Excerpt of Yankee Earl by Shirl Henke

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 they were formally introduced in London next month.

Bad enough that nasty little Mathias would have been the next earl. At least he was Cargrave's proper English heir. But with his demise, the marquis 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 her athletic body, hazel eyes and dark hair, she was hardly the epitome of English beauty. Petite blue-eyed blondes with softly voluptuous flesh 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 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 horses' 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 abided 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 gritted, 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 black stallion burst through a willow thicket headed directly toward her.

Its 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 half way over the saddle when the horses collided. Suddenly she found herself sailing backward, straight into the muddy bank, where she landed with a thunk. The sound of a gravelly male voice muttering more 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!

"Reddie, 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 its 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 half-way 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. Being unarmed, it didn't seem sporting to remain a stationary target."

She snorted in derision. "You chuckle-head, 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 up and face him. 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 F—"

"Quiet, you little fool! You'll give our position away."

His hand, now covered with mud, smothered off 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 farther 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.

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 made 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 hooves splashing through the water quickly followed. Damned if the black was not obeying! As the horse drew close, her companion broke from cover and jumped across the rocky stream bed, leaping on the stallion's back in one fluid movement, a deed 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. When 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 notched up 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 here and how big he was, towering over her not inconsiderable height. She knew how to defend herself and had done so against a 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 it, 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, in spite of scandalizing the local gentry, 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," 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 brilliant 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.