Rebel Baron (35 page)

      
He moved with elegant grace, studying the pools of darkness behind the windows, searching the grounds, as if hoping she was still outside. He did not see her. She could slip to the side door and unlock it before he found her hiding place...if she chose.

      
Miranda stood rooted to the steps, the key digging into her fingers as she clutched it like a talisman. All she need do was will her feet to climb the stairs. Three more short steps. Then she heard his voice, soft on the warm summer air, drawling and sultry as the hot land from which he had come.

      
“Miranda, darlin', I know you're there.”

      
And then he began walking straight toward her.

      
She stood perfectly still, not daring to breathe as he drew nearer. When he stood directly in front of her, she could make out the glow of his eyes, at the same level as hers since she was standing on the first step. “How did you know I was here?” The question sounded idiotic the moment she asked it. What did that matter now that she'd let him catch her?

      
“Your scent, darlin'.”

      
“D-don't call me darling,” she said, struggling to regulate her breathing. And failing utterly.

      
He ignored her admonition and took her by the shoulders, saying, “I've warned you about risking your life this way. What were you thinking, pulling a fool stunt like running off from the ball and dismissing your coachman before you were safely in the house—a deserted house at that?”

      
His tone was angry and his hands dug into her soft skin through her thin cloak. “Your concern for my safety is touching,” she said, swallowing the bitter gall of disappointment. He'd come only to see that whoever had been attempting to kill her was not lurking about. Not for the reason she'd hoped.
No fool like an old fool
.

      
Miranda had almost said it aloud. Instead she added, “I've managed to take care of myself quite handily ever since my husband died. I shall do famously now as well.”

      
When she turned sharply on her heel and broke free of his grasp, scurrying up the stairs, he followed in two long strides, cutting her off at the doorway. His tall frame filled it, blocking her entry. Before she knew it, she was in his arms and his mouth was crushing hers in a fierce, angry kiss.

      
The key clattered from her fingers as she clutched his broad shoulders and clung to him, letting him work the blistering magic his lips always conjured when they touched her flesh. He murmured something she couldn't make out, an oath of some sort, desperate and hungry as his kisses, which smothered the sound of his voice. The rapaciousness of his plundering gentled to slow, sweetly drugging caresses. His mouth moved over her lips, his tongue inviting hers to come out and play.

      
Miranda felt the world spinning and would have fallen to her knees if not for the strength of his embrace. Burying his face against her throat, he whispered softly between nibbling kisses, “Will you let me love you?”

      
It was up to her to decide...

Chapter Seventeen

      
She held him fast, her mind fuzzy with warmth, her body giddy with forbidden pleasure. Why should she not have this for one night? Perhaps it would not be any better than it had been...her mind drifted away from thoughts of Will Auburn's brief and infrequent beddings when Brand began an exploration of her breasts, opening her cape and letting his fingers skim over the soft mounds, rimming the low décolletage of her gown until her nipples tightened and ached almost painfully. She gasped.

      
“Miranda?” His husky whisper broke through the soft sounds of their breathing. Brand held his breath, waiting for her response.

      
“Yes, yes, yes,” she murmured against his strong brown neck. Her mouth felt the slight rasp of golden whiskers as she caressed his jaw and worked her way back to his lips.

      
He growled something unintelligible and swept her into his arms, turning to carry her to the door.

      
The locked door.

      
“The key,” she murmured dreamily, her arms wrapped securely around his neck.

      
“Where is it?” he managed to ask in a raspy voice.

      
“On the steps. I dropped it,” she replied, almost giggling with delirious excitement.

      
Another muttered expletive. “Darlin’, you do try a man and that's a fact,” he said as he slid her to her feet, still holding her pressed tightly against his body while he stepped back to the stone stairs where the heavy brass latchkey glittered dimly in the patchy moonlight.

      
When he released his hold on her and bent down to retrieve the key, Miranda nearly toppled over his back. She was dizzy and breathless, and she'd had not one drop of alcohol all evening! Quickly he was once more embracing her, raining kisses all over her face and throat as he led her back up the steps and then turned to unlock the heavy oak door.

      
It was as dark as the ninth level of hell in the alcove surrounding the doorway. Brand fumbled with the key, trying to insert it in the lock.
Threading a needle in a tornado would be easier,
he thought testily as he jammed the instrument of his frustration at its intended target over and over. Bloody lovely! Was this some sort of omen? He had to get her inside before her most proper English sensibilities forced her to reconsider what was by all standards a rash act of singular immorality.

      
Finally he felt the key slide into the well-oiled lock and turn. The door swung open, and he once again whisked her off her none-too-steady feet and carried her over the threshold. After kicking the heavy oak closed behind him, he jammed the key in the lock and turned it, assuring that no one would be able to enter and catch them unawares. The house was like a damned combination fortress and tomb—and twice as dark.

      
He tripped over something darting in front of his feet.

      
From the size of the moving object—and the fact that he was not already minus a leg—Brand concluded he'd stumbled on Callie, not Marm, thank heaven for small favors! The mother cat scurried away silently as Brand stumbled against the carpeted steps leading from the side entry to the first floor.

      
He cushioned Miranda's fall by holding her above him. Although slender and fine-boned, she was tall for a woman and weighed enough to elicit a “Whoof,” as the air rushed from his lungs.

      
“Have I broken your ribs, Major?? she whispered, concern edging her voice.

      
She tried to rise up off of him, but he caught her and pulled her back into his embrace. “I wouldn't know, and believe me, at this point I don't care,” he said as he resumed kissing her throat and breasts. Then he felt the tickle of whiskers at the back of his raised neck. One of Callie's kittens was nibbling on him while he nibbled on Miranda!

      
Could Marm be far behind?

      
He dismissed that disquieting thought and shook the pesky little beast away as he began unfastening the ties of her cloak, a thin silk summer garment designed more for fashion than protection from the cold. But when he tried to toss it behind him, he felt little needle claws snagging it. Cursing silently, he rolled the silk cape in a ball with one hand, effectively cocooning the interloper, while he continued exploring Miranda's breasts. If she were going to cry off as she had the day of the picnic, she had better do it now or he could not guarantee how much of a gentleman he would be.

      
Rather than being upset by his intimacy, Miranda gloried in the feel of his fingertips and mouth skimming over the sensitive swells of her heated flesh. But the tingling, burning ache would not abate. It was pain and it was pleasure, all mixed together in a wash of longing for sensations she had never experienced before. Instinct made her arch forward, allowing him greater access.

      
Practice made him begin sliding open the tiny button loops down the back of her gown, eager to bare her treasures for his plundering mouth and hands. Almost at once, the gown's low neckline gaped and he was able to nuzzle his face in the deep vale between her breasts, now covered only by the delicate lace of her chemise and pushed up for his attention by the undergirding of corset stays.

      
Her moans of pleasure made her unaware of the tiny meows of protest emanating from the cape, but Brand could hear them. Persevering, he pulled away the sheer chemise to extract one rosy nipple, puckered and eager. He drew it into his mouth and suckled on it. This time when she gasped, he did not inquire if she was pleased. The very texture and hardness of the little nub told him all was good. But his backside pressed against the stairs was not good. Nor was the second kitten, who was now rubbing against the side of his face.

      
He had to get Miranda out of here and upstairs before she became aware of the voyeuristic little intruders and the spell would be broken. Slowly he levered himself up, continuing to kiss her as he helped her to her feet in the stygian blackness. “Is there a light in this place? It's right dangerous without any.” With any luck, he could keep her occupied enough so she wouldn't notice a kitten or two along the way.

      
“Oh,” Miranda murmured, bemused, realizing she had been sprawled on the stairs, lying on top of him without a thought for anything except what he was doing to her. “Yes, here,” she said, groping along the wall until she found the fixture and turned it on as Brand struck a match and lit it. A dim flicker of pale golden light illuminated two pairs of stairs leading up and down. And one pair of kittens playing chase, heading in a mad dash to the lower floor. Miranda, still breathless and dreamy from his kisses, did not see them as they vanished into the darkness below.

      
Thank you, Lord!
“Lucky we fell this way and not the other,” he said, looking at the steep steps leading to the lower level. Without giving her an opportunity to consider that dangerous possibility, he took her hand and tugged her up the steps. “Show me the way,” he commanded softly.

      
Cheeks burning, Miranda clutched his hand and guided him toward the main entry foyer. They fired low gaslights as they went. At every stop, he would gather her close and plunder her mouth with kisses, all the while continuing to work on the buttons of her gown. By the time they reached the grand staircase, the gown fell in a soft rustle of silk. Floating over another kitten!

      
Brand swept her quickly into his arms and nudged aside the mound of silk, which was now wriggling alarmingly. He ascended the steps, watching for more miniature “bushwhackers” waiting to attack. When they reached the top, he murmured hoarsely, “Which is your bedroom?”
Bolt the door and pray Marm is in the sitting room downstairs!

      
“The third...at the end of the hall,” she whispered, still unable to catch her breath. The feel of his arms carrying her as if she weighed no more than thistledown thrilled her. They were as hard as iron, yet living, flexing with strength and virility. Miranda felt herself shivering in spite of the flush suffusing her body. When he stepped into her bedroom, doubts assailed her. This was where Will had come to her in the darkness of night to perform his husbandly duties. Now she had invited a man not her husband to make love to her in that same dark bed.

      
But Brand would have nothing of darkness. Seeing the gaslight on the wall at the side of the door, he set her down and lit it as he shoved the door closed. Then he quickly picked her up again and carried her over to the large four-poster. Brand paused for a moment as his eyes darted around the room. No cats in sight. Did he dare hope?

      
Ever so slowly, he let her slide down the length of his tall body while they stood beside the bed. Still held fast, she surrendered to his kisses, only dimly aware that he was unlacing her corset strings. His warm fingers caressed the delicate bones at the curve of her spine. He shoved the silk and whalebone contraption over her hips, leaving her clad only in her chemise and stockings. Somehow in route her slippers had been lost.

      
She stood facing him, trying to cover herself, feeling suddenly shy. “I—I’m not a girl, Brandon...”

      
“You're a woman, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen,” he murmured as his hands cupped her face and he lowered his mouth to hers, commanding, “Kiss me, Miranda.”

      
She did, opening her mouth to his tongue and letting hers glide with it the way he was oh so skillfully teaching her to do. His hands slid back, long fingers digging into the heavy mass of her hair and massaging her scalp, loosening the pins holding her hair up until it spilled around her shoulders like a fiery cloud of deepest ruby red.

      
“I've always longed to do that...from the first time I realized how much of the beautiful stuff you had,” he whispered softly, combing his fingers through the waist-length waves.