In YANKEE EARL, the first time Rachel Fairchild meets Jason Beaumont, she knows something he does not. The pair strike instant sparks off each other, even amid flying bullets from a mysterious assassin. But what will the Yankee earl find out when he leaves his country estates and ventures into the glittering ballrooms of the Ton? Not even Rachel has any idea of the consequences...
"Jason Edward Beaumont, American nobody, is now Earl of Falconridge," Rachel Fairchild huffed to herself in disgust. The gossip circulating about London had reached Harleigh Hall within a fortnight of his presentation at court. And now he was expected to arrive for an inspection of his estate. She simply had to catch a glimpse of him, to take his measure before being formally introduced to him in London next month.
Not bad enough that nasty little Mathias would have been the next earl. At least he was Cargrave's proper English heir. But with Mathias's demise, the marquess had now bestowed the title on some colonial upstart. Just her ill fortune that Harleigh and Falconridge adjoined. At least she would have known how to handle Mathias had he been the new earl. She'd bested him at every childhood game, even given him a thrashing with a hackamore she seized off the stable wall after she caught him abusing one of his grandfather's horses.
They had been eight years old at the time, and he'd been in mortal terror of her ever since. Rachel was forced to admit she had that unfortunate effect on most men. At five feet six inches, with an athletic body, hazel eyes and dark hair, she was hardly the epitome of English beauty. Petite blue-eyed blondes with softly voluptuous figures were all the rage, but even if she'd fit the physical mold, there was no way the Honorable Miss Rachel Fairchild would ever have been able to flutter her eyelashes and play flirtatious games to win a husband as her younger sisters had.
Ugh, the vapid, simpering conversations, the idle gossip, the utter frivolity of their lives appalled her. Rachel knelt down and ran a handful of rich brown dirt through her fingers, smelling the ripeness of summer on the early morning air. How she loved the land, the rhythm of the seasons from planting to harvest time. "All I ask of life is to work this fertile soil in peace," she murmured.
Just then the sound of a shot echoed from upstream, followed by the pounding of horse hooves, splashing down the creek. She could hear the clatter of dislodged stones as some fool rode his mount far too swiftly in such treacherous footing. Why, the horse would most probably break its legs! If there was anything Rachel could abide less than a fool, it was a rider who abused his mount. She reached for her bay's reins, then started to swing into the saddle just as another shot rang out, combined with loud male cursing.
"I'll give that sapskull better cause for those oaths," she declared, intent on delivering a fine tongue-lashing to the approaching rider. Rachel was certain he was one of her neighbors, who were much given to riding down innocent animals for sport, but before she could get her seat on the skittish bay, a big black stallion burst through a willow thicket headed directly toward her.
His rider, as big and dark a brute as the horse, attempted to swerve around her. He might have succeeded, but her bay nickered in terror and hopped sideways, hooves flailing as it slipped in the mud at the stream's edge. Rachel was caught with one foot in the stirrup and one long leg halfway over the saddle when the horses collided. Suddenly she found herself sailing backwards, straight into the muddy bank, where she landed with a thunk. The sound of a gravelly male voice muttering dire imprecations registered as she floundered in the muck. If only she could gather enough wind in her lungs to screech at the imbeciles, equine and human!
"Reddy, if you weren't already gelded, I'd prune you myself," she muttered through gritted teeth as the bay nickered nervously, backing into the creek, ready to bolt at further provocation. Unlike her skittish horse, the big black stood his ground, awaiting a command after its rider dismounted. As the intruder's high black boots strode toward her, she crouched on all fours with her hair hanging in oozing clumps around her face. She peered through what felt like wet moss hanging on a tree branch. Unwillingly her eyes traveled up the long legs attached to the boots, strong horseman's legs. She raised her head and flipped her sodden hair over her shoulder. It landed with a nasty plop as her inspection settled on a most indelicate portion of his anatomy.
Oh, and his anatomy was a splendid one indeed, she was forced to admit. Tall, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, he wore a pair of tight buckskin riding breeches that left little to the imagination, and a shirt of fine white linen, open halfway down his chest, scandalously revealing a mass of thick black hair. Her perusal was interrupted by a low, rumbling chuckle.
The cheeky devil was laughing at her while she hunkered like some sow in a mud wallow! "You want for manners as much as for common sense," she snapped, "knocking me from my mount, then daring to make sport of your handiwork."
"My apologies, but I had another matter in mind as I rounded the bend in the creek," he replied, looking over his shoulder warily before returning his attention to the woman at his feet. "Someone was shooting at me. As I was unarmed, it didn't seem sporting to remain a stationary target."
She snorted in derision. "You chucklehead, no one was shooting at you. Twas just some local chawbacons poaching game."
"I don't know how you judge a man's intent in England, but in America we deem one shot to be an accident. When a second whizzes past a man's head, he takes it quite personally, unless he resembles a deer."
"In your case, more like a braying ass," she muttered beneath her breath, now recognizing his peculiar accent. He had to be Cargrave's heir. She must stand and take his measure. Her height gave her an advantage over most men, but she feared he would not be one of them. His strong brown hand reached down and took her arm, but before he could assist her, another shot suddenly rent the soft sounds of the woodland.
"Down," he grunted, squashing her back into the mud and falling atop her. "You wouldn't happen to have a pistol about, would you?"
Rachel saw stars for a moment as the air once again rushed from her lungs. The great oaf must weigh over twelve stone! Before she could reply, he was rolling toward a thicket of mulberry bushes, dragging her with him.
"Still think our friend is out for venison?" he whispered.
"If you knock every person you meet insensate, then try to squash them like insects, I should imagine many might resort to firearms in self-defense," she hissed. What the deuce was going on here? Surely whoever was shooting meant no harm. She called out in the general direction from which the shot had come, "Halloo, this is Rachel Fair-"
"Quiet, you little fool! You'll give our position away."
His hand, now covered with mud, smothered her greeting. She bit him, then spit the creek slime from her mouth.
He jerked his hand away with a faint oath, then seized her by her sodden shirt and began to tromp deeper into the most overgrown part of the brush beside the stream, dragging her along pell-mell. "I am only going to say this once. You will either do precisely as I say or I really will knock you insensate and carry you-is that clear?"
Another shot rang out, and a slender sapling a few feet from them was sheered in half. Still holding on to her shirt, which now had pulled from its mooring inside her riding breeches, he plunged further into the brush, moving with surprisingly quiet deliberation, following the twisting course of the creek. Now her mouth was dry with fear. Someone was deliberately trying to hit them-or more likely, the charming fellow glowering at her as they halted behind a stout oak tree.
"Well?" he asked with one black eyebrow raised.
Odious American. She nodded grudgingly.
"I'm going to whistle for Araby. He'll follow the creek until he reaches us."
She scoffed. "A horse trained to come at your whistle?"
Ignoring her dubious smirk, he continued, "As I jump out and mount, I'll reach down for your arm. I want you right behind me so I can kick him into a gallop and take off while I'm pulling you over the saddle. No time to dawdle."
He was not jesting. "I'm dressed to ride astride. Just let me jump behind you," she replied. His eyes skimmed over her hips and down her long legs with what she might have taken for male appreciation if not for his reply.
Thank God you're a country wench, not some damned countess, but I don't want a female covering my back in any case. I'll pull you in front of me. Be ready."
Then he raised his fingers to his mouth and gave a shrill, ear-piercing whistle that drowned out her retort, after which he began dragging her along the bank of the stream again. The sound of horse hooves splashing through the water quickly followed. Damned if the black was not obeying! As the horse drew close, its owner broke from cover and jumped across the rocky stream bed, leaping on the big stallion's back in one fluid movement, a deed which a horsewoman such as Rachel would have admired under other circumstances. But just then another shot echoed across the water. She simply clawed for his outstretched arm, allowing herself to be flung over his saddle while the big horse took off like a cannonball.
She hung across his thighs like a sack of turnips. Every bounce jarred her belly and further winded her as they sped down the creek, then cut into an open meadow several dozen yards ahead. He finally slowed the black and checked the perimeter of the woods, assuring himself that they were out of firing range. She squirmed from his grasp and slid unceremoniously down his leg to the ground, still disconcertingly able to smell the faint aroma of male musk combined with horse. Oddly, it unsettled her, but she attributed the reaction to her aching stomach and the wild ride.
Rachel had never felt at such a disadvantage in her life as she did at that moment, looking up at the arrogant Yankee Doodle. In spite of his muddy appearance, he merely looked ruggedly handsome, not slimy and unkempt as she did. He had a dimple at one side of his mouth when he grinned, which he was doing now, as if he understood exactly how she felt. Never one to allow an opponent the first move, she raised her chin proudly and faced the insufferable devil.
"You must be the one they're calling the Yankee Earl in London."
"Jason Beaumont, at your service, Countess," he replied with a mocking toss of his head. The sunlight danced off the blue-black highlights in his shaggy hair.
Does he know? She stood frozen for a moment as he slid effortlessly from the black.
"How are you privy to what goes on in the ton? This is quite a rustic place for gossip about the Quality."
"And, of course, you assume I'm a rustic wench," she replied sweetly. She was dying to know if giving him her name would elicit any response, but decided it would be better to take him by surprise at the ball next month.
He cocked his head and crossed his arms over that broad naked chest. "You speak like a countess and possess the arrogance of one, but I vow I've never seen a female this side of the Atlantic dressed in britches."
She enjoyed the puzzled expression in his dark blue eyes. "Oh, but you have seen females in britches in America?"
"Yes, among my blood brother's people."
"Blood brother?" she echoed. What sort of barbarian society did he come from?
"The Shawnee. They're Indians."
"Savages! You compare me to savages!"
"Not at all," he replied. They have far better manners than you."
She raised her hand to slap his face, but he caught her wrist, enveloping the slender bones in one big hand. "Tut, don't tempt fate, m'dear. My Shawnee brothers may have better manners, but I don't."
"Let me go," she gritted out, suddenly aware of how isolated they were and how big he was, towering over her not inconsiderable height. She knew how to defend herself and had done so against her fair share of country ruffians over the years, but this fellow was unsettling in a far different way.
He was holding her much too near that bare, hairy chest. Rachel seemed unable to take her eyes from one small droplet of perspiration as it wended its way down his throat into that black forest. How would it feel to touch that hair, feel the crisp spring of it? To feel the hard muscles beneath? Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, "You're a fine one to cast aspersions on my manners, going about half naked. At least my body is decently covered."
He released her, chuckling as he said, "Covered, yes, but as to decently..." His eyes roamed slowly over her curves, which were far more tantalizingly revealed by her soaked shirt and pants than she could have imagined. In spite of the voluminous cut of the shirt, the mud and creek water had molded the soft cloth like second skin to breasts, belly and hips.
She preferred riding astride in britches when working on the estate, but Rachel knew it was not acceptable for any woman, least of all one of Quality, to wear men's apparel. Flushing because of that-certainly not because of his opinion, or the way he affected her-she replied, "A pity that poacher was such a poor marksman. A few holes in that thick colonial hide might let some of the wind out."
With that, she spun on her heel and stalked across the meadow toward home, feeling his mocking blue gaze burning a hole in her backside. She felt compelled to place some distance between them. Just for now. I'll exact my revenge when next we meet , she consoled herself, refusing to admit how the Yankee lout upset her equilibrium.
Suddenly his black pulled up beside her and he leaned down, murmuring to her, "Crude colonial that I am, I should not leave a woman stranded without her horse."
"I shall manage famously," she said without looking up. "My home is but a short distance."
"Ah, but I must accompany you," he insisted. "Indeed, we can ride as we did before. You make a fine baggage, Countess."
"What marvelous flash of wit...and you need not even pick your nose to prime your brain pan. A marvel for so great a lobcock!"
* * * *
With his mocking laughter echoing in her ears, she plodded doggedly toward Harleigh Hall. It was only a mile or so distant, no difficult walk...if only her boots did not squish with every step she took. That wretched Reddy would by now be munching hay in his stall, all safe and dry.
She cursed the horse...and the Yankee.
But she would never ride in any fashion with her body pressed against any portion of his, especially that bare chest. Just thinking of it made her shiver in spite of the heat. She ignored him when he reined in and sat, leaning on the saddle, watching her stomp toward the manor house nestled in the valley below. "Stubborn wench," he called out after her retreating figure. "We'll meet again, Countess."
A threat or a promise? She smirked. If only you knew, you crude colonial clod . Rachel Fairchild would have a surprise or two up her lace-covered sleeve when next they did meet.
In REBEL BARON. Miranda is a wealthy Cit determined to see her only daughter properly married into the peerage. But the strong-willed widow cannot imagine that her own shocking attraction to the "rebel baron" might be returned. Aided by her daughter's matchmaking, their reckless passions rock prim Victorian London. An older woman...a younger man...a forbidden love...
"Isn't he quite the dashing one?" Mrs. Horton whispered behind her fan.
Miranda, preoccupied in watching Lorilee dancing with Geoffrey Winters, had not taken note. She scanned the crowded ballroom as the elderly widow blathered on while beating the stuffy air with her fan.
"The scandal sheets call him the Rebel Baron. He was one of those Confederate soldiers during their recent war, you know. Inherited the Rushcroft title, but little else is known about him."
Miranda's gaze fixed on the subject of Elvira Horton's discourse. "My, a mere American and he received an invitation to the Moreland ball. Of course, he is a peer and we're but commoners," Miranda said dryly. The way society segregated people had always offended her sense of fairness. She knew that if she had not been wealthy enough, Lady Moreland would never have deigned to invite her. Nor would she have come in any case if not for Lori.
"At least we're of good solid English blood. Heaven only knows how his might have been contaminated," Elvira said. Her eyes remained fixed on the tall stranger standing at the opposite edge of the large room. "He is a handsome devil, I'll give him that."
Finding herself studying the new Lord Rushcroft, Miranda was forced to agree. She could make out little of his facial features at this distance as the gaslights were turned low, flickering romantically over the assembly. But his body was lean and erect, and his elegant black cutaway coat and trousers flattered broad shoulders and long legs. He carried himself like a man to the manor born.
But he was as restless as she, Miranda sensed, bored with the gala, standing off to one side, evincing no particular interest in what those around him were saying. His hair appeared to be some shade of dark blond, slightly curly and cut longer than was the fashion. He was clean shaven, and that, too, went against fashion. Perhaps he was vain about his appearance, but for some reason that eluded her, Miranda did not think so.
His profile was striking, she had to admit-long, straight nose, high brow and firm jaw. Then he smiled in response to Georgette Mayer's flirtatious hand on his arm. Forward hussy.
The Widow Horton echoed Miranda's thoughts when she said, "That gauche woman is desperate to enter the peerage...or for some peer to enter her! With all the money old Mayer left her, she'll doubtless succeed."
Miranda laughed. "Elvira, dear, don't be vulgar. And do give the devil her due. Georgette is accounted a great beauty."
"If only the same high compliment might apply to her morals," Elvira snapped.
Miranda was surprised when a sudden wave of disappointment swept her as the new baron bowed with an elegant flourish before Georgette. Then the couple moved gracefully into the strains of a waltz that had just started. As they drew nearer the secluded box where the older women not in the marriage mart were seated, Miranda was drawn to study his face. Although finely chiseled and exceedingly handsome by any standards, it was hard, even dangerous-looking. His expression seemed to hint that he had seen more than a man of his years should have been called upon to witness.
She'd heard stories of the incredible carnage the Americans had wreaked upon each other, brother against brother in that tragic, fratricidal strife. Miranda had volunteered nursing the wounded brought back from the Crimea and had seen that same look in their eyes. Then she saw Rushcroft's scar. It was a thin white line stretching across his right cheekbone down to his jaw. Odd that he would not grow a beard to conceal it. But then perhaps, being one of those Southern cavaliers whom the press loved to romanticize, he wore it as a badge of honor.
Who knew? Why should she care? Miranda forced her gaze away from the American and scanned the room for Lori, but before she could locate her daughter and Winters, Elvira once again distracted her.
"Georgette will find him easy pickings or I miss my guess. Rushcroft hasn't a shilling. His family seat is crumbling to ruins. The Caruthers men always ran to excesses. Small wonder the English branch died out, leaving an American to claim the title."
"Really, I've heard nothing of the family."
"Oh, pish, I know you're too busy running banks and shipyards to bother with Society. The only members of the peerage who interest you are those who owe you money." Her scolding tone hid the fact that Elvira was in awe of a woman who dared to enter the male world of business.
But Miranda's attention was now absorbed by her search for her daughter, who had apparently vanished from the room. "If you'll excuse me, Elvira, I must collect Lorilee. The hour is growing late, and I have appointments early in the morning."
"A pity. You really should hire some man to oversee your affairs so you could spend more time out in Society," Elvira replied.
"I prefer to handle my late husband's businesses myself. It is quite stimulating...and no one will ever take advantage of me."
As she bade her companion good evening, she worried about why Lorilee had disappeared-and with whom.
Pray heaven it is not that young fortune hunter Geoffrey Winters!
* * * *
"Will you do me the very great honor of marrying me, Miss Auburn?" Geoff blurted out suddenly, as if to get the words said before fate intervened.
"Oh-"
Before she could get out the "Yes" she wanted to shout to the rooftops, her mother slipped past the hedge and bore down on their hiding place in the shadows beneath the gazebo in the Moreland formal gardens.
Miranda did not like the looks of what was transpiring. However, she pasted a smile on her face and nodded to Pelham's youngest son. "Mr. Winters, good evening," she said in a perfunctory manner. Then dismissing him, she turned to Lori, who seemed crestfallen at her mother's interruption. They both began to speak at the same time.
"Mother, Geoff-"
"Lorilee, we must-"
Miranda carried the day. "I fear we must be going," she said firmly. "I have an appointment quite early tomorrow morning." She gave her daughter a quelling look, which elicited a guilty one in exchange. According to decorum and her mother, Lori knew she was not to be alone in the shadows with any young man-from Miranda's viewpoint, most especially this one.
"But, Mother-"
"Mrs. Auburn, if I might-"
"No, sir, you might not. We shall speak privately at a later date, Mr. Winters," she replied in frosty dismissal, as dread of what he had just said to Lori seeped deep into her bones. The little jackal! He's asked her to marry him!
Taking Lori's arm, she steered her daughter toward the sounds of music and glitter of gaslights. "You did not tell him yes, did you?" she asked, then could have bitten her tongue as soon as the words escaped her lips.
"How did you know?" Lori asked incredulously. Then, reading the tight set of her mother's mouth, she sighed. "You gave me no opportunity, nor Geoffrey to ask your permission."
"Oh, Geoffrey, is it? And, it's marvelous that he would deign to bother with my permission since he's already taken liberties with my daughter, for which he should be publicly horsewhipped!" At the stiffening in Lori's body, Miranda once more cursed her lapse of temper. Normally, she was under so much better control. In fact, as a woman in the male-dominated world of business, she had always prided herself on how well she held her emotions in check.
"Mr. Winters," Lori replied primly, "has taken no liberties which I have not allowed." Strictly speaking, that was not true, but Lori was hurt and bewildered by her mother's intransigence regarding her charming young suitor. "You were quite rude to him."
"Yes, I was. But at least he still has skin on his backside."
Lorilee gasped but knew better than to make a retort when her mother was in this mood.
They entered the press of the crowd once again. Both women were forced to smile and pretend nothing was amiss. Miranda had to pause and bid this friend and that business acquaintance good evening as they made their way toward where Lady Moreland stood in the entry hall, saying farewell to another group of early departing guests. "Lori, please ask the footman to fetch our wraps while I thank our hostess for the evening," Miranda instructed.
Obedient if not cheerful, Lorilee hurried toward a servant dressed in gaudy yellow and blue livery. So intent was she on her frustrations, she did not see the tall stranger who materialized from a doorway, cutting directly into her path. Her slight frame bounced off his hard-muscled body, and she might have stumbled backward if he had not caught her, steadying her balance, then quickly releasing her.
"My deepest apologies, miss," he said, bowing gracefully and bestowing a smile. "I was not watching where I was going."
"It is I who should apologize for being so clumsy. If not for your kind aid, I would've made a spectacle of myself tumbling onto the floor," Lorilee said, returning his smile curiously. He spoke with a soft, drawling accent unfamiliar to her.
From her vantage point across the entry hall, Miranda observed the brief exchange. He was courtly and charming, young enough and titled ... Of course, he was American, she thought wryly, recalling Elvira Horton's snide remarks. Miranda was appalled to even be thinking of such a wild scheme, but she knew her daughter. For all her gentle ways, Lorilee Anna Auburn could be as stubborn as a balky dray horse and she had set her mind on that fortune hunter Winters.
Already she'd spurned several far more suitable matches, both wealthy commoners and even the heir of a marquess, in favor of Pelham's boy. Miranda thanked heaven Gretna Green was no longer a haven for runaway lovers, but still, Lori could ruin her reputation if she continued to be led on by Winters. That was his game, to force her to permit the marriage after he'd destroyed Lori's chances for happiness elsewhere.
I shall simply have to spend more time with her, my business obligations be damned, Miranda vowed, dismissing the fanciful idea of matchmaking between the "Rebel Baron" and Lorilee. London was, after all, the center of the civilized world, and within its five million odd inhabitants there would be the right husband for her daughter. All Miranda need do was steer her away from those who would take advantage of her.
As they rode home, Lori sat in martyred silence until her normally bubbly nature overcame her pique. "How did you know Geoff-Mr. Winters had asked me to marry him?"
Miranda's lips curved wryly. "Call it mother's intuition, dearheart."
"But then, surely you can see his intentions are honorable."
"Perhaps, but I do not believe you would suit," she replied gently. "I want you to marry a man who will be kind to you as your father was to me."
"Kind. What a weak word that is. I know yours was not a love match, Mother, but I do not intend to marry a man only to fulfill family obligations." The moment the words escaped her, Lori wanted desperately to call them back, but it was too late.
Miranda felt them pierce her heart like daggers of ice. "Yes, I married your father for duty, but my father took great care in assuring that Will Auburn would never do me a hurt. And he did not," she said stiffly, suddenly overcome with a ridiculous and selfish longing to have the world of choices that lay before her daughter. A world forever closed to her.
What is making me think this way? Visions of a tall, elegant man sweeping across the ballroom floor with a shadowy redheaded woman in his arms flashed into her mind, and she caught her breath. The sheer audacity of it-the utter folly. What madness had taken hold of her! Lori's words of apology did not register until her daughter had crossed the carriage seat and sat sobbing on her mother's shoulder.
"There, there, I know you did not mean to hurt me, dearheart," she crooned, taking Lori in her arms. "Nor have you. I've had a full and worthwhile life. Please don't cry."
But as she sat consoling her only child, Miranda Stafford Auburn fought the overwhelming urge to cry herself. Her life had indeed been one of wealth and privilege, but also of duty and work.
But never had she known love...
In TEXAS VISCOUNT, Miss Sabrina Edgewater, teacher of deportment, is on a mission, covering for her ne'er-do-well cousin Edmund. In his place, she is to collect the Earl of Hambleton's heir, just arrived from Texas, and bring the newly minted viscount to meet his grandfather. What she gets in Joshua Cantrell is certainly not what a properly-bred English lady would ever expect.
The wharves down the Thames from London Bridge were crowded with people and merchandise from around the globe. One had only to watch the varied parade of solemn Indians, ebony-skinned Africans and deferential Chinese to realize just how far the British Empire stretched. The stench of wharf rot was almost obliterated by fragrant spices from Ceylon blended with the pungent aroma of West Indian molasses. Over all hung the miasma of coal smoke belching forth from the factories and furnaces of British industry.
Sabrina never came to this part of town and was alternately awed and appalled by the contrasts of opulence and poverty that surrounded her. An emaciated beggar girl offering a grimy little fistful of wilted pinks for sale was almost run down by a young buck driving an expensive gig that nearly overturned as the nattily dressed driver swerved to avoid a cart loaded with melons.
Because of this terrible congestion, she was late. But a ship the size of the Galveston Star surely would not disembark passengers before she could locate Mr. Cantrell. According to the scribbled notes her cousin had given her, the gentleman was tall with black hair and green eyes. He would be wearing the Hambleton signet ring and looking for his great-uncle's coach near the foot of the gangplank. The driver assured her he knew the direction.
When they pulled up to the berth, cargo was being unloaded and it looked as if all the passengers had already disembarked. Sabrina bit her lip in vexation. It would serve Edmund right if his lordship dismissed him. She scanned the crowd, searching for a tall, aristocratic gentleman, but the only tall, dark man she saw was well down the wharf, engaged in an altercation with two ugly ruffians over the affections of a perfectly horrid-looking street doxy. He was dressed in some sort of fringed leather coat and the oddest boots with heels nearly as high as her own. That certainly was not Lord Hambleton's heir! Why, he looked positively shabby and dangerous.
"Let the girl go," Josh repeated as the skinny young prostitute huddled behind him, using a filthy handkerchief to stanch the blood from a blow delivered by her pimp.
"Whot's it to ye, bloody foreign bloke! Mitz is me gel, she is. You got no claim on 'er...lest ye wanna pay," the heavier of the two men said with a cunning leer that revealed he'd lost two of his front teeth.
Too bad he might soon lose the rest. "You were beating her," Josh said, realizing he was drawing a crowd, hoping it would include a member or two of the local constabulary. "Where I come from, men don't hit women."
"Then go back where ye come from," wheezed the little skinny fellow with the beaked nose. "Mitz's been 'oldin' out on ole Pepper. She's 'is preacher's daughter."
Odd slang, but Josh knew that it meant she was a whore. Young. Alone in a big city, frightened and hungry. Just like the girls Gertie had taken in at her place. Ones like his own mother. "You're not taking the girl," he repeated stubbornly. "I'll pay for her services," he added, reaching for his money clip, then thinking better of it with so many thieves and pickpockets surrounding him. Where the hell was that much-vaunted English law enforcement?
Before he could decide whether or not it would be wise to draw the Colt Lightning covered by his long jacket, the big beefy fellow with the missing teeth swung at him. His well-chewed ears gave further testimony to his time as a prizefighter-a bad one. Josh easily ducked the roundhouse swing and came in low and fast, landing a left-right combination to the tough's ample gut and face. Yep, more teeth gone. Oh well. He was poised on the balls of his feet, ready to finish the job, but then saw his opponent's greasy little companion pull an ugly blade from inside his filthy coat.
"Damn, now why'd you have to go and do such a fool thing?" Josh said, spinning around and kicking the fellow in his gonads. Beak Nose dropped the knife with a bleat and stumbled back, curled into a ball. Josh turned his attention to the bigger fellow, who moved in again, this time connecting with a clumsy right to his face. Hell, he'd have a beaut of a shiner, he thought as he quickly countered with another series of punches.
The little man Josh had kicked tumbled against an orange seller's cart, overturning it. Then the gap-toothed boxer stomped on a longshoreman's foot when Josh knocked him backwards, and suddenly the altercation erupted into a full-blown riot. Up and down the wharf, men began kicking and punching each other while street boys lifted purses from the unwary. Boxes and barrels smashed and tumbled along the rough planks, thrown by cursing, yelling men.
Mitz, the damsel in distress, vanished into the melee like fog evaporating on the Texas Gulf at sunrise. Her two keepers had been joined by a third fellow of equally unsavory looks, and the three of them closed in on the American with murderous intent.
Sabrina stood surrounded by cursing, shouting men of the lowest social order, utterly horrified that she'd been so foolish as to venture alone from the carriage toward the ship. Somehow when the fighting had begun, the two footmen accompanying her had disappeared. She found herself being jostled by the odoriferous mob as she struggled to make her way to higher ground from which to view the scene in relative safety.
The gangplank. If only she could reach it and climb up to the ship! Surely Mr. Cantrell had remained aboard. How horrified he must be at the disgusting carnage below. Just as she placed her hand on the railing, a large, dirt-encrusted paw seized her wrist and yanked her back.
"Whot 'ave we got 'ere, eh?" he said in a coarse voice, his breath reeking of rotted teeth and stale cabbage.
"Unhand me, you ill-mannered lout!" Sabrina cried, trying in vain to jerk free. He was too strong for her, pulling her close to his body. As she thrashed and kicked, she could feel the sharp pull of her hat pin against her scalp. Her best Sunday hat tumbled to the rough planks and was quickly trampled, further igniting her fury. She pounded against the brute's chest with tiny gloved fists and used her pointy-toed shoes to good advantage, connecting sharply with one shin. He let her go with a snarled oath.
When she turned to flee, she could feel her hair pulling loose from its pins and flying out behind her like a banner. Her jacket was askew and the top three buttons on her high-collared shirt had been ripped away, revealing a shocking amount of bare skin. The ghastly fellow had even left filthy handprints soiling her pristine dove-gray skirt. How on earth could she face the new viscount looking like this!
Then directly below her, she heard a voice distinctly accented in that peculiar drawl spoken by Americans such as Lord Rushcroft. It was the tall ruffian who had started the whole melee, and he was still on his feet, swinging his fists with savage joy.
"Yeehaw! Haven't had this much fun since my first trail drive back in eighty-four," Josh yelled as he drove his fist deep into the boxer's gut, doubling him over. If only he could clear a path to the relative safety of the ship from which he'd so recently disembarked, he could watch over the pretty little gal he'd seen standing like a lost kitten on the middle of the gangplank. It would also be a good place from which to hold off his three adversaries.
Then he heard the shrill of police whistles. " 'Bout damn well time," he muttered to himself as he neared the narrow gangplank. The lone female stood midway up it, frozen as she watched him approach.
Must be some higher-class whore, from the cut of her clothes. He liked all that satiny-looking bronze hair spilling over her shoulders, and from his brief glimpse of her body, the curves were in all the right places. "Haul your little butt farther up the plank, out of the way, sweetheart," he yelled at her, but she didn't move.
Sabrina knew the accent. Unmistakably American. Subtly different from the Kentucky drawl of the baron, but it was Southern-or Western. A Texas drawl! No, it could not possibly be! Then the madman was set upon by the even more disreputable riffraff with whom he had been engaged. He pulled an enormous firearm from inside his strange-looking coat and brandished it as he backed up the gangplank, drawing nearer to her!
She shuddered.
"I wouldn't come any closer even if I was stump stupid like you fellers," Josh said in his broadest accent, trying to hold them off until the police arrived. But the little one he'd kicked in the nuts seemed to be egging the other two on.
"Whot ye afeard o', Pepper? 'E ain't gonna shoot. There's three o' us, Jake."
"Lordy, even stupider than a stump. This here's a six-shooter. Want to start countin', you ugly little armadillo?" Josh asked, firing a round directly in front of the toe of Beak Nose's shoe. The trio backed down the narrow gangplank, stumbling over each other in their haste to escape. Josh kept his Colt Lightning trained on them as he climbed higher. Until he collided with something soft and sweet smelling.
The classy little whore with the bronze hair.
By this time police were swarming over the wharf, and the rioters vanished like roaches in a suddenly lit cellar. Still holding his gun in his hand, Josh turned to the girl-no, make that a woman. He judged her to be enough past twenty to know her way around, but the horrified expression on her face did not seem to fit. Well, if her protector had brought her to a rough neighborhood like this, he should have taken better care of her.
"You all right, ma'am?" he asked, reaching out to steady her.
She jerked away. "Will you please dispose of that...that firearm before you actually shoot someone," she demanded imperiously.
Josh grinned. "You're pretty as a paint pony on a sunny day, and that's no lie."
Sabrina only glared at the offending weapon, still more shaken than she cared to admit.
Before he could holster it, two police officers came rushing up the gangplank and seized hold of his arms. "Just give over the gun, lad," one said calmly while his companion held his nightstick at the ready.
"Josh Cantrell, at your service, officers. What in blue blazes took you so long?" He handed his Colt to the one who had spoken. "It seems like we had a little misunderstanding here."
"Looks to be a bit more than that, mate. Half the cargo on the pier's been smashed or looted, and you're the only fellow here."
"And the only one carrying a gun," his fellow officer added helpfully. "You're a Yank, right, lad? Me and Reggie here is going to give you a London tour. We'll start at the Thames Police Office. Lovely place, it is. Come along now."
As Josh argued with the two policemen, they escorted him down to the wharf. Sabrina backed away, unnoticed. Dear heavens, what was she to do now? They were arresting Hambleton's heir, and she and Edmund would be blamed for it, even though it was the dreadful fellow's own fault. The boorish oaf had started a riot, and she'd nearly been...well, it didn't bear considering what might have happened to her.
