Yankee Earl (10 page)

      
With an oath, he jerked his hand from Helen's shiny coat as if she'd burned him, backing away and ordering her to sit.

      
“I have some special soap in my saddlebag to wash the poison from her fur. Unfortunately, it does nothing to relieve the itch once one is afflicted,” she said, strolling leisurely back to Reddy. “Would you care to help me bathe Helen?”

      
Jason's only reply was another snarled oath as he pulled off his boots and dived into the water, scrubbing his hands and face furiously with sand. “Damn you. I'll make you pay for this, Countess, believe me,” he yelled.

      
Rachel's laughter echoed across the still water of the pool, filling the afternoon air.

* * * *

      
“I say, old chap, you don't look a'tall the thing,” Drum said, grimacing delicately and keeping his distance from Jason, who sat digging at his hands and face, which were smeared with an evil-smelling salve. “Your fingers more closely resemble sausages than digits. I shall refrain from commenting upon your visage,
alors.
”

      
“How charitable of you,
old chap
,’ Jason snarled.

      
“A pity, but that's what comes of rustication,” Drum replied with a shudder of distaste.

      
“This is what comes of spending an afternoon with a hellion such as Rachel Fairchild,” Jason retorted, gritting his teeth at the infernal itching.

      
“Whatever is that ghastly smell? Stinks like a Thames garbage scow in August,” Drum said, wrinkling his nose as he lifted a faultlessly snowy handkerchief to cover it.

      
“A most-difficult-to-come-by home remedy to cure my poison oak,” Jason replied. “I brought most of the necessary herbs with me from America, but do you have any idea how difficult it is to find bear grease in England?”

      
“Bear grease? Do not tell me. This is one of your Shawnee medicinals.”

      
“And I thank God for it. The first time I went on a raid with them I was in far more danger from skin rash than Cherokee arrows. Kettle Keeper brewed up this concoction for me. I never went anywhere in the woods without covering my body with it. Who in the hell would've thought I'd require it in jolly old England?”

      
“Bear grease.” Drum shook his head. “Little wonder that your red Indians are said to be able to slip through the woodlands noiselessly. They must be slippery indeed.”

      
“That is not amusing, Drum.”

      
The little dandy shrugged. “You could have easily prevented this injury had you remained sensibly in the city.” Alvin Francis Edward Drummond seldom ventured outside London unless dire penury loomed, forcing him to take a coach to his father's seat in Berkshire.

      
“Need I remind you that I have duties at Falconridge which necessitate my spending time here?”

      
They were seated in a large sunny room in the manor house. Light spilling through the mullioned windows cast red and gold patterns over a deep blue carpet and the two leather chairs the men occupied. Drum continued to edge discreetly back in his seat whenever his companion leaned too close. “Do have a care. I should hate to get bear grease on my best jacket, dear fellow,” he admonished when Jason stood up and walked past him to pour a glass of hock for himself.

      
Gesturing to the cool, foamy pitcher, Jason said, “I shan't pour for you, lest I contaminate you; but feel free to have some.”

      
Eyeing the handle of the pitcher where Jason had touched it, Drum shook his head. That is quite all right. Not thirsty, thank you.” As Jason returned to his seat, Drum took snuff, watching his friend resume scratching. Once his ritual with the snuff box had been completed, the little dandy got down to the business that had drawn him most unwillingly into the countryside. “Forrestal was definitely in London when the shots were fired at you here. Odd; I would have thought he would do the deed himself. A bit craven, even for him, to lie in wait and fire from cover. But he is so vain about his marksmanship, I wonder that he would hire it done.”

      
“A blessing if he did hire someone. Whoever it was, he was no marksman.”

      
Drum shrugged. “Some country bumpkin from Etherington's estate perhaps.”

      
Jason left off scratching long enough to ask, “What of the night at Wheatie's?”

      
That Forrestal could have done himself. No one could account for his whereabouts after he left the ball at Cargrave Hall.”

      
“Perhaps he shares your aversion to leaving London,” Jason said.

      
“Perhaps, but there is the other possibility we discussed. Your dear cousin Roger.”

      
“
You
discussed. Roger Dalbert could no more kill a man than he could lift the Tower of London.”

      
“Tut, he would be Cargrave's heir if you were dead. Of course, when I checked on his whereabouts during the attempts on your life, all times were accounted for. But anything is possible if one has the blunt to hire enough men.”

      
Jason shook his head stubbornly. “Roger is one of the most gentle and least rank-conscious men I've ever met. Titles mean nothing to him. Look at the woman he married. Garnet is from the merchant class. No pretension whatever in her. She's more interested in shipbuilding than being a marchioness. And she's quite wealthy to boot—not that Roger has ever been one to live high.”

      
“I must confess, having met them, I'm inclined to agree with you. He seems more content sitting in front of a fire with his hounds than socializing. And Mistress Dalbert has a reputation for choosing the most wretchedly unflattering wardrobe of any lady of the ton. But women are always a dicey lot.”

      
“Believe me, I could not be more painfully aware of that fact,” Jason said glumly, forcing himself to ignore the maddening itch, which the salve was only marginally successful in curbing. “I swore I'd take revenge for Rachel's perfidy…if only I could think of anything dire enough with which to afflict her.”

      
“She is not subject to poison oak, I take it?”

      
Sighing, Jason shook his head.

      
“You could drown her in that pool. That would solve two problems at once,” Drum suggested helpfully.

      
“She is an excellent swimmer.”

      
“I have every faith that you will think of some suitable chastisement for the chit,” Drum replied cheerily.

      
“Strangling her with my bare blistered hands does hold a certain charm,” his friend said as he gave in once more and resumed digging.

* * * *

      
Drum beat a hasty retreat back to London the following day, promising to keep a sharp eye on Frederick Forrestal and his companions. He also mysteriously alluded to investigating some financial matters, but would say nothing further. Jason spent the duration of the week plotting revenge on Rachel Fairchild…and itching.

      
By the end of the week, his infestation of poison oak had all but cleared up, thanks to the Shawnee salve. After being cooped up in the manor house with nothing to take his mind off his misery but bookkeeping ledgers, Jason was eager to go for a ride on Friday morning. That night he was to dine at Harleigh Hall with his nemesis and her father. He still had not thought of a suitable punishment for her, but arriving in a “howling rage” for the meal would not tax his acting ability in the least.

      
He pushed Araby hard, riding across the rolling fields and woodlands of Falconridge until both he and the great black stallion were sweat-soaked. The day was warm, and thoughts of a dip in that pool enticed him. Now he knew to avoid the thicket where the poison oak grew.

      
Reining in, he unsaddled the black and gave him a brief rubdown, then turned him loose to graze near a stand of white birch. Pulling off his boots and clothing, Jason dived into the water and swam with strong, clean strokes back and forth across the pool until he felt cool and relaxed. Moving into the shade of a low-hanging willow, he floated silently, considering how he would behave at dinner with the Fairchilds that evening.

      
Gradually his thoughts drifted. Visions of a great mane of chocolate-colored hair falling over a smooth body the color of warm butterscotch danced in his mind. Rachel wore nothing but a smile, beckoning him to come closer. Like a man in a trance he stalked her, but for every step he took forward, she took one back, until at last she evaporated in a blur of mist.

      
He splashed and broke the reverie, then realized he was hard as a board, aching with sexual longing. Wiping a lock of wet hair from his eyes, he stood up in the shallow water. Damnation, the very least she owed him was to allow his fantasy to continue to its fruition before vanishing! Perverse woman, she was amazingly consistent, frustrating even his daydreams. He started to move, then froze as the sound of hoof beats reverberated over the meadow on the opposite side of the pool.

      
Someone was coming, but because of the trees, whoever it was had not spied Araby or his rider's clothing. Jason himself was hidden deep in the shadows of the willow. After several attempts on his life, and with his pistols on Araby's saddle, he was intent on using extreme caution. Best to see whether the rider was friend or foe before revealing himself. There was also the small matter of being stark naked.

      
“Tis probably some local farm boy come to cool himself and his mount with a drink,” he murmured as the horse drew closer.

      
Jason squinted through the dense willow branches, blinking water droplets from his eyes as the horseman reined in and dismounted. As recognition dawned, he smothered a gasp of amazement. There was absolutely no way he could ever mistake that tall, slender body or long, sure stride.

      
Rachel led her horse to drink at the edge of the water. She was not riding Reddy today but a dainty white mare, which somehow seemed incongruous. Such a strong-willed, reckless woman as Rachel Fairchild should always ride a big, powerful horse…
or a big, powerful man
. Cursing, he quashed the disquieting thought. The very last thing on earth he needed to do was think of bedding a woman like Rachel. He'd be leg-shackled for life, and it would be hell on earth every moment they were out of bed.

      
The most sensible thing he could do was to retreat to his side of the pool, dress, and saddle Araby, then ride like hell for Falconridge. But before he could move, Rachel began to strip off her clothing just as he had earlier, obviously eager to dive into the water. Jason stood stock-still in the shadows, wishing devoutly that he had a glass so he might get a closer view of the show she was unwittingly putting on.

      
And some show it was.

      
She pulled off her boots, then peeled the blousy linen shirt and fitted trousers from her body. He had believed that he'd seen every inch of her curves when she had appeared before him mud-soaked, then later on, water-soaked. Oh, my, but he'd been mistaken. She was even more long-limbed and lithe than he'd imagined, with high, pointed breasts and slender thighs. Unable to stop himself, he moved through the water quietly, drawing closer to gain a better view. Her skin was gilded by the sun all over, indicating that she spent hours outdoors letting its gentle rays caress every delectable inch of her.

      
As he studied the patterns of light and darker golden skin, the ache in his nether region grew even more intense. Not enough that she taunted him in dreams, now she had come to do so in person. He watched as she waded waist deep into the pool, then began to cut through the water with clean strokes. She was headed for a cluster of rocks close to his hiding place. A perfect spot for sunbathing?

      
Sure enough, she slid graceful as a sylph onto one moss-slicked rock and reclined with an audible sigh.
Probably dreaming about poisoning me at dinner tonight
, he thought. Grinning wickedly, he began moving across the shallows toward her, keeping under cover of low-hanging trees as he drew nearer. Two could play at this game…

Chapter Six

      
Rachel lay back, letting the warm sun soothe her frazzled nerves. Tonight
he
would once again invade her world. She had to think, to plan how to handle her maddening attraction to him. The object was to get free of the rogue, not entangle herself further. That would lead only to disaster for both of them. The only way she could convince Jason Beaumont to agree to her revised plan was to approach him coolly, dispassionately, showing him the ultimate reasonableness of it all.

      
Ah, but the Yankee earl was able to make her spitting mad at every encounter—or worse yet, make her feel insecure and inadequate, emotions she had suppressed since childhood. She regretted the poison oak. It had been petty and vindictive, and would no doubt cause him to be suspicious of her proposal…if she ever worked up the courage to broach it.