Rebel Baron (26 page)

      
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 formal 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.

      
“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is.” He slowly ambled over to a small sofa covered in faded chintz, taking a seat directly across from her.

      
His knees almost touched her skirts. She fought the urge to gather them up like armor against the masculine invasion of his presence and waited for him to speak his piece.

      
“I missed you at luncheon. Since you failed to take breakfast either, I worried that you might be falling ill.”

      
“I never breakfast, except for taking a cup of tea.”

      
He shook his head in mock reproach. “That's bad for a body. Back home, folks take breakfast quite seriously. Fried ham, grits, eggs. From what I've seen since arriving here, Englishmen take it even further—kippers and pastries, all sorts of fowl and even red meat along with the eggs.”

      
“English
men
—not women. If I ate like that I'd weigh more than the Queen.” At once Miranda clapped her hand to her mouth and stifled a laugh. “I simply cannot believe I said that!”

      
“
Lese majesté
.” He tsked, shaking his head as he grinned at her like a fool. “But be careful. I doubt her majesty would forgive you.” His chuckles blended with hers, then subsided. “I was hoping we could speak before it's time to go to Pelham Manor.” He was in deadly earnest now as he continued, “It's quite apparent that someone wants to kill you. I'd hoped being away from the city would provide protection, but it appears quite the opposite. Which brings up the matter of—”

      
“The coincidence that Geoffrey Winters is in residence?” she supplied.

      
“I had wondered if your interference with his courtship of your daughter might have made him your enemy.”

      
She had to smile at that. “I very much doubt that, Major. Mr. Winters is an utter coward as well as a cad.”

      
“That would not preclude his hiring someone else to do the deed,” he countered.

      
“In my opinion, merely taking the risk of hiring someone would be beyond his capacity. Besides, what would it serve him now that he's saddled with Falconridge's daughter?”

      
“I recall the insulting offer he made to your daughter at Ascot. He might feel you had influenced her to act as she did.”

      
“He's petty, but even if he had the courage to seek revenge, I suspect he'd be inclined to attack Lori, not me.” She considered that troubling thought, then dismissed it. “No, I simply don't believe he could be a threat.”

      
“I'm inclined to agree, but I'll take his measure again when we attend his little tea party.” He paused. “Will Miss Auburn be troubled by seeing Winters and his wife?”

      
“I might have thought so before the incident at Ascot, but now, no. I rather imagine it will be his wife who will find the situation untenable. I can't imagine whatever possessed them to invite us.” Miranda's expression was decidedly vexed.

      
“Winters' friendship with Belford, for one thing. And, glutton for punishment that the young fool is, perhaps he intends another go at insulting your daughter. I'll deal with him if he does anything amiss. Or, if she prefers not to attend, that will be no problem either.”

      
“Lori's well and truly over her infatuation.” Miranda forced herself to smile and look him in the eye as she said, “I believe you have much to do with her change of heart.”

      
It was his turn to shrug. “Don't give me too much credit. The girl has inherited much of your common sense. All she needs is time to grow into it.” How the devil could he explain the further complication he'd come to discuss? He plunged ahead, since he was already treading over a field laid with explosives each time he talked with her. “The Winters indicated in their invitation that they have a weekend guest,”

      
“Yes, I recall Mr. Belford mentioning something to that effect.”

      
“It's Reba Wilcox.”

      
“Oh, dear.”

      
“Yes, oh, dear,” he echoed dryly. “Dear Geoffrey may not have the nerve to hire a poacher to kill you, but my dear countrywoman wouldn't hesitate for a moment, I can assure you. As to what her motive might be, I can't begin to guess.”

      
“Perhaps she wanted to kill you because you've spurned her,” she ventured.

      
Brand scoffed. “Spoiled and self-centered as she is, Reba wouldn't risk trying to kill me just because I snubbed her. Besides, the other attempts have clearly been on your life, not mine. All of this is related, and I mean to find out how.”

      
“And you want to go on...reconnaissance, Major.” Miranda considered the dangerous tangle and nodded. “Yes, I believe tea will be most interesting.”

* * * *

      
Unlike Brand's shabby manor house and neglected grounds, the earl's family seat was in pristine condition. Geoffrey Winters and his mousy little dumpling of a wife stood beneath the towering twelve-foot crystal chandelier in the entry foyer, both wearing false smiles of welcome for Abigail Warring, Lorilee and Miranda Auburn and the Rebel Baron.

      
Geoffrey's only genuine enthusiasm appeared in his greeting of Jon Belford. Old gambling and drinking companions since their rugby days, the two went into back-slapping orgies of reminiscence as Mrs. Winters primly ushered her unwanted guests into an immense sitting room where a row of servants filed in, each carrying a sterling tea tray laden with enough pastries, marmalades and watercress sandwiches to weigh down a good-sized dray horse.

      
“Mrs. Wilcox will be along shortly. She's only just returned from a ride with Mr. Winters. Please excuse her tardiness,” the hostess informed the women as they took their seats in a small circle of Louis XV chairs. Her tone of voice indicated she would prefer the widow remain tardy for the duration of the weekend.

      
She poured from a silver teapot heavy enough to make her wrist ache, Miranda was certain. Her thin lips—the only thing about her that was—pursed in concentration as she offered delicate Sevres cups to the three women. It was quite clear that she had been coerced into this farce. Although Abbie was oblivious to the undercurrents, both Miranda and Lori felt a twinge of pity for her as she watched her husband usher the men across the cavernous chamber to a cabinet filled with ports, clarets and sherries.

      
“Mr. Winters always prefers a bit of wine to tea in the afternoons,” Varinia said with obvious disapproval she dared not voice.

      
Miranda knew the man was well on his way to becoming an utter sot in addition to his other unfortunate vices. Smiling, she shifted the conversation to a neutral topic. “Your husband's family seat is lovely. I've never been in this part of Surrey. It's quite a beautiful spot. Unspoiled by industry and its attendant ills.”

      
“But industry and all those little ole attendant ills are what's made you a rich woman, Widow Auburn,” a drawling voice purred from behind them.

      
Miranda turned to the speaker. Reba Wilcox was dressed in brilliant robin’s-egg-blue mull, tissue thin with scarcely a hint of undergarments to cover her lush charms. Ignoring the insult, Miranda remarked, “I understand you, too, have lost your husband...quite recently,” she said, allowing her gaze to boldly rake the American hussy's highly unsuitable attire.

      
Both Lori and Abbie stared in open shock before regaining their composure, but, being debutantes conditioned to defer to their elders, neither said a word.

      
Most married women at London galas would think twice before wearing such a daring gown. For tea in the country, it was outrageously inappropriate. Every person in the room knew it. Mrs. Winters stiffened, nodding icily to her houseguest as she started to make introductions to the Auburns and Abbie.

      
Miranda gently interjected, “My daughter and I have already met the widow.”

      
Mrs. Winters duly noted that Mrs. Auburn had not said they'd had the pleasure of meeting the widow. She gave Miranda a tight little smile as Geoffrey Winters rushed to Reba Wilcox's side with oily solicitude. Much to Abbie' s distress, Jon did likewise, fairly drooling over her hand as he was presented to her.

      
“I believe you two are friends...from back in America,” Geoffrey said as Brand sauntered over to make his obligatory bow.