Rebel Baron (42 page)

      
“What on earth are you doing here in the middle of the night?” she asked as he seized her in an embrace.

      
“Miranda, thank God!”

      
“Let me go,” she hissed, glancing red-faced at the small man who stood behind them, looking discreetly down at the floor as she wriggled from the major's arms, her head spinning from the warmth of his touch.

      
“Why did you throw open the door that way? Where are the servants?” Brand demanded, knowing he was acting idiotically now that she was obviously safe.

      
“I happen to be the only one awake. Please lower your voices before you rouse the whole household and create a horrible scandal.”

      
“It might be wise if we were to step inside the parlor for some privacy,” Sin suggested quietly.

      
Miranda nodded. Of course he was right. With a bit of luck she could find out what had occasioned this outburst and send them on their way without anyone being the wiser. She led them into the small entry parlor with as much dignity as she could muster while dressed in a robe. Her hair was only half braided and askew, and she was wearing carpet slippers on her bare feet! Oh, the gossip this would create!

      
Seeing that his Miranda was her old stubborn self, Brand felt a wave of relief flood over him before he could stop himself.
His Miranda.
He grinned at her, the hurt of her earlier words forgotten for the moment as he asked, “Couldn't sleep? Maybe a glass of warm milk might help.”

      
She could sense the undercurrent in his solicitude and stiffened her back. “I was working on the railway contracts, as a matter of fact.”

      
“In the middle of the night, dressed like that?” he asked disbelievingly.

      
“We're behind in closing the deal. I often do my best work at night.” That was an inappropriate choice of words.

      
“So do I,” he replied, grinning innocently as he added, “Foals usually come at the most inconvenient times, don't they, Sin?”

      
Knowing there was a good deal going on here to which he did not wish to be privy, St. John merely said, “Quite so.”

      
“I don't think this is an appropriate hour to discuss our respective work habits, my lord.” She stood with her arms crossed protectively over her chest, but stiff-backed, chin high, with one slippered foot tapping irritably on the Brussels carpet. “So I repeat, what is the reason for barging into my home this way?”

      
“We were lured back to Rushcroft Hall this afternoon. Sin ran O'Connell to ground in Seven Dials, but we just missed him. He was busy trying to kill all my horses.”

      
At her incredulous expression, St. John explained about the granary and the possible outcome if old Wiggins hadn't stumbled upon the scene.

      
“First your mews, now this. It would appear, my lord,” she said, “that someone is trying to ruin you.”

      
“And to kill you, which is far more significant,” Brand replied. At her puzzled look, he continued, “Don't you see? We were lured away, leaving you unprotected. If the horses had really gotten into that grain, we'd have been overwhelmed with trying to save them, and if you needed help...” His words faded away as he studied her, all amusement gone now.

      
Miranda could feel his concern touch her heart across the space separating them and knew it was genuine. In spite of everything, he did still care for her.
Or is it for the child you might carry?
That insidious thought leaped inside her mind unbidden and caught her off guard. She stepped back, one hand clutching the lapels of her robe as she realized what a sight she must be.

      
“As you can see, I am quite unharmed. I do appreciate your concern, my lord, Mr. St. John, but this house is built like a fortress.”

      
“With a gate you open quite readily,” Brand replied in exasperation. “I'm convinced there is a tie between what's been happening to my horses and the attempts on your life.”

      
“You don't think Geoffrey Winters—”

      
“No, he's an idiot. After spending a weekend in his company, I'm quite certain he hasn't the nerve to kill anyone. But someone who knows her way around horses and has a strong dislike for you has nerve to spare.”

      
“Mrs. Wilcox.” Miranda could easily believe her capable of it. “But I don't understand what she would stand to gain by killing me.”

      
“I don't know, but I intend to find out. In the meanwhile, you remain here surrounded by servants—
armed
servants.”

      
When she started to bristle at Brand's peremptory command, Sin said quietly, “Mrs. Auburn, this O'Connell is a very dangerous fellow. We have a witness who can identify him as the man trying to kill the baron's horses. He'll come for you next. Most probably while you're in route to the City this morning. It would be wise if you stayed at home. I'll alert the men watching the front and back doors.”

      
Miranda nodded. ”I thank you both for your help.” Although she included Brand in her thanks, she looked only at St. John.

* * * *

      
They rode in the dark for nearly an hour, the coach twisting and turning around street comers, its window coverings drawn down so that the women had no sense whatever of where they were. The only thing they could tell was that they had not left London, since the clop and bounce over cobblestones still continued.

      
But the silence of the empty streets was eerie. In the posh residential district where they lived, the quiet was broken by shrubbery rustling in the summer breezes and the soft cry of an occasional night bird, or the noise raised by passing carriages. But here, all that was discernible were faint echoes of emptiness. Then, faraway sounds from the river broke the stillness.

      
The big Irishman made no attempt to molest the women, and for that Lori was grateful as she and Tilda huddled together on one side of the cab while he sat across from them. When he'd drawn the blinds, he'd also made a point of locking the doors and placing the key in his pocket. One tiny kerosene lantern illuminated the cramped, filthy old hansom, which reeked of stale smoke and unwashed bodies, as well as the peculiar combination of horse and sawdust that emanated from their captor.

      
Lori was almost certain he must work around a racetrack. She'd certainly not encountered him at Ascot. The very thought of it almost brought forth a bubble of hysterical laughter. The most elegant racing venue in all the world—what would rabble such as this kidnapper do there? She needed to know more about him if they were going to outsmart him.

      
Mustering her nerve, she said, “My mother is a very shrewd woman of business. If you harm us, she won't pay you a farthing.”

      
Tilda tried to shush her, but Lori met his narrowed pale eyes with courage that she knew must be foolhardy.

      
He barked an ugly laugh. “Oh, she'll dance to whatever tune we pipe, colleen, and niver give us a lick of trouble.”

      
Us
? Somehow Lori intuited he did not mean the brutish driver. “Whom do you work for?” she blurted out, then wished to call back the words.

      
“Lorilee, hush!” Tilda cried out.

      
He nodded in her direction. “She's right, ye know. If I was to tell ye that...”

      
The nasty threat hung in the air for a moment before the hansom jerked to a halt. He leaned forward, fished the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Then he reached out one large meaty paw and grabbed Lori's arm as he stepped down from the cab.

      
“Get your hands off me. I can walk,” Lorilee said with more bravado than she felt.

      
He ignored her, jerking her roughly against him so she tumbled out the door into the darkness. Still holding her by one arm, he called in to Tilda. “Come along now, ye blackamoor bitch, else I'll be forced to put a few bruises on yer charge.”

      
At the terrible slur, Lori hissed furiously and, without thinking, sank her teeth into the meat of his hand, biting down as hard as she could. He let out a string of oaths as he grabbed her hair and pulled so hard, tears sprang to her eyes. But she did not release her bite.

      
“I could be usin' a wee bit of help here, boyo,” he called out to the driver, who had climbed down from his perch and seized hold of Tilda as she tried to pound on the taller man who was hurting Lorilee.

      
Both women continued to struggle, Tilda crying out into the darkness for help while Lori's teeth drew blood from her captor. The sounds of the fight echoed through the deserted streets. They were in an industrial district, closed down for the night, except for one dim light emanating from a window several dozen yards away. The battle was an uneven contest, quickly lost as both women were knocked unconscious.

      
The kidnappers began carrying the limp bodies toward the light as a figure in a frock coat hurried out to meet them. “What on earth have you done? I'm surprised Scotland Yard hasn't heard the uproar! Hurry,” he commanded, looking up and down the empty street. “Bring them inside. You had better not have harmed the young lady.”

* * * *

      
The sunrise came with its usual accompaniment of coal soot and sulfur fumes spewing a gray miasma over London. A bit early for Reba to be awake. Brand smiled grimly. All the better to catch her while her wits were clouded by sleep. He knocked sharply on the door of the elegant city house she was renting from the Marquess of Ellenswick.

      
When the butler answered stiffly that the mistress was not receiving, he brushed past the old man, saying imperiously, “She'll damn well see me. Downstairs, dressed, or upstairs naked.”

      
The old man studied the unshaven, dangerous-looking man with a scar on his cheek and decided he meant business. “Whom shall I say is calling, sir?”

      
“Lord Rushcroft, an old friend from Kentucky.”

      
After the butler scurried off, leaving him to cool his heels in a sitting room, Brand wondered if it might not have been best to head directly for her. He wouldn't put it past the woman to slip out the back way. Then again, Reba always did love a challenge.

      
What would be the best way to approach her? He felt gut-deep that she was involved in the botched attempts to kill Miranda and to destroy his racing stock. The latter he could almost understand. He had spurned her, and Reba did not take rejection well. But to want Miranda dead?

      
Reba could not know how involved he and Miranda had become...could she? He recalled that scene in Falconridge's garden and reconsidered.

      
The butler returned, stiff with disapproval.
He doubtless has had a great deal about which to disapprove since Reba’s taken up residence here,
Brand thought wryly. “Mrs. Wilcox will see you in her upstairs apartments. If you will come with me, milord.”

      
Brand followed the old man up a steep staircase and down a long, narrow hall. The house was small but well appointed. When the servant announced him, Brand stepped into a small sitting room adjacent to Reba's bedroom, the double doors of which stood ajar. She was posed languorously across a fainting couch, dressed in a robe of scarlet silk that fell artfully open, revealing the curves of her lush breasts, covered only by red lace.

      
“Well, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” she purred.

      
“There won't be any pleasure when I finish with you, Reba,” he said, closing the door behind him.

      
“Are you certain, darlin' ?” She stood up slowly, allowing a generous amount of long white leg to slip out from her robe before demurely straightening it and tightening the belt to emphasize her tiny waist.

      
When she reached him and raised her arms, placing them around his neck, he let her, then pulled her roughly against him and savaged her mouth. He was disgusted at the way she responded like a cat in heat, immediately plunging her tongue into his mouth and writhing her lower body against his as she dug her fingers into his hair. He pulled away and peeled her off his body.

      
He felt as if he needed to gargle with his granny's home remedy of boiled water and black-strap molasses. “Now that we have that out of the way, we can talk.”

      
Her eyes blazed with startled surprise, then slitted furiously.

      
“You're more practiced at that than you were back in Kentucky,” he said. “Maybe I sold ole Earl short...or you had other teachers.” She tried to slap him, but he was too quick for her, seizing her wrist and squeezing it painfully.