Rebel Baron (27 page)

      
He knew Miranda was watching him as he replied, “Yes, the Widow Wilcox and I are well acquainted. However, I wouldn't say we've ever been friends.”

      
Reba put a dainty lace-gloved hand to her breast and made a moue. “How unkind of you, Brand. After all, we practically married.”

      
When Lorilee gasped, the triumph lighting Reba's eyes reminded Brand of a fox bounding away from the coop with a chicken in its mouth. His smile matched hers as he answered, “And the Yankees put me in prison, but I escaped both fates.”

      
Little did Reba know that Lorilee's heart was not fixed upon him. The revelation of their previous engagement would shock her but not hurt her. Miranda knew of his past with Reba. The devil of it was, he had no idea at all if it bothered her.

      
And he knew damn well that her opinion mattered to him. A great deal more than he would have ever imagined.

Chapter Thirteen

      
The afternoon went downhill from there, with Reba holding court while Geoffrey and Jon acted like a brace of slobbering hounds. Abbie Warring and Varinia Winters were scandalized by the lovely blonde's behavior and their men's reaction to it, but if Geoffrey hoped that it would arouse jealousy in Lorilee Auburn, he was doomed to disappointment. Miranda had never been prouder of her daughter. Lori ignored the ill-bred American's pointed barbs with an innocent charm that amused her mother and the baron.

      
Miranda was also pleased to note that Brand seemed impervious to Reba Wilcox's blandishments. And that his very indifference fueled the beauteous widow's determination to flirt with him. The only troubling matter was, oddly enough, that Lori seemed not to care about her suitor being stalked by such a creature. Now that Miranda thought of it, her daughter's behavior of late had been oddly inconsistent on a variety of occasions.

      
Never had she seen the girl act like such a flibbertigibbet, gushing vacuously about fashions and social events as she had done at Ascot. Perhaps it was the fault of time spent with Abigail Warring, but somehow Miranda doubted it. On the train ride to the country Lori had chattered with her friend about what they would wear to the Wayfields' ball, but today she was serenely level-headed while Abbie fumed with petulant jealousy.

      
Lori had always been horse-mad; but now that she was being courted by a man who was renowned for his racehorses, she never broached the topic. Whenever he spoke of his new foals and plans to turn his estate into a breeding farm for fine thoroughbreds as well as carriage horses, she showed only polite interest in the project, which Miranda knew was dear to his heart.

      
What is going on between them? Or, what was not? But surely after that romantic scene in the garden that Miranda had witnessed, Lori must have a tendresse for the baron. Of course, as far as he was concerned, Brandon Caruthers had not appeared overly attentive to Lori for the past few days either. If anything, his gaze seemed to fasten on her more often than her daughter. She assured herself it was only her imagination. It was also her imagination that made her envision ripping every last strand of golden blond hair from the Widow Wilcox's head.

      
“I understand you intend to enter the Ascot next year. A mare. Show those Englishmen what a Kentucky female can do,” Reba drawled. “We're famous for our winning ways, after all.” She stood closer to Brand than was socially acceptable, but then, neither was the glass of sherry she sipped the proper thing for a lady at teatime.

      
The gentlemen chortled at her not overly subtle double entendre—all but the baron. Picking up his neglected glass of port from a side table, he gazed at the hussy with cynical amusement glistening in his eyes. “Oh, my dear Mrs. Wilcox, I can assure you, I already know precisely what Kentucky females are capable of doing.” With that, he raised the glass and polished off its contents, then set it down with a decisive clink and walked over to where Abbie sat forlornly near the piano.

      
“Would you favor us with some music, Miss Warring? I understand from Miss Auburn that you play quite well,” he said with a charming smile.

      
Abbie' s cheeks pinkened and she dipped her head, flustered by the baron's compliment. Murmuring assent, she took her seat and began to pluck out a lively Chopin piece. He sauntered over to the settee and sat beside Miranda.

      
“Well done, Major,” she said softly. Lori stood nearby, tapping her toe to the music, utterly unconcerned that her mother, not she, had been approached by her suitor.

      
“It was the only thing I could think to do to silence Reba...short of strangling her.”

      
Miranda stifled a laugh. “You don't think she'd relish joining her dear Earl in the hereafter?”

      
“Not likely. She's afraid of fire.”

      
“Ah, but I detect that you believe it's where she's bound anyway.”

      
“No doubt in my mind, but she doesn't think that far ahead. The widow has plans for the here and now.”

      
“They would certainly appear to involve you,” she shot back more tartly than she had intended. Goodness, she was the one sounding jealous instead of Lori!

      
Brand chuckled. “She'd like nothing more than to become a baroness, or better yet a countess. Miss Warring had best look to Belford. The young fool's besotted.”

      
“The Duke of Cumberland has an unwed heir. Mrs. Wilcox could aim even higher,” Miranda said wryly.

      
“From what I've heard, he's also poxed. Remember, Reba has a fear of being burned,” Brand whispered conspiratorially, waiting to see her reaction. Knowing she would laugh—or hoping she would.

      
“You are quite awful,” she replied, unable to suppress a chuckle. Then she couldn't resist adding, “I have it on good authority that the young, ah...firebrand is not to be received at court in spite of his illustrious family name.”

      
“Firebrand? Vulgar puns, Miranda?” He tsked at her with a lazy grin.

      
Suddenly she realized how much she enjoyed bantering with him. Even his use of her Christian name didn't upset her, although she knew it was not at all proper. Nor was it proper that they discuss socially taboo subjects, subjects she'd never consider speaking of with any female acquaintance, certainly no other man. Of course, he could infuriate her just as easily with his prickly pride and arrogant assumptions. She'd never met his like.
It's only because he's American,
she assured herself.

      
“You think she wants only a title, nothing more?” she asked, trying to divert her attention away from him and back to Reba Wilcox.

      
“Earl owned a good part of Kentucky and his family has banking interests stretching to the eastern seaboard. She has money enough to buy whatever her heart desires now.”

      
“Except you.” The moment she said the words, Miranda wanted to call them back. They were too personal. And a reminder that she was, in a sense, buying him for Lorilee. She had come to regret her peremptory “business proposition” to him when first they'd met. But he didn't appear to mind when he replied.

      
“I was young when I first met Reba. A fool. War has a way of making a man see things he never did before. She saved me from the biggest mistake of my life,” he said with a smile.

      
“Marrying her?” Miranda knew the question was bold.

      
Brand shuddered just thinking of what hell on earth life with Reba would have been. “She would’ve been upset when I lost River Trails, but I can't even imagine what a shrew she'd have turned into after finding out she'd become a baroness without a sou.”

      
“How fortunate for you both that she married Mr. Wilcox.”

      
“Yes, it was. She made her choice...and I'll make mine.”

      
Before Miranda could think of a reply to that cryptic remark, the music stopped and everyone clapped in perfunctory appreciation of Abbie's recital. Reba took advantage of the shifting attention in the room to slip over to where Miranda and Brand sat, draping herself languidly on a leather chair beside the baron.

      
“Geoff told me you had some little ole shooting accident at your place this morning,” she said with a gleam in her eyes.

      
“Someone tried to kill Mrs. Auburn,” Brand replied coldly. “It was no accident.”

      
Reba's laughter was throaty as she eyed him. “Are you sure you weren't the target? You do have a way of making enemies, Brand, darlin'.”

      
“Have you, perchance, been wandering about in the wood, Mrs. Wilcox?” Miranda inquired with a too sweet smile. She felt the baron's admiring gaze at her blunt sally.

      
Reba stiffened. “Surely you aren't accusing me of shooting at you?” she hissed, straightening up in the chair.

      
“Your marksmanship would explain why no one was injured,” Brand said.

      
“Why ever would I try to kill her?` Reba gave Miranda a dismissive glance, then turned back to Brand. “If I still wanted you, I'd have to shoot her pretty child, now wouldn't I?”

      
A sudden lull in the conversation around the room left her words echoing so everyone heard them. An uncomfortable silence followed as the ladies and gentlemen stood in varying stages of shock and embarrassment.

      
Brand could sense Miranda's protective instincts for her daughter radiate like the light from a dozen suns. Gently he placed his hand over hers and squeezed it reassuringly, then said, “Mrs. Wilcox was just making an unfortunate jest. Everyone knows she isn't in the least interested in me.”

      
Since the blatant opposite had been amply exhibited during the afternoon, there were a few coughs and titters. Then Mrs. Winters gamely announced, “There are more scones and marmalade.”

* * * *

      
“Do you think she hired someone to shoot at you?” Lori asked her mother as soon as they had returned to Rushcroft Hall. They were in Lori's room, selecting gowns for dinner that evening.

      
“As the widow pointed out, it would make more sense if she tried to harm you, not me,” Miranda said, trying for wry humor but failing. There was a ruthless streak of steely hardness behind the Wilcox hussy's languid sensuality. Miranda had seen her like before in the drawing rooms of business associates with socially ambitious wives. Reba put the Englishwomen to shame. But what did she want? Surely she no longer harbored hopes for Brandon. He had made it more than apparent that he had no interest in rekindling their former relationship.

      
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.