Rebel Baron (45 page)

      
“With Miranda Auburn found drowned, no one will question my taking over her business affairs,” Aimesley replied. “I'll quietly withdraw our offer to the Union Pacific for the loan and the shipping contract. Everything. I shall be prostrate with grief, of course.”

      
“You wretched miscreant,” Miranda hissed.

      
“Never fear,” he said, turning back to her, “I shall take excellent care of your daughter.”

      
“I imagine you have a suitable husband already picked out. One who'll do whatever you say.” They neared the barge. She held her breath as O'Connell walked around them and began to untie the heavy ropes securing it to the pier. The little mute stayed in the shadows like a jackal.

      
“Rest assured I have the perfect husband in mind,” Aimesley said in a pleased tone of voice. “You were going to marry her to an older man. A pity I don't have a title like your Rebel Baron, and I am a bit older than he— but not as old as Will Auburn when he wed you.”

      
“You wouldn't dare! Lori would never consider—”

      
“She has no idea I'm involved in this ‘unfortunate accident.’ She'll be prostrate with grief and rely on me. Anyway, I'll give her little choice in the matter.”

      
He was gloating, but Miranda reined in her temper, reinforced by a gentle nudge from Tilda, reminding her that this was their only chance. The women exchanged hand signals indicating that Tilda would attack Aimesley while Miranda jumped free so she could pull her weapon from its hiding place.

      
The Irishman grunted as he struggled with the ropes. In a moment the ropes would be loose and he would close in on them again. It was now or never. Tilda lowered her head suddenly and ran at the tall, thin man, butting him squarely in the stomach so he flew back against the edge of the barge, which was bobbing waist-high in the water. The fat man reached out with an oath, his fist swinging at Tilda while Miranda stepped back. She could see O'Connell out of the comer of her eye, jumping up to aid his employers as she started to pull the revolver from her pocket. It caught in the folds of her skirt.

Chapter Twenty-two

      
O'Connell was upon her and they struggled until he clipped her jaw with one meaty fist and tossed her over the edge of the barge. He remained unaware that she had a gun. Miranda landed on the hard metal bottom and struck her head a glancing blow. Everything went black for a moment as she struggled to remain conscious. She could hear the curses and shrieks as Tilda vented her wrath on their would-be killers. At the same time she heard other voices echoing down the pier from the wharf above.

      
Did one voice sound like Brandon's? Surely the blow to her head was causing her to imagine things! Miranda seized hold of a crude wooden bench and tried to regain her footing so she could withdraw the wretched gun from where it was caught in her skirt, but the world spun crazily around her.

      
Then she saw his beloved figure through the fog-drenched light, running down the pier with St. John at his heels. As if they'd rehearsed it, the baron and St. John each chose a target after the major used the butt of his pistol to crack their “guide” on the head, crumpling him to the pier. O'Connell fired at Brandon, eliciting a scream from Miranda, but the Irishman missed.

      
Not daring to use his Remington because the women were in his line of fire, Brand took advantage of the diversion Tilda was causing to duck and dodge as he closed on the big Irishman. Sin engaged the mute, who leaped agilely at him with a wicked blade drawn, an inarticulate, growling cry coming from his mutilated mouth.

      
Caruthers connected with O'Connell, tackling him so they fell to the rough wooden planks with a deep thud, rolling and twisting. Brand smashed his foe's hand against the splintery edge of a piling, and the gun went flying. But the Irishman had a knife in the other almost instantly. The two of them rolled dangerously near the edge of the pier, wrestling for control of the blade.

      
Although Tilda had been struck on the left shoulder by the fat man's fist, she shrugged away the pain and rounded on Aimesley just as he withdrew a small pistol from his waistcoat. Sin watched Tilda from the corner of his eye but then was forced to turn his full attention to the deadly little mute, who held the long stiletto in one hand while a small derringer instantly materialized in the other. Using his sword-cane to slash neatly across the mute's wrist, he disposed of the gun, but the little man ignored his bleeding left hand and began weaving in a deadly arc with his blade while evading St. John's longer weapon.

      
“That's for Miss Lori,” Tilda cried as her good arm came crashing down on Aimesley’s wrist when he fired at Sin's back. The shot went wild, splintering the wood of the pier. “And that's for Miss Miranda,” she added, raising her skirts for good aim as her long leg flew upward and the tip of her pointy-toed boot connected solidly with his genitals. Kent Aimesley collapsed in an ungainly heap.

      
Brand and the Irishman were evenly matched in size and strength. O'Connell fought like the cornered rat he was, but the baron had an even more desperate need. He had seen this man raise his fist to Miranda. The ruffian would pay dearly for that. Coming up on top of his foe, Brand held O'Connell’s knife hand at bay while smashing the Irishman's face.

      
Miranda watched the deadly battle, blinking hard to clear her vision. The big thug once more rolled on top of Brand. Suddenly, sausage-like fingers bit painfully into her upper arm as the fat man jerked her against him. Giving up on aiding Aimesley in his battle with Tilda, he had clamored aboard the barge to use his last desperate bargaining chip.

      
“I'll kill the woman,” he yelled just as Brand's fist once again landed a thundering blow to O'Connell's throat. The baron was on top again and pummeling the Irishman insensate. Sin had just succeeded in disarming his foe. He realized the danger to Miranda before Brand emerged from the killing haze enveloping him.

      
“For once in her life, Reba told the truth. I say, you look remarkably well for a dead man, Wilcox...a bit bloated perhaps.” St. John studied the pudgy man holding Miranda in his grasp with a gun jammed in her side.

      
Earl Wilcox was trembling so fearfully, he could barely hold the weapon to her side. Rivulets of foul-smelling sweat ran down his face, soaking into his starched collar. Miranda remained perfectly still as Brand climbed up and took a step toward them. “No, Brandon, don't—”

      
“Yes, Caruthers, you bastard, please do. I'd love to shoot your woman in front of you—almost as much as I'd love to shoot you.”

      
“If you harm her in any way, Earl, you'll die like the cowardly pig you are, choking on the vomit of your own fear while I gut you,” Brand ground out. But he did not move. “This is between you and me. You've always hated me. Coveted everything I ever had. Why not settle it now? Shoot me and be done with it.”

      
“No!” Miranda shrieked, knowing what Brand intended. If the fat man moved his gun to fire at Brandon, she could wrench free and St. John could shoot him. With O'Connell out cold and Aimesley lying moaning on the pier, everyone would be safe. Everyone but Brandon.

      
“Right temptin' offer, Brand, but I think I'll play it safe,” Wilcox replied. His hand was steadier now and he was gaining some confidence. “Take their weapons, Nutter. Oh, by the way, y'all know why he's called ‘Nutter’? Use your imagination.” Earl chuckled at the little mute, who was standing several feet from Sin, with his good hand clamped tightly around his bleeding wrist.

      
At once Nutter moved toward St. John. Miranda knew she had to act now or they would all die. Mimicking Reba, she gave an appallingly theatrical sigh and went utterly faint in his grasp. He cursed and tried to hold her up, but the barge was rocking on the current and he lost his balance. They both went down. Miranda managed to roll away from him. Without time to remove her Adams from its hiding place, she aimed at her large target and fired.

      
The kick of the gun jolted her and the smell of powder and burned cloth filled her nostrils. Miranda coughed. Earl Wilcox died.

      
Intent on reaching her, unable to see who had fired, Brand let out a roar as he raced to the barge, paying no heed to O'Connell. Sin and Tilda, too, were transfixed by the battle between Miranda and Wilcox. Nutter almost got past Sin. Almost. But Tilda saw the American reaching for the derringer he'd been forced to drop and cried out a warning. St. John swept up his blade just as Nutter tried to shoot him. Coming in low, he sent the tip of it up through the mute's heart.

      
While no one was looking, O'Connell figured his chances. Wilcox and Nutter were down, but Aimesley was coming around and might be of some use. The Irishman lunged for his gun and rolled up, shaking away the blurry vision caused by the beating he'd just taken. A lifetime of street brawls had made him incredibly resilient. He took aim on Brandon Caruthers' s back and squeezed the trigger.

      
Miranda was still clutching the gun with which she'd killed Earl Wilcox, unable to grasp the enormity of what she had done when the shot rang out. Brandon pitched forward at the side of the barge, her name on his lips as he went down. Then she saw the big Irishman standing behind him, aiming once more at his fallen enemy. Without a thought, she raised her weapon and fired before he could get off a second shot.

      
A bright red splotch bloomed on his left shoulder, and the force of bullet sent him spinning around as he fell to the pier. Sin was on him in a trice, while Tilda scooped up his gun and leveled it on Aimesley.

      
Miranda would never remember the unladylike way she scrambled over the side of the barge, skirts hiked up and legs showing. She jumped to the pier and knelt at Brandon's side, dropping the gun without realizing she had done it. The sound of police whistles shrilled in the distance, drawing nearer, but she was oblivious to them as she cradled her major's head in her lap and bent down to hear his whispered words.

      
“You're a natural shot, darlin',” he murmured. A faint smile tugged at his lips, which looked bluish in the dim light.

      
“Shh, my darling, don't try to talk. We have to get you to a doctor,” she whispered. She could feel the wetness of his blood soaking through her skirts. O'Connell had shot him in the back. Miranda knew that if a lung had been punctured, his chances of surviving were slim to none. She prayed as she tore away the bottom ruffle from her soft cotton petticoat and rolled it into a wad, pressing it against the wound.

      
“Damned if that doesn't hurt almost as bad as the last time my father thrashed me...” he said on a low moan.

      
Miranda bit her lip when he started to slip into unconsciousness. “You will not dare die on me, Major,” she commanded in her steadiest voice. Then more softly, as she stroked a lock of dark gold hair from his forehead, she murmured, “Please, my darling.”

      
Brand heard Miranda's voice, strong and determined as ever. But had she called him “my darling”? Then the pain seared him when she adjusted her makeshift bandage around the hole in his back and everything faded into blackness...

* * * *

      
“The baron is a very fortunate man. The bullet missed his lung by a fraction of an inch. Nasty business digging it out, though,” Dr. Torres said as he replaced his instruments in his bag.

      
“Will he be all right?” Miranda whispered, looking from the young doctor to Brandon's pale face. He was well dosed with laudanum but resting fitfully.

      
“If fever doesn't set in...or an infection. I subscribe to the germ theory of disease. You must keep the wound clean. That's absolutely essential for the healing process. Try to get fluids down him, and keep him sedated so he doesn't toss about and reopen his injury. I'll be back tomorrow.”

      
Miranda had used Dr. Micah Torres' services ever since Lorilee had come down with a mysterious fever as an eleven-year-old girl. He was considered one of the finest physicians in England, coming from a long line of healers practicing in London for generations. The young doctor possessed a reputation for being willing to implement new research from the Continent and even America. He had saved Lori when all the other so-called experts had said she would die.

      
If only he could work a similar miracle with Brandon.

      
“I shall oversee his care personally. He and his friend saved our lives,” she added. Her face flushed pinkly even though the doctor gave no indication of interest in why a prominent woman of business such as she would take an injured peer into her home, much less place him in her deceased husband's bed and nurse him herself. Let the gossips be damned.

      
The fever Dr. Torres had feared did indeed come. Miranda spent the next three days at Brand's bedside in the large room adjacent to her own, allowing herself time to fall exhausted into her own bed for only a few hours here and there while Tilda spelled her. Lori, who had come through her ordeal with surprising aplomb, helped shoulder her mother's business responsibilities by acting as a liaison with Mr. Timmons.