Yankee Earl (26 page)

      
He glanced down at her, their heads so close together that he could smell the blend of her perfumed hair and street offal. Giving her a slumberous look, he whispered low so the maid scurrying ahead of them could not hear. “Do you intend to have your way with me now that I am feeble and unable to resist, Countess?”

      
She snorted. “You reek of blood, cheap ale and wharf excrement. Were I to ‘have my way with you,’ it would be to instruct a groom to scrub you down with lye soap and a stiff brush.”

      
Rachel shoved him through the door the maid had opened into his quarters. A huge Louis XVI bed dominated the room, which was furnished with masculine chairs and a long sofa upholstered in burgundy leather. Jason's valet, Tompson, arose from the deep bowels of leather, wiping sleep from his eyes. He squinted in amazement at the staggering earl, who was being dragged into the room by a tall young fellow…who was not a fellow at all! When he recognized the Honorable Miss Rachel Fairchild, Viscount Harleigh's daughter and his lordship's betrothed, the servant was certain he was having a most outrageous nightmare.

      
He rushed to her side and took Jason's other arm, unable to say a word as the maid turned back the bed at Rachel's direction.

      
“Place him in bed and undress him. I shall be back after I freshen up,” she said, sliding from beneath Jason's arm at the side of the bed. The earl nearly overbalanced at the sudden loss of support on one side, and Thompson more flung than placed his employer on the mattress as Rachel stalked from the room.

      
The maid scurried about lighting branches of candles, then fled the chamber without uttering a word. The only sounds were his lordship's muttered curses as the valet jostled his aching head while stripping off his clothes. “The very least you could do to make up for your cow-handedness is to pour me a brandy, Tompson,” Jason said as his valet completed his task.

      
“Should you not don a nightshirt first, m’lord? Your betrothed will return—”

      
“We've been through this before, Tompson. I detest bloody nightshirts. Miss Fairchild intends to minister to my head, not my nether parts,” he said crossly. Therein lay the reason for his frustration.

      
“Very good, m'lord.”

      
Jason took the snifter gratefully and swallowed down its medicinal contents in several gulps, then held it out for a refill. The valet complied, and he downed the second glass almost as quickly. “Ah, that's better. I must fortify myself for further abuse when my guardian angel comes to minister to me,” he slurred as Tompson took the snifter from his hand and helped him slide beneath the sheet.

      
The earl was decently covered when Rachel appeared with the cook and a footman in tow. She had washed her hands and face, then donned a shabby gown, obviously a donation from one of the serving women. It was far too short and hung on her like a tent.

      
“Place the water on the bedside table with the linens,” she instructed the footman.

      
“Wot do ye want me to do wi' this ‘ere meat, mum?” the cook asked, looking almost admiringly at his lordship's swollen eye and ear.

      
Rachel took the platter from the old woman and then dismissed all the servants. Tompson hesitated as the footman and cook filed out, wondering if he should protest this most unseemly situation. He took another look at the expression on the face of the noblewoman and thought better of it. After all, she was the earl's betrothed.

      
When they were alone, Rachel soaked a clean cloth in the cool water, then wrung it out and took a seat beside him on the bed. Good lord, he was naked beneath the covers! Did the man not own a nightshirt? She could see the outline of his long, muscular body beneath the sheet, that body she had so admired in the pool. Rachel blinked and looked away lest he open his eyes and catch her admiring his physique once again. Then she saw the brandy glass sitting on the opposite bedside table.

      
One sniff told her that he reeked of fresh brandy fumes. “You've been drinking more!”

      
He stirred and opened his eye. “Purely med—medicinal,” he replied, carefully enunciating each syllable of the second word as he brought her into focus.

      
“You have enough ‘medicine’ in your body to heal every casualty in the Peninsular Army.”

      
“My head still aches.”

      
“Only wait a few more hours. 'Twill get far worse,” she replied cheerfully, setting to work cleaning his injuries.

      
He tried not to think about that and concentrated instead on her change of costume. “Not the most fetching thing I've ever seen you in, but you could always remove it,” he murmured.

      
“I believe you've created enough scandal for one night.” She gave the cloth another sharp squeeze, then plopped it over his face.

      
“Ouch! You've the bedside manner of a ship's surgeon.” He watched her with his one good eye as she concentrated on her task, leaning over him to better reach his bloodied ear. “And, not to place too fine a point on it, you are the one who created the scandal by going about the city in men's clothing.”

      
“I could scarcely have gone to the wharves in a ball gown, now could I?” she snapped.

      
Jason considered this for a moment. “I suppose not, but you need not have scandalized Grandfather's servants by coming inside with me.” A dim fuzzy part of his brain knew he was being perverse, but he could not seem to help it.

      
“No, I could have let you crawl up the portico steps on all fours and bark at the front door to gain admittance while I made my escape.”

      
“Could've walked up the steps myself.”

      
“You most certainly could not. I practically carried you up to this room.”

      
Tompson did that…didn't he?” The room was starting to spin a bit now.

      
The dress she wore belonged to a far heftier female, and the bodice gapped open as she worked over him, affording an excellent view of her breasts, which were covered only by a thin linen shift, leaving little to his imagination. Jason had a superior imagination...no, memory…when it came to Rachel Fairchild's body. As he focused every ounce of his attention on those luscious pear-shaped mounds, the spinning inside his head abated.

      
Almost without realizing he did so, he reached up and cupped his hands around them. She froze. The tingling pleasure was so sudden and unexpected that it robbed her of breath. His long, elegant fingers felt as if they were burning her skin through the slight barrier of cloth as they kneaded lightly. Her nipples contracted into hard, aching points just as they had that day in the water.

      
Damn the man! Even foxed he could bedazzle her out of her senses. Or perhaps a better way of expressing it would be to say that he heightened her senses. Yes, every nerve in her body had grown keenly aware of how close he was. How easy it would be to climb into the bed beside him and pull the sheet over them, to lie with her body pressed to his hot, naked flesh.

      
Just as suddenly as his hands had touched her, they fell away. Rachel opened her eyes abruptly and looked down at her patient. A loud snore rent the silence. He had fallen sound asleep! Reaching over for the beefsteak on the platter, she plopped it over his blackened eye none too gently, then stood up and glared at him.

      
“That's what you can do with your meat!” she gritted out and stomped from the room. The bloody hell with poulticing him. Tompson could attend to it when the Yankee clodpole woke up.

Chapter Fourteen

      
Fox Barlow was very upset. He sat at the big bay window in his quarters at Cargrave Hall overlooking the distant rise of mountains on the Welsh border. He had come to love the bleak and rugged country as much as the forbidding stone monolith of a castle from which the Beaumont family had ruled for centuries. And even more, he had come to love the stern old man who was the present Marquess of Cargrave.

      
Grandfather.

      
Fox had sensed with a child's unerring intuition that beneath the forbidding old man's gruff facade beat a loving heart. He missed his wife and had lived a lonely life since her passing. All of their children and grandchildren had also died except for Jace. For some reason, the marquess and Jace could not seem to express their feelings for each other, but Fox knew that the old man loved his heir very much and wanted him to be happy with Rachel. Grandfather had even shown Fox his marchioness's portrait, hanging in the family gallery, and remarked upon how much Rachel reminded him of his dear Mathilda. The boy had seen the sheen of tears in his eyes even though he tried to hide them.

      
But now Jace wanted to leave England and return to America. Apparently, it was because of his having to marry Miss Fairchild. Why a man would not want such a beautiful and intelligent lady for a wife, Fox could not understand. But Jace did not, according to what Fox had overheard Grandfather and her father say in the library last week. He had not intended to eavesdrop; but when they'd mentioned his name, along with those of Jace and Rachel, he simply could not resist.

      
He was distressed to learn that Grandfather was keeping him here and would not allow him to visit Jace until the marriage ceremony, which was to take place in London two weeks hence. It seemed that both the viscount and the marquess were afraid that Jace would take him and sail back to America! But Fox had not wanted to do that for a long time.

      
How could he hurt Grandfather by running away? Yet yesterday afternoon Jace's friend Mr. Drummond, who was Grandfather's house guest, had met him in the stables. Fox replayed their strange conversation over again in his mind, trying to sort out his thoughts.

      
He had jumped Little Chief over the tallest of the hedgerows and was feeling jubilant. It had felt just like flying! His riding instructor Bradley had complimented him on how well he had taken to an English saddle and how expertly he had handled the spirited little gelding. The boy walked his lathered mount into the stable, eager to rub him down, something Bradley insisted he do each time he rode. Learning to take care of one's mount was an integral part of fine horsemanship. He had just begun to work with a curry comb when he heard voices.

      
Then an unfamiliar gentleman, slight of build and nattily dressed, walked down the row of stalls toward him. Fox could see that the man found the horsey aroma distasteful by the flare of his nostrils and the way he held a linen handkerchief to his nose as soon as he set foot inside the door. Putting down his tools, Fox had asked politely, “Is there something I could help you with, sir?”

      
The stranger smiled uncertainly. “If you are Master Fox Barlow, yes, you may.”

      
Fox nodded, equally uncertain. “I am.”

      
“I'm a good friend of the earl. The Honorable Alvin Francis Edward Drummond, at your service.” He clicked his heels smartly and returned Fox's nod as a half bow. Then, checking to see that they were alone, he stepped closer. “I have a message for you from Jason, to be delivered in private. Might we take a brief walk so I may impart it?”

      
“I suppose so, if it will not take long,” the boy replied, knowing that he must finish his chores but curious about what Jace wanted his friend to tell him.

      
They strolled behind the stables toward a small orchard. Once Mr. Drummond was certain they were well out of sight and hearing of any stable help, he said, “You know your foster brother is betrothed. The wedding will take place in London in a fortnight.”

      
“Yes, to Miss Fairchild. I am to stand for Jace,” Fox said proudly.

      
Drum nodded. “So I have been given to understand—and so you shall.” The little man appeared to hesitate, as if uncertain about how to continue. Fox studied him with luminous dark eyes as he cleared his throat. “However, after the ceremony…that is, the night after, Jace shall come to fetch you at the Cargrave city house. You are to be waiting for his signal around midnight—”

      
“Midnight?” the boy echoed in confusion.

      
“Er, yes. Well after everyone has gone to bed.”

      
“Is that so Grandfather will not know Jace is running away, back to America?”

      
Mr. Drummond's eyebrows flew upward in surprise. “My, my. What do you know of this matter, eh, lad?”

      
Fox scuffed the toe of his boot against a rock, then said, “I did not mean to overhear, but Grandfather and the viscount were talking the other day…”

      
“I see,” Mr. Drummond said thoughtfully. “Well, the truth of the matter is, Jace don't wish to marry Miss Fairchild and—”