Rebel Baron (29 page)

      
“It was all I had to keep me going in that hellish Yankee prison in Chicago.”

      
“But you escaped. Not even the—dare I say it?—damn Yankees could bend you to their will.”

      
He looked at her, trying to read those silver-gray eyes. What was she thinking? How much about his past did she know? Virtually all of it, he'd bet. “Your investigators were thorough. But I know virtually nothing about you. Tell me how you spent your childhood in Liverpool.”

      
“It was quite boring, really. My father owned an iron foundry, and I was the eldest child.”

      
“Siblings?” he prompted.

      
“A younger brother.”

      
“Would your father have been proud of the way you've succeeded in business?” Brand asked, intuiting the answer.

      
“No. He believed women should remain at home and have children, not run commercial empires.”

      
There was a wealth of sadness in her voice. How he wanted her to confide in him. Perhaps in time she would. Then again...perhaps not.
I'm a fool to even imagine...

      
Ahead of them, Tilda sat stiffly beside Sin on the first wagon. Wishing to turn the conversation to a safer course, Miranda asked, “Why is Mr. St. John so intent on pursuing Tilda?”

      
Brand chuckled. “The challenge.”

      
In truth, although her companion continually protested her dislike of the horse trainer, Miranda feared that he was breaking down her resistance. Just as the major was breaking down hers. “Has he ever been married?”

      
“A confirmed bachelor. Until now.”

      
“I thought you said that his intentions weren't honorable.”

      
His eyes met hers, and his expression was very serious. ‘The right woman can change that for any man.”

      
Suddenly all sorts of impossible ideas began tumbling about in her mind as she groped for a proper response. He meant Lori had changed him...didn't he? But then, he'd been engaged before...although she could understand how a woman like Reba Wilcox would sour a man on matrimony.

      
“I suppose you're right,” she managed to reply, folding her hands primly in her lap to hide their trembling. Once they arrived at the picnic site, she must get away from him before she did something utterly unthinkable.

      
Brand cursed to himself. He'd frightened her. He was rushing his fences, and he knew better. How the hell could he and Lori end this tangle with their courtship and still allow him to spend time with her mother? It was time for the clever Miss Auburn to give him the boot.

      
After that...well, who the hell knew what would happen? He was not even sure what he wanted to happen. He desired Miranda Auburn. But did he want to marry her? More to the point, would she even for one moment consider marrying a penniless baron who had been willing to sell himself to her?

Chapter Fourteen

      
The pool was really more of a small lake in a picturesque setting shaded by tall oaks. Sin had instructed one of the servants to clean and repair the dinghy yesterday so the young couples could take turns using it. That way those who were unwed could spend time in private conversation while remaining in clear sight of the rest of the party.

      
Once the picnic gear had been unloaded and the guests were milling about, Brand took his friend aside, asking, “Has Tilda agreed to your own private picnic?”

      
“She's in on our conspiracy with Miss Auburn, old chap. I played that ace, and she agreed to make herself scarce. The rest is up to you and the widow's most clever daughter.”

      
Looking at all the young people, Brand had his doubts but shrugged. “I'm not certain this whole scheme is wise. It seems to me you'll have a great deal more success with Tilda than I will with Miranda.”

      
“Never underestimate a pair of women with a plan,” Sin replied sagely. With that, he strolled over to Tilda and made an elegant bow, then assisted her back onto the wagon and drove away without a word.

      
None of the guests noticed them leave except Miranda, whose soft smile suggested to Brand that she approved of her maid's having a suitor. Behind that prim and businesslike exterior, did there beat the heart of a romantic? Somehow Brand doubted it, especially since he had nothing to offer her except himself. Could that possibly be enough?

      
As if trying to make up for his foolish neglect yesterday, Geoffrey insisted Varinia join him in a turn about the water while Jon supervised setting up the croquet game. When they began to play, Brand begged off and wandered over to the blanket beneath a large oak where Miranda was observing the activities.

      
“Why aren't you playing?” she asked.

      
“I never cared for lawn balls. I always lose,” he replied, folding his long body gracefully to sit beside her.

      
“I cannot imagine you losing at anything you put your mind to.” Those were loaded words, and the moment they escaped her lips, she knew it.

      
His smile was slow and insinuating, as if they shared a secret. “Don't be so certain. I lost the war. And it wasn't for want of trying, I assure you.”

      
‘That was hardly within the control of one man, Major, even one as formidable as you. You acquitted yourself very well on the battlefield.”

      
“I keep forgetting how thorough your investigation of me was,” he murmured, leaning back on his elbows to observe the progress of the croquet game. He was not in the least interested in it and wondered if she could tell. Or if she cared. He seemed to make her nervous. Perhaps that was a good sign. Or not. Blasted contrary female!

      
“I didn't investigate you out of prurient curiosity,” she said defensively, and then realized how that sounded.

      
He looked up at her, grinning again. “Is that a blush, Mrs. Auburn?”

      
Somehow when he used her proper name in that tone of voice, it sounded even more intimate than when he called her Miranda. “Nonsense,” she replied primly. “It's merely quite warm outdoors today.”

      
In truth, it was pleasantly cool but he did not feel it would be politic to remark on that fact. Nor did he want to discuss the reason for her investigation—his intended marriage to Lorilee. Instead, he changed the subject. “The newlyweds look rather blissful from afar.”

      
Miranda looked at Geoffrey and Varinia out on the lake. “He has a great deal to make up for to that poor thing. He's treated her abominably.”

      
“A character defect, marrying for money,” Brand said lightly, wondering why he'd brought it up...unless it was to see which way the wind might blow if he turned his attention from Lorilee to her.

      
“It's a time-honored tradition in English society. What matters is how a couple deals together after the marriage,” she replied in a quiet tone of voice, as if recalling distant memories, memories that mixed the bitter with the sweet.

      
Before he could draw her out further about her mysterious relationship with Will Auburn, a loud squeal of delight from Abbie drew their attention to the croquet match, which Lorilee’s friend was obviously winning—or being allowed to win.

      
As if reading his mind, Miranda said, “I wonder if Jon, too, is doing a bit of penance for his undue attention to the widow yesterday.”

      
They shared a companionable laugh as the game progressed. Abbie did win and Jon beamed at all the ladies with patronizing good humor. By that time Geoffrey and Varinia returned from their lake excursion. Miranda was about to suggest the servants open the baskets for the feast, but Lori surprised her with another plan.

      
She hurried to her mother, trailed by the vicar's son and his wife. “Melvin and Alberta know of a perfect woodland glade near his father's church. It's across the other side of the lake and the deer come to browse there. I'd love to see it, and it's a wonderful day for a ride. Would you mind awfully, Mother, if we left you? It won't be for all that long,” she cajoled.

      
Brand caught her eye and chivalrously offered, “I'd be more than happy to keep Mrs. Auburn company. I'm in the saddle altogether too much as it is.”

      
“How kind of you, my lord,” Lori gushed, barely giving her mother a chance to say anything before she headed toward the spot where the footmen were tending the horses. “Let's ride, then!”

      
Within moments the party was off, leaving Brand and Miranda alone with a pair of footmen. Food had been prepared for the servants, and he instructed them to take their basket and find a place to enjoy it in privacy. ‘‘When the young people return famished, you'll require all your strength, so refuel yourselves now. I'm certain you'll hear them without my summoning you,” he added.

      
In a blink he was alone with her.
Now what?
”I don't know about you, but the aromas wafting from those baskets are quite distracting,” he murmured, pulling back a white linen cloth and peering inside. “I see no reason why we should wait for the others to return.”

      
“What of simple manners?” Miranda supplied.

      
He chuckled. “Just a small snack to tide us over. No harm in that.”

      
“So said the serpent in the garden, if I recall my Bible.”

      
“And I'm certain you do.” His expression was wry as he looked at her sitting so very properly, her legs tucked to one side, skirts carefully covering all but the tips of her high-heeled boots. Her moss-green cotton dress accented the gentle curves of her body, and her hair was coiled in a soft chignon at her nape with wispy curls framing her face. If she didn't look exactly angelic, she certainly did look tempting.

      
To keep himself from reaching out to take the pins from her heavy hair and bury his hands in it, he inhaled deeply of the aroma wafting from the basket. “Ah, heavenly. ‘Fresh bread and a jug of wine ...’ ” He waited for her to pick up the poem.

      
“ ‘And thou beside me in the wilderness,’ ” Miranda supplied whimsically. “But it's not ‘fresh bread,’ it's ‘a loaf of bread.’ ”

      
He shook his head in bemusement. “For a lady of business, you certainly know literature. When do you find time to read?”

      
She shrugged as he began to unload the bounty. “Actually, I don't have very much time anymore. When I was young—”

      
“And we all know how ancient you are now,” he said with amusement as he expertly opened one of the chilled white wines.

      
“I'm considerably older than you.”

      
“What? Five years?” He scoffed, then quickly went on without giving her a chance to respond. “I'll match you in terms of life experience and come out the winner. Want to make a wager?”

      
“I don't gamble, Major.” Her tone was cool. Where was he going with this? She knew it was dangerous, but when he offered her a glass of wine, she foolishly accepted it and sipped. Ambrosial. Best to change the topic. “A lady never discusses her age...or her life experiences.”

      
He took a long drink of his wine, and she watched the strong brown column of his throat swallow where he'd loosened his cravat. Somehow she intuited he was most comfortable working without a hat or coat, in shirtsleeves with his collar opened to the intense heat of his homeland, the sun beating down on his already bronzed face, streaking his shaggy hair paler gold. It was an arresting image and disturbed her greatly. She took another swallow of wine herself, then another.

      
“What's in that bowl?” she asked as he removed the lid.

      
“Looks like pheasant, and here are meat pies and fresh vegetables, even some fruit.”

      
He had removed his gloves after they climbed down from the wagon. Somehow he always found a way to do that in spite of the impropriety. Her own sheer lace mitts seemed impractical indeed when he began tearing the tender meat into pieces. Then he uncovered the flaky pastries filled with spicy venison and placed one on a plate, along with a small pile of peas still in their crispy pods. To this he added a quarter of one of the pheasants and a chunk of bread, which he broke from the loaf.

      
“I shall require a knife and fork to cut the food,” she said primly, trying not to look at his hands, those strong, scarred hands, elegant and powerful.

      
Brand heard the slight breathlessness in her voice. “I don't see any utensils,” he said after making a very cursory search of the baskets. “Must've left them in the wagon.”