Rebel Baron by Shirl Henke Read Free Book Online Page A

he'd first entered her office. No doubt he'd been led to expect an ancient ogre. She would have allowed herself an inward smile if not for the seriousness of this meeting.
           That sense of leashed danger buried deep inside him was hidden by a smile that could melt a glacier. She had been unable to discern the color of his eyes before, only their hardness. Now she could see they were gold and black...tiger's eyes. Not for the first time, she wondered if hers was a wise plan.
           “I hope your decision will be in my favor, ma'am.”
           And his voice—she had not been prepared for the low, rich timbre of it, or for the slow, drawling accent which held none of the affectation of the English aristocracy. The odd lilt was quite at variance with the speech of other Americans she'd dealt with. Of course, they weren't from the Southern states, she reminded herself.
           He's trying to charm me. “I have given a great deal of thought to your rather detailed proposal for the improvements you envision on your estate,” she began very carefully. Best to tread slowly and take his measure further. “You intend to turn Rushcroft Hall into a...stud farm,” she said, glancing down at the papers in front of her, something she normally never had to do after preparing for an interview.
           “That is my plan. It's prime grassland, and I've brought with me the finest thoroughbred racehorse and brood stock in Kentucky.”
           She knew that he was not boasting, merely stating a fact. “You also intend to race this Midnight Reiver, is that not so?”
           “Yes, I do. In fact, Reiver's already won several purses at Epsom and Sandown,” he said with pride.
           “It would seem a rather risky venture, basing all your hopes for the future on winnings from such a capricious sport. What if your horse loses?” she asked, playing devil's advocate just to see how he'd respond.
           As Sin would say, “Just bloody lovely.” She's a damn straight-corseted Puritan. Brand smiled over his disgust “Reiver seldom loses, ma'am.”
           “Reiver—what an odd name. Is it American?”
           “It wouldn't appeal to a fine, upstanding Englishwoman such as you, Mrs. Auburn,” he said with a slow grin. “The origin of the word isn't American. It's Scots, and it means a member of a raiding party who swoops down from the hills to steal whatever isn't nailed down, then vanishes like a lightning strike.”
           His smile was infectious and infuriating at the same time. She could sense the defiance behind it. He hates having to ask anyone for help. This foreigner with the molasses accent affected her in ways no other man with whom she'd transacted business ever had. Of course, she'd never considered making to any of them the offer that she might make to the Rebel Baron. That was the difference—the only difference, she hastened to assure herself before continuing, “I'm not at all certain the image of thievery is one you should mention while discussing business with a banker.”
           The bit of dry wit took him by surprise. So the lady has a sense of humor. Perhaps all is not lost. “I'm not so certain, given the character of some American bankers I had the misfortune to deal with. Still, reiving isn't in my plans for Rushcroft Hall. Neither is merely winning races at the tracks.”
           “Pray enlighten me.” She steepled long, tapered fingertips together and gazed at him with those cool silver eyes.
           He knew damn well she'd read his very detailed explanation in the application. Was the woman toying with him? The urge to get up and walk out swept over him again, but he quashed it. “As I wrote in the proposal”—he gestured at the neat stack of papers before her—“I intend to breed and sell horses. I'll begin with the racing stock I have now. Winning at the tracks around London has already attracted