Yankee Earl (14 page)

      
“Ah, Countess, therein lays the rub. Everyone would think we were trysting instead of going at each other like a pair of pit dogs,” he said, unfurling his body and stepping toward her. “I believe trysting would be far more entertaining,” he murmured.

      
She did not like the slumberous look in his eyes or the heat emanating from his body as he drew closer, yet she refused to back away. “I would not do anything rash were I you, m'lord. It could seal our doom.”

      
“Only if we're caught,” he said hoarsely as he curled his good arm around her waist and pulled her against him.

      
This is madness!
her mind cried out, but she went silently into his embrace. What might have happened at the pool that afternoon had the mastiffs not intervened? This time there would be no one to rescue her but herself.
But first…let me see just what this man-woman thing is all about…

      
His lips brushed hers ever so softly, like the lightest touch of butterfly wings. Her eyelids closed as her head dropped back, cupped in his palm. As he brushed kisses against her lashes, his fingers kneaded through her heavy hair, caressing her scalp. She could feel the pounding of his heart—or was that her own? She could not tell as his hot, seeking mouth moved down the column of her throat, then back up to her lips, which now were parted, emitting small panting noises.

      
His tongue made a swift foray inside her mouth, dancing lightly against her own, and she gasped with surprise. When he deepened the kiss this time, pressing his lips hard against hers, she could feel the fierce hunger inside him. It was as if he were infusing her with the same blazing heat, a dizzying desire for something she could not recognize. She kissed him back, awkwardly at first, then with growing confidence as his lips and tongue taught hers how the game was played.

      
Before she realized it, he had somehow unfastened the belt of her robe and pushed the heavy cotton aside so that one large hand had unrestricted access to a breast. Her nipple tingled and throbbed, pebbling hard through the sheer fabric of her night rail as he massaged and teased it. Then he broke the kiss and moved his head lower, taking the aching bud in his mouth, suckling it while he prepared the other one for the same magic.

      
Rachel was spinning out of control as she arched against his caresses. Her arms were pinned partially to her sides by the robe he'd pushed down to her elbows. Their lower bodies were fused together, and his erection pressed insistently against the barriers of cloth. She knew nothing of kisses sweet and hot or the incredible sensations a man's mouth on her breasts could evoke, but she was well aware of the purpose of his hard male staff. Suddenly fear mingled with desire.

      
He began to lower her to the carpet. Rachel knew she would be utterly lost if she did not do something at once. Almost inadvertently, she pushed against him, trying to back away, but her hands could not reach his chest, confined as they were by the robe. Instead they slid up his forearms and connected with his biceps. When her fingers dug into the fresh stitches, he grunted with pain and stumbled backward, releasing her with a mild oath of surprise.

      
Rachel backed away, panting and breathless, her face crimson with shame. “What a mutton-headed, addlepated, bird-witted…” All words failed her as her pulse throbbed madly, robbing her of coherent thought.

      
Jason stood watching her with bare comprehension, holding his aching arm to his chest. “You seemed willing enough a moment ago, Countess. All you needed to do was turn your head away and ask me to stop.”

      
How could she admit that she had been so caught up in their passion, she was powerless to think rationally, much less get her body to obey? A tiny pulse in her throat continued to hammer as she drew in a deep, calming breath. “I will admit the fault was mine as well as yours that things grew so...so out of hand.”

      
“Most generous of you, but as I recall, things were growing quite well in hand,” he replied, watching her pull her robe closed over the two large wet spots on her night rail.

      
She stiffened at his suggestive comment, hissing angrily, “If we had been caught doing what we were about to do, Father would have been importuning the marquess to secure us a special license immediately. We'd have been before a priest within a day's time, make no mistake about that—or do you wish to be leg-shackled to me for the rest of your life?”

      
“Countess, there is nothing on this earth I would less rather do than spend the rest of my life with a mercurial hellion like you.” Just as he had on the night of their betrothal announcement, Jason executed another stiff, angry bow and turned to leave the room, pausing only long enough to add, “I shall do as you ask and extend an invitation for Fox to visit. Please be certain we have passage on that ship to Canada.”

      
Rachel stood frozen as the door closed with soft finality. She felt suddenly cold in spite of the warm summer air. Jason Beaumont was the most dangerous man she had ever met.

* * * *

      
Jason was relieved when he came downstairs the following morning and found that Rachel had already ridden out with her steward to check on a blight in some outlying wheat fields. The viscount was not yet about, preferring to take his morning tea and biscuits in bed while reading. Jason penned a brief note of thanks, begging his host's pardon for his early departure by explaining that duties at Falconridge demanded his immediate attention. He kept a weather eye out for possible ambushes as he rode home via the longer but more open public roads. Both Hawken pistols were loaded, primed and thrust into his belt. He had spent the remainder of the long night cursing his own stupidity. Whatever had made him take leave of his senses, he was happy that Rachel had possessed the good judgment to stop him, even if his ego did smart at the abrupt method she had chosen to use. Who could understand the mind of a woman?

      
Especially this woman.

      
Rachel Fairchild was like no other female of his acquaintance. There was no denying that. She could be cool and logical, discussing the foibles of Lord Liverpool's government, the brilliance of Wellesley's strategy on the Peninsula, or the genius of J. M. W. Turner's new exhibition at the Royal Academy. She cared nothing for female fripperies, dressed in men's clothing, and worked her land as diligently as the most industrious Maryland planters of his acquaintance. A most competent woman, yet one who was frightened of her own sensuality.

      
She was utterly unconcerned about what the ton thought of her, yet seemed genuinely surprised and confused that a man could find her physically attractive. If not for the Damoclean sword of matrimony poised over his neck, Jason would have relished the opportunity to teach her just how desirable she was to a man unafraid of a strong, intelligent woman. But she had been right about the folly of pursuing their mutual attraction. Inevitably, it would lead to a fate neither of them wished to embrace.

      
He arrived back at his own estate without incident. Whoever had taken the shot at him yesterday had given up for now, but he could not let down his guard. The assassin had tried three times, and there was no reason to believe lack of success thus far would cause him to give up. Summoning his head stableman, a shrewd old Scot named Lurey who had worked for the marquess for over forty years, Jason described the attempts on his life. He asked the man to select half a dozen servants he could vouch for and assign them to patrol the estate, watching for strangers.

      
Next he wrote and posted a letter to Fox and another to his grandfather, asking that the boy be allowed to pay a visit, since the marquess could collect him when he arrived for the Mountjoys' summer ball.

      
During the following days, Jason occupied himself with estate matters, learning the names and duties of all the servants. When he was not poring over ledgers and reviewing plans for livestock and crop sales, he rode tirelessly around his vast holdings, asking questions of his steward and tenants. There was much to learn about this earl business.

      
He tried not to think about Rachel Fairchild.

      
But at night, when he dropped exhausted into his solitary bed, she would haunt his dreams. Several of the more comely female servants had made it abundantly clear that they would welcome the new lord to their beds; but he politely ignored their invitations, something the old Jason Beaumont, with a woman in every port, would never have done. If memories of Rachel had anything to do with his self-imposed celibacy, he refused to think about it.

      
A week after their disastrous encounter, a servant from Harleigh brought a note from her indicating that passage for him and Fox had been arranged with a Captain Harting from Bristol, bound for Canada. The following day he received a missive bearing the impressive Cargrave crest. He tore it open and read, to his delight, that the old marquess agreed to send Fox for the proposed visit. Of course, he would be accompanied by his “tutors,” Mace and company.

      
Jason grinned in anticipation. “Not long, Grandfather, and I will checkmate
you
. ”

Chapter Eight

      
“I really don't know why you're in such a taking, Rachel,” Harry fussed as she tried to smooth her sister's heavy hair into a neat roll at the back of her neck.
 

      
“Oh, bother the stupid hair,” Rachel replied snappishly. “Just let me plait it and get it out of the way.” She yanked the pins from her sore scalp and shook her long tresses over her shoulder, then began braiding them into a fat, gleaming braid. As she worked, memories of being naked in the water with Jason Beaumont and covering her breasts with her hair returned to haunt her. That, and the night following in her room…the kiss…

      
How could she ever forget that kiss, his hands and mouth on her breasts? She had nearly tumbled to the floor in a daze. Every night since, she had tossed and turned in her bed, restless and achy, unable to sleep. Each time she closed her eyes, visions of what had transpired between them would rise and her body would begin to throb in the most disturbing places, secret places known to no man…before Jason Beaumont.

      
Jason Beaumont. He would be arriving momentarily with Fox. Their plan was proceeding smoothly. If all went well over this weekend, her prospective bridegroom and his foster brother would be on a ship bound for the New World when Fox visited next. And she would return to Harleigh Hall alone. That was what she wished—was it not?

      
Harry's voice interrupted her confusing thoughts. “I know why you have been behaving so crustily. The earl is bringing that wild red Indian boy with him!”

      
“Cameron Edmund Barlow is not a wild red Indian. He's been raised quite properly, and even the marquess finds him utterly charming.” Rachel did not mention that Fox had pronounced her the most beautiful lady in England. “I am looking forward to seeing him again.”

      
"Then it must be the earl himself, the Yankee ruffian. Why, I have a mind to tell Father to send him packing. He's quite overset you with his lecherous innuendos. He—"

      
Rachel's snort of derision interrupted her sister's diatribe. “I've never been ‘overset’ in my life. Enraged, yes. Overset, no. And as for our father sending the likes of Jason Beaumont packing—even if he desired to do so, which he most certainly does not—it would be like a field mouse challenging a mastiff.”

      
“I scarcely think Father would approve of your calling him a field mouse,” Harry said reprovingly. “Rachel, if you are so afraid of this marriage—”

      
“I am not afraid of Jason Beaumont.” Rachel bit off each word, knowing that she was lying even as she spoke them. She was afraid, very much so, only not in the way Harry thought. What would her prim sister think if she knew Rachel was every bit as hot blooded as the wild Yankee? She would die before admitting her weakness. “He is detestably arrogant and boorish; but I have a deal of skill in handling that sort of man, considering they make up the majority of the gender.”

      
“If you can ‘handle’ him that easily, then why have you been so waspish the past weeks? I declare, if I had known the earl was such a dreadful fellow, I would not have tarried with dear Melvin at Brighton but rushed back to your side. You should have written me.”

      
Rachel smiled fondly at her sister. “You and the baron were overjoyed by the Regent's invitation to the gala. I would not have you give it up. Besides, there really was nothing you could do.” That, at least, was the truth.

      
“Nonsense. If he is a hectoring ruffian, I shall have Melvin speak most firmly with him. We will not have you wed to anyone unsuitable.”

      
The idea of her brother-in-law speaking firmly to anyone, least of all the Yankee earl, amused Rachel. Melvin Chalmers, third Baron Widmere, made their father seem a veritable lion by comparison. His facing down Jason Beaumont was downright laughable, although she would never hurt Harry's feelings by saying so. “You really must forget the idea that the earl has intimidated me. I shall deal with the betrothal in my own way.”