, Caruthers, you bastard, please do. I'd love to shoot your woman in front of you—almost as much as I'd love to shoot you.”

  “If you harm her in any way, Earl, you'll die like the cowardly pig you are, choking on the vomit of your own fear while I gut you,” Brand ground out. But he did not move. “This is between you and me. You've always hated me. Coveted everything I ever had. Why not settle it now? Shoot me and be done with
it.”

  “No!” Miranda shrieked, knowing what Brand intended. If the fat man moved his gun to fire at Brandon, she could wrench free and St. John could shoot him. With O'Connell out cold and Aimesley lying moaning on the pier, everyone would be safe. Everyone but Brandon.

  “Right temptin' offer, Brand, but I think I'll play it safe,” Wilcox replied. His hand was steadier now and he was gaining some confidence. “Take their weapons, Nutter. Oh, by the way, y'all know why he's called ‘Nutter’? Use your imagination.” Earl chuckled at the little mute, who was standing several feet from Sin, with his good hand clamped tightly around his bleeding wrist.

  At once Nutter moved toward St. John. Miranda knew she had to act now or they would all die. Mimicking Reba, she gave an appallingly theatrical sigh and went utterly faint in his grasp. He cursed and tried to hold her up, but the barge was rocking on the current and he lost his balance. They both went down. Miranda managed to roll away from him. Without time to remove her Adams from its hiding place, she aimed at her large target and fired.

  The kick of the gun jolted her and the smell of powder and burned cloth filled her nostrils. Miranda coughed. Earl Wilcox died.

  Intent on reaching her, unable to see who had fired, Brand let out a roar as he raced to the barge, paying no heed to O'Connell. Sin and Tilda, too, were transfixed by the battle between Miranda and Wilcox. Nutter almost got past Sin. Almost. But Tilda saw the American reaching for the derringer he'd been forced to drop and cried out a warning. St. John swept up his blade just as Nutter tried to shoot him. Coming in low, he sent the tip of it up through the mute's heart.

  While no one was looking, O'Connell figured his chances. Wilcox and Nutter were down, but Aimesley was coming around and might be of some use. The Irishman lunged for his gun and rolled up, shaking away the blurry vision caused by the beating he'd just taken. A lifetime of street brawls had made him incredibly resilient. He took aim on Brandon Caruthers' s back and squeezed the trigger.