Rebel Baron

by Henke, Shirl

  Miranda was still clutching the gun with which she'd killed Earl Wilcox, unable to grasp the enormity of what she had done when the shot rang out. Brandon pitched forward at the side of the barge, her name on his lips as he went down. Then she saw the big Irishman standing behind him, aiming once more at his fallen enemy. Without a thought, she raised her weapon and fired before he could get off a second shot.

  A bright red splotch bloomed on his left shoulder, and the force of bullet sent him spinning around as he fell to the pier. Sin was on him in a trice, while Tilda scooped up his gun and leveled it on Aimesley.

  Miranda would never remember the unladylike way she scrambled over the side of the barge, skirts hiked up and legs showing. She jumped to the pier and knelt at Brandon's side, dropping the gun without realizing she had done it. The sound of police whistles shrilled in the distance, drawing nearer, but she was oblivious to them as she cradled her major's head in her lap and bent down to hear his whispered words.

  “You're a natural shot, darlin',” he murmured. A faint smile tugged at his lips, which looked bluish in the dim light.

  “Shh, my darling, don't try to talk. We have to get you to a doctor,” she whispered. She could feel the wetness of his blood soaking through her skirts. O'Connell had shot him in the back. Miranda knew that if a lung had been punctured, his chances of surviving were slim to none. She prayed as she tore away the bottom ruffle from her soft cotton petticoat and rolled it into a wad, pressing it against the wound.

  “Damned if that doesn't hurt almost as bad as the last time my father thrashed me...” he said on a low moan.

  Miranda bit her lip when he started to slip into unconsciousness. “You will not dare die on me, Major,” she commanded in her steadiest voice. Then more softly, as she stroked a lock of dark gold hair from his forehead, she murmured, “Please, my darling.”

  Brand heard Miranda's voice, strong and determined as ever. But had she called him “my darling”? Then the pain seared him when she adjusted her makeshift bandage around the hole in his back and everything faded into blackness...

  * * * *

  “The baron is a very fortunate man. The bullet missed his lung by a fraction of an inch. Nasty business digging it out, though,” Dr. Torres said as he replaced his instruments in his bag.

  “Will he be all right?” Miranda whispered, looking from the young doctor to Brandon's pale face. He was well dosed with laudanum but resting fitfully.

  “If fever doesn't set in...or an infection. I subscribe to the germ theory of disease. You must keep the wound clean. That's absolutely essential for the healing process. Try to get fluids down him, and keep him sedated so he doesn't toss about and reopen his injury. I'll be back tomorrow.”

  Miranda had used Dr. Micah Torres' services ever since Lorilee had come down with a mysterious fever as an eleven-year-old girl. He was considered one of the finest physicians in England, coming from a long line of healers practicing in London for generations. The young doctor possessed a reputation for being willing to implement new research from the Continent and even America. He had saved Lori when all the other so-called experts had said she would die.

  If only he could work a similar miracle with Brandon.

  “I shall oversee his care personally. He and his friend saved our lives,” she added. Her face flushed pinkly even though the doctor gave no indication of interest in why a prominent woman of business such as she would take an injured peer into her home, much less place him in her deceased husband's bed and nurse him herself. Let the gossips be damned.

  The fever Dr. Torres had feared did indeed come. Miranda spent the next three days at Brand's bedside in the large room adjacent to her own, allowing herself time to fall exhausted into her own bed for only a few hours here and there while Tilda spelled her. Lori, who had come through her ordeal with surprising aplomb, helped shoulder her mother's business responsibilities by acting as a liaison with Mr. Timmons.

  With Kent Aimesley in Newgate awaiting trial along with Reba Wilcox, Dustin O'Connell and his accomplice, Miranda's secretary and Lori had worked together to finalize the railway loan, iron contracts and shipping arrangements with Dr. Durant of the Union Pacific. Lori brought the sheaves of documents to the sickroom where the baron lay hovering between life and death. Distracted, Miranda would have signed anything placed before her. She did not even bother to read what Lori and Timmons asked her to look over.

  The details of the elaborate negotiations had just been completed when Lori tiptoed into the baron's bedroom on a sunny summer afternoon. It had been her father's once, but she had been too young to have much memory of that. Now she thought of it as belonging to Brandon Caruthers. Just as her mother so obviously did. All she had to do was make Miranda admit her feelings, a formidable task indeed.

  “You look a fright. Tilda says you haven't slept in days.”

  Miranda looked up from sponging Brandon's face. “Such flattery. I do thank you for your kind words, but I have matters on my mind a bit more pressing than getting my beauty rest.”

  Lori studied the dark circles beneath Miranda's eyes and the ratty braid of hair hanging over one shoulder. Her mother was wearing the same wrinkled gray dress she'd had on yesterday. “What good will it do the baron if you fall ill yourself?” Lori asked logically. “Then Tilda and the servants shall have double the duty and I'll be left in charge of Auburn Enterprises. The bank and shipyards, too,” she added impishly.

  “I feel fine, and missing a bit of sleep isn't going to harm me. Br—the baron's fever isn't contagious.”

  Just then he stirred in his sleep and she turned back to him, once again wringing the cloth in cool water and bathing his face with it. She started to pull down the covers so she could use it on his upper body but became aware that her maiden daughter was in the room. “It isn't proper for you to be here, Lori,” she said decorously.

  Lori let out a most indecorous snort. “That's precisely what Mr. Timmons said to me when I first walked into your office. You won't scandalize me by pulling down that sheet. It really covers very little.”

  “Honestly, Lorilee,” Miranda huffed, but just then Brandon's hand grazed hers. She returned to her task, ignoring her stubborn daughter.

  “The doctor believes the fever's about broken,” Lori ventured. “His color does look markedly better.”

  “He was awake for a few moments this morning,” Miranda said hopefully.

  “Oh? What did he say?’ Lori asked innocently.

  Miranda's face turned pink. “That, young lady, is none of your concern. Now, please go. I shall ring for help if I require it.”

  “Very well, I shall leave you two alone...again,” Lori replied, suppressing a chuckle as she imagined what Brand had said to elicit a blush from her mother.

  Brand heard the door close. He'd been drifting in and out of sleep for the past day or so—it was difficult to discern the passage of time when one was fever-shot. He knew that from old wounds suffered during the war. He also knew that Miranda had bathed and examined every scar on his body during this illness. She'd crooned to him and caressed him.

  Hell, she'd saved his life when O'Connell had downed him! But when he'd tried to tell her how he felt this morning, she'd run off like a scalded cat. All he'd been able to get out was that he was grateful she'd learned to fire the revolver, and she was gone. He hadn't had the time to tell her how proud he was of her courage.

  Or that he loved her.

  Perverse woman. He knew that if he opened his eyes again, she'd leave him to the care of servants. And he craved her touch. Ever so gently, as if he were still unconscious, he inched his hand to where the curly end of her braid dangled on the side of the bed. Twining his fingers in the shiny hair, he marveled at its thickness, savoring the way it tickled his skin. She leaned over him and adjusted the wrappings around his upper body. Of course, the accursed hole in his back still ached abominably and he was weak as a kitten.

  That thought almost elicited a chuckle. Yesterday the
little horde had escaped from the kitchen and two of them had found their way up to his room. One had been licking his face when the horrified tweenie had rushed through the door and scooped it up with profuse apologies. Tilda had pried the other miscreant from the draperies.

  “You may stop faking now, Major,” Miranda said crossly, pulling her hair free of his grasp. “I can tell you're awake.”

  He opened one eye. “Promise you won't run off?”

  “I shan't run anywhere. But I do have other matters to attend to now that you've begun your recovery.” She started to scoot off the edge of the mattress.

  He tried to hold on to her wrist but was too weak. She slipped from his grasp. “We have to talk, Miranda.”

  “We have nothing to discuss, my lord, other than for me to express my gratitude to you for saving my life as well as the lives of my daughter and Tilda. We've already proffered our thanks to Mr. St. John,” she hastened to add.

  “Are wedding bells in my friend's future?” Brand asked.

  A small smile broke over her face. “I fear they are. He was so impressed by the way his ‘Goliath’ handled Kent Aimesley that he proposed right there on the pier while the Peelers were arresting the kidnappers.”

  “Did she agree?”

  “Not until he picked her up and threatened to dunk her in the Thames.”

  Brand laughed, but the pain quickly stopped him. “And what about us?”

  Her heart seemed to stop beating. Why was he asking? Because of some misguided sense of duty toward a child she might or might not be carrying? Surely he could see how ill suited they'd be. She was too old. She had too much money. And she had hurt his pride by trying to bribe him with it. He would never be able to forgive her for that. She could not forgive herself.

  The words hung between them for a moment more. Then Miranda could see that his strength was ebbing as his eyelids drooped. “You need to rest. We'll discuss matters later,” she said and quickly fled the room.

  * * * *

  “Why are you avoiding the baron, Mother? He's been asking for you for two days.” Lori confronted Miranda in her office, where she'd sequestered herself ever since Brand began to mend.

  “I've been busy. He's managing famously without me. Mr. St. John intends to take him home within the week,” Miranda replied, keeping her gaze fastened on the pages before her.

  “Pish! You have little to do. The contracts with the Union Pacific have all been signed. Mr. Timmons and I have taken care of everything. You're hiding from Brandon because you're in love with him and don't have the courage to face him.”

  Upon hearing her daughter use the baron's Christian name, Miranda's head snapped up. “How dare you be so impertinent?” she demanded angrily.

  “It's only the bald truth, and we both know it. He wants to marry you, and you want to marry him.”

  “Life is not that simple, dearheart,” Miranda replied with a sigh, all the anger of a moment ago gone as she sat back and wearily rubbed her aching forehead. “The baron is younger than I, and what is worse, he was your suitor. If we were to...to marry”—she could hardly get the word out—“well, think of the scandal it would create. Your season—”

  “Oh, bother my season! I don't give a fig about silly old Society. I've learned a great deal over the past few months. So much has happened. Being kidnapped and nearly murdered in cold blood can make a woman reconsider what is important in her life. I have. Think of that poor little mouse Geoffrey Winters married, and how shallow Abbie is to stomach Jonathon Belford just because he'll one day be an earl. I don't want a life such as that, Mother. In fact...I'm not at all certain I wish to marry.”

  Miranda blanched. “You cannot mean that! It was your dearest wish—”

  “No, Mother, I fear it was your dearest wish. You wanted for me what you never had for yourself—and I am grateful, truly I am.” She walked around the large desk and took Miranda's hands, squeezing them in her own as she bent to press a kiss to her cheek.

  “I did want to be accepted by the other girls in my schools, to have friends, but as to marriage...well, I'm not ready. In fact...” Lori paused, letting Miranda digest what she said, giving her mother time to consider what she was going to propose. Kneeling earnestly at Miranda's knee, Lori looked up into her troubled face. “I have found over the past week that I possess a good head for business. And I really enjoy it! Even Mr. Timmons has started to give me grudging compliments. It must be something I inherited,” she said with a grin.

  “Timmons did say you handled the contracts as well as Mr. Aimesley could have—had he ever intended we sign them,” Miranda replied, still a bit dazed by this turnabout.

  “Well, you must know by now that I'm not at all the fluff-headed fashion doll I pretended to be while I was matchmaking between you and Brand.”

  “I wondered why you were suddenly so vacuous,” Miranda said dryly.

  Lori worked up her courage and pressed on. “I would like to go to America and take over the assignments Kent Aimesley had. Mr. St. John and Tilda have agreed to go with me,” she hastened to add. “I know I can do it, Mother. I'll make you proud of me. And who knows? Perhaps one day I'll meet a suitable man there. One who won't give a fig about society. A man like Brandon Caruthers,” she added softly. “So, you see, the scandal doesn't matter to me at all—nor to him. Does it to you?”

  Did it? Miranda had survived firestorms before, created simply because she'd assumed her husband's place in industry. All her attempts at propriety had been made with Lori in mind. No, she did not care about scandal if it did not harm her daughter. But she had wed one man for a child he wanted. She would not do it again. She could feel Lori's eyes studying her earnestly.

  “You have given me much to consider, dearheart. I need time to think,” she replied.

  “Very well, but not for too long. Brand will be joining us for dinner tonight.”

  * * * *

  There was no way she could face him across a dining table before they had settled matters between them in private. Perhaps once that had been attended to, he would leave and she would not have to worry about dinner conversation. With that disturbing possibility firmly fixed in her mind, Miranda knocked on the door of the master suite and he bade her enter. She straightened. Perhaps she should have freshened up first, changed into an afternoon gown instead of the business suit she had donned that morning.

  What was she thinking—to fix her hair the way he liked and powder her face in hopes of seducing him? Miranda shook her head and opened the door.

  She was girded for battle. He could see it in the severe gray suit and the tight bun confining her hair. He leaned back in the easy chair with his legs stretched out on the ottoman before it. “You'll forgive me if I don't get up, but I might disturb him.” He stroked Marmalade's dark orange fur, and the grizzled old tom purred loudly. Brand positively loved the way her eyes widened and her mouth formed a small ”O” of astonishment.

  “B-but you're terrified of cats—especially him,” she practically squeaked.

  “Remember when you saw me with the kitten in the garden? Well, it all started with Callie. She's really quite affectionate. While I've been confined to this room convalescing, the little invaders and their mother have visited me. Then this old fellow wandered in a time or two. As you can see, we've reached a detente.”

  “I'd say it's considerably more than that,” Miranda responded tartly as the tom dug his claws into Brandon's heavy velour robe and kneaded in utter contentment. “He's never taken to a man before.” The implications of that foolishly blurted out remark were not lost on either of them, but she rushed on, changing the subject. “I understand you will be joining us this evening for dinner. Do you think it wise to strain yourself so soon?”

  He grinned at her. “Why, Miz Auburn, ma'am, I'd thank you for your kind solicitude if I didn't know you were itching to get me out of your house.”

  “That's not true! You were shot while rescuing Lori, Tilda and me. I would hardly be so ungrateful a
s to turn you out before you'd made a complete recovery.”

  “Is that what this is all about—gratitude?” he asked softly. “Come sit by me, darlin'.” He patted the side of the huge ottoman and scooted his legs over to make room for her.

  Miranda forced herself to stand her ground and not back away. If she did as he asked, she would be lost. She could not dare draw that close to him again. Ever again. “I shall be most comfortable here,” she said stiffly, perching on the edge of an uncomfortable chair with an occasional table between them.

  “Coward,” he murmured as his gaze met hers and held. “I want to marry you, Miranda.”

  “No, you do not. You feel it's your duty to marry me, my lord. I won't ever again marry out of duty.”

  He could feel the cold finality in her words. “I'm not Will Auburn, Miranda.” He could not keep a note of frustration from his voice.

  “No, you're less than half the age he was when he proposed.”

  “What is it? Five years—or all of six between us? Age difference has nothing to do with this, darlin'. Neither does duty. Nor money.”

  “Ah yes, my money. The filthy lucre with which I offended your noble pride.” She seized on the hurt she'd done him, hoping he would remember how angry he'd been then and spare them both. But he would not be diverted.

  “That dog won't hunt!” Unfastening the cat from his robe, he set the tom on the chair and stood up, stalking over to her as he said, “I love you, Miranda. And you will marry me.”

  She stood up, vainly trying to escape before he reached her. She was not quick enough. He embraced her, pulling her against his chest.

  “No, please. Let me go.”

  She struggled ineffectually as he lowered his mouth to her neck and pressed a soft kiss against the delicate column, murmuring, “Now be gentle, mind. After all, I am a wounded man.” Then he captured her lips, cradling her head in his hand so she could not turn away.