Rebel Baron (13 page)

      
One was still engaged with the driver, but the other, the large brute with long hair, raised an old Blanch four-barreled pistol he'd yanked from his belt and fired at his opponent. Lori screamed, holding her hands over her ears while Miranda cried out for a Peeler in a strong, clear voice, all the while yanking off the rest of her rubies. ‘Take off your jewelry,” she whispered hoarsely to Lori.

      
The girl did as she was asked, but her eyes remained fixed on Brand.

      
The thief fired at Brand and missed. Before he could rotate the barrel cylinder for a second shot, the baron dodged, then came in low, butting his heavier opponent in the stomach, taking him to the filthy gutter, where they rolled and thrashed. Brand had one hand wrapped about the thief's hand which held the gun. In turn, his other hand was grasped by his foe to keep him from wielding his knife. The big brute came up on top and tried butting his head into Brand's, but only grazed it when the baron moved.

      
The pain was almost enough to make Brand lose his grip on his knife, but he held on and used every ounce of his strength to roll them over again. He stared down into the blood-crazed eyes of a madman who growled, ”Ye killed Maury, ye bloody bastard!”

      
He was back in the war again. All he could see before him was a blue coat and a pistol.
The enemy. Kill the enemy
. This was hand to hand, just as he'd done so much of his fighting over those hellish four years. As he'd done to escape the filthy hole of a Yankee prison near the war's end. With a roar of rage, he was swept away in a tide of crimson to a place he prayed nightly never to visit again. Although he did often, in his nightmares...

      
Miranda and Lorilee watched as the baron wrenched free his hand and plunged his dagger into the throat of the man below him, then jumped up to face the third fellow. The thief had finally overcome their driver, who lay crumpled on the seat of the carriage.

      
“Let's see 'ow ye likes a taste o' the whip,” the thug snarled as he lashed out with the weapon.

      
Instead of ducking away, Brand took the blow. The heavy carriage whip wrapped around his shoulders and bit deep through his jacket and shirt. Yet he stood. As the bloody whip uncoiled, he suddenly grabbed it in his hand and yanked hard, throwing his assailant off balance so he toppled forward. Just then the shrill of Peelers' whistles rent the night stillness. The thief tossed the whip handle toward the baron and tried to make a run for it, but Brand overtook him and smashed his fist into the man's narrow, grizzled face, crushing his nose to a pulp.

      
He was still beating the insensate man when the Peelers pulled him away. “There, sir, please, he's done for,” one pleaded to the dazed gentleman.

      
“Damned Bluebellies. Come to kill us,” Brand muttered, seeing only the policeman's blue uniform, not registering where he was or who the officers were.

      
“E's a Yankee, Jackie,” the second Peeler said, as if that explained Brand's crazed behavior toward them.

      
Now restrained by two strong men who held him carefully, Brand felt the red haze of battle start to lift. He was in London and these were officers of the law...and they'd just called him... “I'm no damned Yankee,” he snarled, shoving free of their grasp.

      
“American, then, sir?” came the uncertain reply.

      
“He is Brandon Caruthers, Lord Rushcroft,” Miranda said as she approached them. “I am Mrs. Auburn.”

      
The Peelers were in awe of the famous Rebel Baron and also the lady standing so calmly before them. They knew she was a very wealthy widow from Liverpool who'd made an additional fortune all on her own here in London. As Brand and Miranda answered their questions regarding the incident, a third officer attended to Harry, who had been dealt a terrible blow to the head but was still breathing.

      
Lorilee stood staring numbly at the carnage surrounding them. Although the whole incident had taken at best two to three minutes, it seemed to go on and on in her mind, replaying over and over. She looked at the disemboweled thug on the sidewalk, the huge brute with the slashed throat in the gutter, the third fellow with his face beaten to an unrecognizable mass near the carriage. Had the elegant man standing beside her mother actually done such violence?

      
She could scarcely have credited it, if not for witnessing it with her own eyes. Then suddenly her mother was touching her cheek gently, saying soothing things to calm her as the baron's footman climbed aboard the carriage and pulled the skittish horses to a halt directly in front of the theater.

      
“Now, dearheart let's go home,” Miranda said, guiding Lori to the carriage.

      
But when the baron attempted to assist her into it, Lori flinched, reacting to his battered face and torn, blood-soaked evening clothes. Good heavens, the smell of him! He reeked of the gutter, and the hard, cold light in his eyes sent icy ripples of renewed terror shooting down her spine.

      
“My apologies for my appearance. Miss Auburn,” he said gently, giving her a concerned smile as he waited, hand outstretched to her.

      
Lori looked down at his hand. Somehow during the fight he'd even lost his gloves, and his fists were bloodied, the knuckles swollen from beating that poor ruffian nearly to death. Perhaps he, too, was dead like the others. At her mother's urging, she climbed up the steps into the security of the enclosed carriage, hating the feel of those hard, naked hands on her arm.

      
But even more she hated the cold penetration of his eyes, piercing her as if they knew how much he frightened her. He was a stranger and a killer...and her mother wanted her to marry him!

      
“Er, these be yers, Mrs. Auburn?” one of the Peelers said, pointing to where her rubies winked by gaslight, as red as the blood flowing in the gutters. Close by, Lorilee's aquamarine necklace and earrings were barely visible. The other officer gathered up all the jewelry and handed it deferentially to her. “Sorry, ma'am, but an officer’ll be calling on ye in the morning.”

      
“Thank you,” Miranda replied, nodding her understanding as she stuffed the jewels into her pocket. She cast a worried glance toward her daughter, then climbed into the carriage after her.

      
Brand leaned inside but made no attempt to enter. “I think it would be best if I rode with our driver,” he said, then tried to reassure them with a smile. “I'm hardly fit company for ladies in this condition.” He glanced down at his filthy, blood-smeared clothing, now partially concealed by his cape, which after having been cast on the ground was muddy and torn.

      
Miranda nodded. “I believe that would be wise, my lord,” she said coolly.

      
With a terse nod, Brand climbed atop the carriage, where the nervous driver was barely in control of the horses. “Give me the ribbons, man,” he said wearily. After surviving three cutthroats, he was damned if he'd see them die in a carriage accident.

      
The driver made no protest, handing over the reins. As he coaxed the still nervous horses into a slow trot, Brand considered what had just happened. He'd seen the “thief ignore Miranda Auburn's rubies when she tossed them practically at his feet. She'd tried to throw away every jewel they were wearing. Normally, such presence of mind would have saved the wealthy Englishwomen's lives.

      
Somehow, he guessed it would not have worked this time. He vowed to add a pocket pistol to his arsenal. Brand had a feeling he might have need of it on the streets of this, the wealthiest and most civilized city on earth.

* * * *

      
“Try to get some sleep now,” Miranda coaxed, taking the half-empty glass of warm milk from her daughter's hands. She'd laced it generously with brandy, but Lori had made a face and refused to drink the whole of it.

      
Lying back against the pillows piled high on her Louis XV bed, Lorilee Auburn shivered in spite of the covers pulled up to her neck and the heavy linen night rail she wore. “I'll be all right, Mother,” she said softly. “You look as though you could use some rest yourself. You were ever so brave.”

      
Miranda gave her cheek a swift kiss, then climbed off the edge of the bed. “Nonsense. I was just as frightened as you. Now, try not to think of it. It's over and done, and none of us has been injured except for the baron's poor driver, and I was told he will recover.”

      
Once the door closed softly, leaving Lori alone with the tiny flicker of a lone gaslight turned down low, she closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, trying to do as her mother had asked. But visions of that awful scene appeared instantly in her mind. She sat up in bed, hugging herself, unconsciously rubbing the place on her elbow where the baron had touched her with his bare hands as he'd helped her into the carriage.

      
He'd been kind, solicitous even, but the danger still lay coiled deep inside him. She had been able to sense it through the heavy folds of her satin opera cloak and long white kid gloves. There was a coldness bred into him that had disturbed her even when she'd seen him standing at the foot of the stairs in their foyer on his first visit.

      
Oh, he was fine-looking enough, she supposed, if one ignored that awful scar. Some women found such marks dashing rather than disfiguring, signs that a man had proven himself on the battlefield. But the very lean elegance of his hard body, the pantherish way he moved, like a cat stalking a bird, made her wish only to retreat from his presence. He had fought in a long and bloody war, for a cause that even her mother did not approve, although she had explained to Lori about his not owning slaves himself.

      
She did not understand him or the faraway place from which he had come to claim his place in England's peerage. And he was so much older than she. He'd read books and understood politics and made jokes that often mystified her. But her mother approved of his business acumen and felt assured that he would not waste the fortune which she and her husband had labored so hard to accumulate for their daughter.

      
Lori had learned from bitter experience with Geoffrey Winters that her money was indeed a far more potent enticement than any charms she possessed. At times such as this, she wished to be an impoverished peeress, one for whom some perfectly agreeable younger son of the aristocracy would offer without expectation of anything but herself. Even a young man in trade would do, if he truly loved her.

      
The baron did not. Above all, that was the unvarnished truth and it tore at her heart's youthful dreams. “Oh, Mother, how were you strong enough to do what you did?” she murmured as her eyelids grew heavy. Then the brandy and warm milk did their work and she slept.

* * * *

      
“So, the summons has arrived. You expected it, did you not?” Sin asked as Brand threw the heavy piece of velum onto the scarred old desk in his office. It was embossed with the Auburn monogram.

      
The baron cursed, then sighed. “Yes. I expected a dressing down after the fiasco last night, but damnation, to be summoned like a schoolboy who's been caught scrapping on a bloody playground...summoned!”

      
St. John listened to his friend mutter something about high-handed, unnatural women, then commence to pace the length of the room. He cleared his throat and said, “I have a bit of interesting information regarding the wager young Winters placed on Falconridge's horse.”

      
That brought Brand from his angry reverie. “Go on,” he said, intrigued in spite of his wrath toward the widow.

      
“Winters has not fared quite so profitably as he'd hoped with the earl's daughter. It would seem Falconridge stole a march on him. His daughter's dowry is being doled out by his none-too-generous hand. Oh, he sees that they have a decent house in town and pays for its upkeep. One must see to appearances, after all,” Sin said dryly.

      
“How very British of you,” Brand shot back.

      
Unperturbed, St. John shrugged. “You're the bleeding baron, not I, old chap. My father was the son of a mere squire, and I born not only on the wrong side of the blanket but of the wrong color as well.” If he felt any rancor over that fact, Sin did not reveal it. Instead, he continued, “The point is that Winters has not a sou of his own with which to wager.”

      
“Who would be fool enough to lend him money for any enterprise, least of all that sort?” Brand asked, mystified.

      
“That's the oddest part. The rumor has it that an old...acquaintance of mine is involved. One Dustin O'Connell from County Cork.”

      
“The trainer? I've heard of him. A shady sort, by all reports.”

      
Sin grinned. “Quite so. My misspent youth has proven useful from time to time. It seems Dusty is employed at Epsom currently, but he could never earn enough to afford placing a thousand-pound wager—and that is the amount, so rumor has it, he gave to the Winters pup, who placed it in his own name.”