Rebel Baron (30 page)

      
He did not seem inclined to go in search of them. “I'll stain my gloves with grease.” The protest seemed faint indeed, even to her own ears. She took another drink of wine.

      
“Then allow me to feed you.” He took a sliver of tender juicy meat from the plate and held it in his fingers, offering it to her with a dare gleaming in his eyes.

      
Miranda had never felt so uncertain of herself, not even at her first ball as a sixteen-year-old girl back in Liverpool. Without allowing her bemused senses time to react with the natural caution she normally exhibited, she tilted her face toward his hand and opened her mouth.

      
Lordy, the lushness of those lips, so soft and sweet.
Struggling not to tremble, he slipped the morsel into her mouth, being careful not to touch her. She closed her eyes and chewed, then washed the delicacy down with another sip of wine. When she opened them, he was offering her a pea pod. She took the crisp vegetable and felt the tang of sherry on her tongue.

      
”Mmm, delicious,” she murmured.

      
“Yes, it is,” he said, but his eyes were fastened on her, not the food. Twisting off a leg from the bird, he held it out. “Take a bite.”

      
This is insane
, a faint voice inside her head warned, but she leaned forward and bit into the rich succulent meat, so tender it fell from the bone. He caught the pieces easily in his hand and shoved them into his mouth with neat economy, then held out the bone for her once again.

      
“I...I need to hold it but I'll soil my gloves,” she blurted out as her fingertips brushed against his hand.

      
“Then take them off. I won't tell.”

      
Satan in the garden couldn't have been more beguiling. She took another sip of wine and placed the glass carefully on the ground, then yanked off her mitts and tossed them aside with a reckless flourish. When he offered her the bone again, she took one end in her fingers, touching his hand as she did so, and jerking back ever so slightly. Then she recovered, daring to reach out once more and seize hold of the prize.

      
Brand watched her take another bite. His mouth, filled with saliva from the juicy food a moment ago, went suddenly dry. He refilled their glasses, then offered her a crust from the bread. ‘This is my favorite part,” he whispered, letting her pull at the slightly tough piece torn from the end. As it broke free, crumbs showered down over her green dress and he dreamed of licking them, one by one, off the sweet curves of breasts and lower...

      
“May I have the wine?” she asked, daring to speak, afraid her voice would come out a raspy croak.

      
He handed her the glass he'd refilled and then clinked his own to hers in a toast. “Here's to a beautiful day...and many more to come.” They both drank the golden liquid, as soft and sweet as the summer sunlight beaming down through their leafy bower.

      
Then he uncovered another bowl and removed a fat, ripe red raspberry. Dipping it in the heavy cream, he popped it into his mouth. “Umm.”

      
“A gentleman would offer one to a lady first,” Miranda reproved.

      
“So he would. But being a baron doesn't make me a gentleman, no matter what the House of Lords says,” he replied with a grin. He anointed another berry and held it out to her.

      
There was no way she could take it from his hand without touching him. And she knew it. Knew he knew it. She opened her mouth anyway and let him slide it inside.
It must be the wine.
Somehow, of their own volition her lips closed around his fingers before he withdrew them. She sat back, aghast at her hunger, one she knew had nothing to do with food.

      
Brand watched as her eyes grew wide and her fingers flew up to her mouth. Her lips were stained bright red from berry juice, and they were just as plump and ripe...and oh, so kissable. Without thinking, he leaned over and took her hand away, replacing it with his mouth, brushing it softly against hers, back and forth, drinking the tart-sweet delight of raspberry and woman. Then their tongues touched, just the faintest hint of contact, but she drew away as if she'd never felt a man kiss her that way before.

      
And instantly he knew it must be true. Their formidable Queen had placed her Puritanical stamp on what was considered proper, even for married women. No lady was supposed to do more than her “duty” for her husband. For all he knew, Will Auburn had never truly kissed her at all—something Brandon Caruthers planned to correct immediately. His hands framed her face and his lips claimed hers more deeply.

      
They still sat discreetly apart on the blanket, leaning toward each other as he reached behind her head and buried his fingers in her hair, pulling the heavy mass at her nape free so that it tumbled down her back. Deep ruby fire danced in the dappled light filtering through the leaves. Her touch was unsure, exploratory as she let the tip of her tongue dart against his for an instant, then withdraw. She dug her fingers into his arms, feeling the hard flexing of his muscles.

      
He slanted his mouth at a different angle and guided her head, cradling it in one palm as he seized a fistful of lavender-scented hair and wrapped it around his wrist. She tasted of the fruit and more...oh, so much more. When he heard her moan softly against his mouth, he was lost. His tongue thrust deep and his mouth worked over hers hungrily, demanding response even as he tutored her in how to give it

      
“I knew you'd be sweet...and tart...” he murmured against her lips as his hand glided down the long, silky column of her throat, over the indentation of her collarbone to the lush curve of her breast.

      
The fabric was sheer cotton and her undergarments were made of lace, her one feminine indulgence even in drab business attire. The abrasive texture of the lace teased her aching nipple as he massaged it. His words had not registered, but when he pulled her against him and they tumbled backwards onto the soft grass behind the blanket, Miranda came to her senses. With a muffled cry, she pushed free of him and sat bolt upright.

      
She saw with horror that one of the wineglasses had overturned in the midst of their passion, staining her skirt and his pant leg. What on earth had she been thinking? There were servants only a short distance away, and the young people could return at any moment. Her daughter could ride up and see her own mother lying with the man she intended to marry. Miranda moaned with disgust and placed her hands on either side of her head, trying desperately to gather her jumbled wits.

      
If only she had not consumed all that accursed wine! Feeling her hair loose about her shoulders, she began frantically searching for the pins to put it up. “I'm no better than that drunken tart,” she sobbed, fumbling with the long, burnished mass.

      
Brand sat back, aching to take her in his arms but knowing to do so would drive her away forever. He also knew of whom she spoke. “You're nothing like Reba. Don't ever say such a thing.” There was an undertone of anger that she should even consider such a comparison. “You're just human...a woman—”

      
“A woman who has nearly coupled with her own daughter's suitor!” She rounded on him like a wounded animal, cornered and desperate, letting anger purge away the guilt and shame...for the moment. She knew it would return later. Then she would have to deal with it, but not now. Dear God, not now. All she could think of was escape.

      
Trembling, she got to her feet somehow, refusing his assistance when he stood with effortless ease and offered his hand, the graceful lout. Jamming pins into her tangled hair as she twisted it into a knot at the back of her head, she said in the iciest voice she could muster, “I cannot be seen in this condition. One of the footmen will drive me back to your home. You will tell Lori and the others that I felt a sudden upset stomach—say the meat pies were tainted, the clotted cream was sour—say whatever you wish, only make them believe that was all that happened here!”

      
“This was my fault. I am deeply sorry I offended you, but you must know this has been a long time coming between us. We—”

      
“No!” she practically shrieked, holding her hands over her ears as if that would make him and his words—those terrifying, truthful words—vanish. “There is no
we
! Not now, nor ever will there be anything between us, my lord. Nor will you continue courting my daughter. If you possess one shred of decency—and I'm inclined to doubt it— you will allow her to—”

      
“Miss Auburn and I have already agreed we do not suit.” Now it was he who interrupted as his temper boiled over. “Of course, she will be the one to break off our courtship,” he replied tightly.

      
His words about Lori did not register with Miranda as she turned and fled to the wagon, climbing aboard the high seat with dogged determination, out of breath from far more than simply running.

      
All she called back to him was a frosty request that he summon one of the footmen to take her home. Cursing his stupidity, the wine, the woman and life in general, he trudged toward the pathway the servants had taken with their lunch to do as she asked.

* * * *

      
Lori sat by herself in the isolated glade, watching a doe with her fawns frolicking across the open meadow. Behind her was a small stream that fed the lake on the baron's property. She smiled to herself. Things would be going swimmingly for them, alone at the picnic place. All Brand need do was dismiss the footmen on some pretext and get on with his courtship of her mother. It was such a romantic spot!

      
She had left the other couples laughing and flirting, feeling like an outsider since she was the only unattached one in the group. It would be nice to have a real suitor, but she had learned her lesson the hard way. Brandon Caruthers was in love with another woman, and Geoffrey Winters was in love with himself. Someday there would be a man right for her. She only had to school herself in patience until he came along. In the meanwhile, she was rather enjoying the role of matchmaker.

      
Surprisingly, Lori found that she actually enjoyed solitude, something she never would have imagined only a few short months ago. “Perhaps I'm finally growing up,” she murmured to herself. Then she could not help wondering what sort of youth her mother had had. Or had not been allowed to have. At Lori's own age she was already a mother, wed to a man old enough to be her grandfather. Her reverie was suddenly interrupted by the sound of clumsy crashing through the elderberry thicket behind her.

      
“A ha'penny for your thoughts,” Geoffrey Winters said with a charming smile as he strolled into view, sending the deer into flight.

      
“Where is Varinia?” Lori asked immediately. Suspiciously. She did not like the gleam in his eye one bit.

      
“Oh, she went to visit the village market nearby with Alberta and that foolish vicar of hers.”

      
“Melvin is the vicar's son, a fact you'd know if you had come to church with us this morning,” she chided.

      
Ignoring the rebuke, he took a seat on the fallen log beside her. “Don't be angry, puss. I was—”

      
Lorilee scooted away. “I am not your ‘puss.’ It is insulting in the extreme for you to address me so. For the sake of Abbie and Jon's friendship, I have overlooked your appalling past behavior, but do not presume any further, Mr. Winters.”

      
“I realize I was...er, rather rash in my proposal to you at Ascot,” he began, employing his most winsome smile. “I didn't intend to offend.”

      
“Your proposal wasn't intended to offend me? What sort of a ninny do you take me for?” She stood up, too furious to think of anything but getting away from this vain popinjay.

      
“I take you for a beautiful woman who once enjoyed my kisses, a passionate woman. Here, allow me to show you just how passionate you are.” He reached out and seized hold of her arm, trying to pull her into his embrace.

      
Lori was frozen with horror for a moment as she slammed against his chest, but when the smell of his Macassar-slicked hair filled her nostrils, she nearly gagged. How had she ever fancied herself in love with such a narcissistic, faithless excuse for a man?

      
When he lowered his head to press his mouth to hers, she stomped with her full weight on his instep, using the sharp heel of her boot. Immediately he released her, crying out in pain. As he raised his injured foot, she caught him off balance and shoved his chest with all her might. He toppled backward over the log and into the creek beyond, where he landed with a loud splash in the icy water.

      
Lori could hear his curses echo through the woods as she strode quickly to where she'd left her mare.
Let him explain why he is limping and how his clothing became soaked!