Yankee Earl

YANKEE EARL

By

Shirl Henke

Previously published by Leisure Books

Copyright 2003 by Shirl Henke

All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic means without the written permission of the publisher.

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Other electronic works by Shirl Henke:

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A FIRE IN THE BLOOD

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“Billie Jo and the Valentine Crow”

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The Blackthorne Trilogy:

LOVE A REBEL…LOVE A ROGUE

WICKED ANGEL

WANTON ANGEL

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House of Torres Books:

PARADISE & MORE

RETURN TO PARADISE

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The Cheyenne Books:

SUNDANCER

THE ENDLESS SKY

CAPTURE THE SUN

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The Texas Trilogy:

CACTUS FLOWER

MOON FLOWER

NIGHT FLOWER

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BROKEN VOWS

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MCCRORY’S LADY

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“Surprise Package”

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American Lords Series:

YANKEE EARL

REBEL BARON

TEXAS VISCOUNT

Chapter One

      
“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 sap skull 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.