Rebel Baron

by Henke, Shirl

  Her legs melted like butter in the sun. She could not fight this...fight him. Not when he kissed her with such searing beauty. Her hands fastened around his shoulders and she returned the kiss, opening her mouth at the insistent dance of his tongue as it rimmed her lips. They both groaned when he plunged inside. She could feel the unmistakable proof of his arousal pressing at the juncture of her thighs and arched into it.

  “Woman, what you do to me,” he whispered between kisses. “You will marry me.” Before she could react, he forced himself to release her, holding her at arm's length as his eyes stared intently into hers. “But first we're going to get some things straightened out.” He loved the muzzy-headed way she looked at him, still dazed from the kiss, her heart's emotion so painfully visible in her eyes.

  “I can't,” she murmured in a faraway voice. “This is what happens...”

  He grinned. “Yes, it always is. Always has been ever since the first time I saw you as a desirable woman riding that train to Ascot. But I don't just desire you, Miranda, I love you. For your courage, your honor, your sense of humor. For the keen intelligence of your mind, and your willingness to work your fingers to the bone to achieve your dreams. When I thought I was going to lose you—that Wilcox and O'Connell were going to kill you—I was more frightened than I'd ever been in my life.”

  She looked deep into his eyes and read the truth there. He truly believed he loved her...now. “But what if I'm not with child? What if I'm too old to give you children? You deserve so much more, Brandon. It's your duty—”

  “Will you please leave off talking about duty, my love? When I came to see you the morning after I stormed out of here, I was still hurting pretty bad. You did deal my pride a fearsome blow, I won't deny it—and,” he hurried on, “I wanted to hurt you back. Oh, I convinced myself that I had to make certain any child of mine had my name, that I'd be responsible for it, but in my heart I knew that what I really wanted was for you to love me. I would love giving you children, Miranda, but if I can't do that, I don't care. You already have Lori, and I think of her like the little sister I lost. We can be a family.

  “All I need is you—not your money. In fact, I've made financial arrangements to keep the Hall going for another two years. By then I'll have my stud farm and racing stables up and running. I don't want a farthing from you. Won't take it. All I want is your love. Is that too much to hope for?”

  Tears shimmered in Miranda's eyes. She was too overcome with emotion to speak, so she shook her head—and realized that her hair was brushing against her back. He'd undone the pins while he was kissing her, the rogue, and she'd not even been aware of it! “I love you, Brandon,” she finally managed. “With all my heart. But I've never learned how to show this kind of love before. You'll have to teach me.”

  “Never had a more apt pupil,” he murmured, tipping up her chin with his fingers. “It'll be my greatest pleasure, darlin'.” Reverently he lowered his mouth to hers and sealed their vows.

  From his perch on the ottoman, Marmalade observed them and purred contentedly.

  Epilogue

  Spring, two years later

  “I've just received a letter from Lori,” Miranda said excitedly as she tore into the envelope, which was watermarked and much the worse for wear during its crossing of a continent and an ocean.

  She looked delectable in a green-and-white-striped dress that accented her slender figure and brought out the clear silvery color of her eyes. Her husband inspected the glow of happiness on her face as she made her way across the newly built training yard to where he was working with Golden Girl, one of Reiver's best two-year-olds.

  Handing the reins to Mathias, he said, “You're the one who's going to ride her. Put her through her paces some more.”

  The young man, who had become legendary on the English racing circuit in the past two years, grinned. “Yes, Major, pleased to do it.”

  Miranda watched Brand approach, once again struck by how unbearably handsome he was, how in his element here. He wore muddy high boots and buckskin breeches and his shirt was open at the collar with sleeves rolled up, revealing his tantalizing golden body hair to her hungry eyes. Her gaze took in his long-legged stride and watched as a fresh breeze ruffled his sun-bleached hair, once more badly in need of barbering. All the better for me to get my hands into, she thought with a small thrill of pleasure.

  She spent most of her time at Rushcroft Hall since their marriage and was growing to enjoy the clean air and sedate pace of country life as much as he. With telegraphs and Timmons helping her, it was not all that difficult to run her businesses without fighting her way into the City, except on rare occasions. Often weeks went by when she never saw London.

  She did not miss it.

  Brand met Miranda in the middle of the soft green turf and swept her up in his arms, swinging her around in a circle until her hair, loosely coiled in soft curls at the back of her neck, lost its pins and flew out in a dark reddish skein that floated to her shoulders when he finally stopped.

  “Brandon, put me down. The servants will talk,” she said without really meaning it. She laughed huskily as he bent and planted a kiss on her nose.

  “Now, what has our world-traveling young lady to say?”

  “She's someplace in the Far West called Wyoming. It sounds terribly primitive at this railroad camp.” She began to read:

  Dear Mother and Brand,

  The scenery is quite spectacular here—mountains to the north, and incredibly wide open plains that seem to go on forever. Were it not for the railroad towns dotting the Union Pacific route (dare I tell you these quickly put up and torn down villages are called “hells-on-wheels”?), there would be nothing out here but wild red Indians. Tilda takes great exception to the American custom of naming these New World tribes after her own ancient civilization!

  I have met the most remarkable man. General Jubal McKenzie is contracted by Dr. Durant to be the general manager of the railway, or railroad as the Americans call it. A shrewder and more demanding man of business I have never met. I am learning a great deal from him. His chief of operations is a fascinating young man, half red Indian and devastatingly handsome in a dangerous sort of way—but have no fear that I shall run off with him, as he is married to the general's granddaughter!

  Tilda and Sin have leased a comfortable house in Denver and intend to spend summer there because baby Tilly is teething and too uncomfortable to endure the rigors of a rail camp. I, on the other hand, am flourishing. The Union Pacific expects to meet its counterpart from the west somewhere in Utah by early summer.

  Dr. Durant has seemed most pleased with my progress reports and suggestions. I hope it is not just because my family has such a large interest in railway stocks!

  The morning whistle just blew. I must be off to work. Give my baby brother a big hug and tickle him for me. I miss you all terribly and plan to be back in Denver by fall. Perhaps you will take that long-promised trip to America then? This is a hint, Mother. Brand, please see that the three of you visit before year's end.

  Much love,

  Lorilee

  “I don't think she need worry about how seriously the Union Pacific people are taking her work. She's been invaluable to them,” Brand said as Miranda finished reading. “What do you say to sailing for America in August?”

  “Profane railway men and wild red Indians?” Miranda gave him a wide smile. “Your homeland sounds like a dangerous place.”

  “But you miss Lori so much you'll risk the trip.” He could tell by the happy gleam in her eyes that she was already looking forward to seeing her daughter. “Besides, America is no more dangerous than the streets of London.”

  “You've been doing more than your share to remedy that in Parliament, my lord,” she replied, drawing him down for another quick kiss.

  “That's ‘my lord major’ to you,” he growled, deepening the kiss as he swept her into his arms and began carrying her toward Rushcroft Hall.

  The old place still required consi
derable refurbishing, but the sale of his city place had fetched a tidy sum, which he'd immediately plowed into the development of his stud farm and racing business. Profits were increasing exponentially as word spread about his superior stock, both race horses and carriage horses. Although he refused to use any of his wife's wealth, the only source of squabbling between husband and wife, the baron had already been able to begin renovations on the lovely old manor house. Within another year or two it would be the showplace it had been a century ago before his profligate ancestors had let it go to ruin.

  “Johnny will awaken from his nap within the hour,” she cautioned. The year-old, tow-headed boy was the pride and joy of both their lives, named for Brand's father. She had been overjoyed to learn that she was at last with child after months of trying unsuccessfully to conceive. The Caruthers name would be carried on, and if she had any say about it, there would be more brothers and sisters for John Shelby Caruthers. As her husband carried her up the stairs past tittering servants, Miranda felt certain she need not worry about accomplishing that goal.

  Kicking the bedroom door closed, he allowed her to slide slowly down the length of his body. They stood facing each other, locked together and leaning against the door. “Remind you of anything?” he drawled as he began unfastening the buttons down the back of her gown.

  “You mean our wedding night when we never made it to the bed before you tore my clothing off and ravished me?” she asked on a breathless sigh as he nuzzled her throat.

  “As I...recall...madam,” he said, punctuating his words with kisses as he worked, “you had me stripped...to my unmentionables...before I had your...corset unlaced.”

  “Unmentionables!” Miranda, busy pulling open his shirt, let out a gusty laugh. “If there is anything you've taught me over the past two years, Major, it's that nothing is unmentionable between lovers. Besides, men's garments are easier to unfasten than women's—and we did finally make it to the bed,” she added saucily, slipping his breeches down after she'd deftly unbuttoned his fly. “Your encores were wondrous.”

  “Aaah,” he gasped as she reached inside and took hold of his rigid staff with one small, skillful hand.

  “A pity we don't have time to test that remarkable American stamina now,” she murmured. “Perhaps tonight?”

  “Insatiable woman,” he crooned, then rotated his hips in rhythm with her strokes. “But you've forgotten one important rule—boots first.”

  “Only if we plan to get as far as the bed,” she answered reasonably. “Johnny will be awakening soon, remember?” He had somehow managed to slide her soft cotton gown off her shoulders and shove her camisole down to free the tips of her breasts, which were hardened into tight little buds. The heat of his mouth on them nearly made her dissolve. She arched up, letting him flick the nipples with his tongue, then suckle on them. The lovers slowly crumpled together onto the soft carpet.

  He spread her hair out around them like a fiery mantle, taking one long curl and binding her to him by wrapping it about his neck. “Miranda, my love, my life,” he whispered as her lips parted and joined his in a deep, searing kiss.

  She could feel his callused hands—those wonderful, long-fingered hands—stroking up her calf toward the sensitive skin of her inner thigh while he pulled her skirt and petticoats up. She arched her hips, allowing him easy access to slide down her pantalets. When his hand cupped her mound, it was Miranda who cried out. “Please, Brandon, my love, now—now!” He obliged her as she spread her legs, positioning his staff and sliding it deep inside her welcoming heat. At once her thighs tightened around his hips and she arched against him. He felt the tug on his scalp when her hands seized fistfuls of thick blond hair and guided his head to her breasts once more. As he suckled her, she moved in perfect sync with his thrusts, crying out in unabashed pleasure.

  This austere woman of business who coolly ran banks, iron foundries and shipping yards was his and his alone at moments such as these. Miranda was wild and abandoned, caring nothing for what servants might gossip or Society say about her Rebel Baron of a husband who raced horses and refused to dance to the tune piped in London. This was real. This was all that mattered.

  They rolled around on the floor and Miranda came up on top, her skirts bunched up about her thighs as she rode him like a Valkyrie. Brand reached up and cupped a breast in each hand, using his thumbs on the nipples until she threw back her head and moaned. Knowing the end was near, he once again tumbled her beneath him, driving fiercely into her as if this were the last mating on earth.

  He felt her reaching her peak and looked down with awe at the bright pink blotches that stained her face and traveled over her throat to her breasts. Such a lovely sight on her fair silky skin. But when her body began to spasm in bliss, she wrung from him the last vestiges of his control and he, too, gave in to the ecstasy.

  She could feel him stiffen and swell even more as his shuddering release poured into her, sending her into yet another climax of her own. When they made love, it was difficult to tell just where one of them began and the other ended, as every nuance of their wild joinings elicited such mutual bliss. He collapsed on top of her, sweat-soaked from their exertions, even more than he had been from working under the warm spring sun.

  “I'm afraid I've quite ruined your lovely dress—and now we both smell of horses.”

  He did not sound the least bit apologetic and she did not the least bit care. Burying her face in the springy hair of his chest, she inhaled deeply. “You smell of male and I like that.”

  “I was riding a filly,” he said with a lopsided grin.

  “Human male, not horse, you dolt, and you did just ride—but I'm far from a filly.”

  “Fishing for compliments, are you, darlin'?” he said, pressing kisses on her eyelids, nose and cheeks before centering his attention on her mouth. “You are the most beautiful woman in all of England.”

  Between kisses, she said dreamily, “Only England?”

  “Well now, to be certain it's all the world, we'll have to start with that visit to America this fall, won't we? But I'm sure you'll still hold the title if we circle the globe.”

  “I'm not so certain.” She looked up at him with a blaze of joy on her face. “You see, I'll be growing quite fat by the end of the year.”

  Comprehension dawned and he beamed at her. “Lordy, darlin', I'm supposed to be running a stud farm for horses, not children.”

  “Let's work at beating Reiver's record—but mind you, always remember that your stable of mares is a stable of one,” she said with mock severity.

  Brand chuckled. “Woman, that is one condition you won't ever have to negotiate.”

  Author’s Note

  I first conceived the idea of an embittered Confederate cavalier who had lost everything in the war and then found the English title he inherited was as bankrupt as his lost plantation in Kentucky. The concept seemed rather dark for the American Lords series, which was intended to be comic as well as romantic. Lorilee Auburn, not her iron-willed mother Miranda, was to be his leading lady. But how to put a light touch to the story? My husband Jim came up with a twist—have Lori become matchmaker for her mother and turn the tables on Brand. I loved the older woman-younger man concept for a romance!

  All sorts of possibilities for humor followed. So did Gideon Hercules St. John, “Sin” to his friends. If he reminds you a bit of his very English counterpart Alvin Francis Edward Drummond (Drum to his friends) from Wicked Angel, Wanton Angel, and Yankee Earl, I also owe Sin's character to Jim.

  After writing three books set during the Regency, I was a bit at sea when I moved into the Victorian era. My good friend and colleague Karyn Witmer-Gow, a.k.a. Elizabeth Grayson, lent me a large canvas sack of reference books which were a lifesaver, guiding me across the Atlantic into mid-nineteenth-century England. It is so much easier on a writer when the “lending librarian” has no due dates stamped on her books.

  I hope you have laughed and cried with Brand and Miranda, as you did with Jas
on and Rachel in Yankee Earl. Next on deck will be Josh and Sabrina in Texas Viscount. Some day in the future, how could I resist a story for Lorilee? After losing a hunk like Brand, she certainly deserves a hero of her own. Let me know what you think at www.shirlhenke.com.

  Happy reading!

  Shirl

  About the Author

  SHIRL HENKE lives in St. Louis, where she enjoys gardening in her yard and greenhouse, cooking holiday dinners for her family and listening to jazz. In addition to helping brainstorm and research her books, her husband Jim is “lion tamer” for their two wild young tomcats, Pewter and Sooty, geniuses at pillage and destruction.

  Shirl has been a RITA finalist twice, and has won three Career Achievement Awards, an Industry Award and three Reviewer’s Choice Awards from Romantic Times

  “I wrote my first twenty-two novels in longhand with a ballpoint pen—it’s hard to get good quills these days,” she says. Dragged into the twenty-first century by her son Matt, a telecommunication specialist, Shirl now uses two of those “devil machines.” Another troglodyte bites the dust. Please visit her at www.shirlhenke.com.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11