Page 44 of The Scot Beds His Wife
And bonny? Well, she apparently used her day of rest to take potshots at a few tins she’d tied with twine to a fence. They danced, jumped, and swayed as holes ripped through them with each masterful aim of her pistol.
Christ. She impressed him. She intrigued him.
Hell, shearousedhim. Especially in those astonishingly skintight blue trousers.
Just wasn’t decent of a lass to wrap legs the length of along plummet into temptation with fabric that revealed just as much as it covered.
He wished he could rip out what he felt at the sight of her and trample it into the mud beneath Demetrius’s feet. Every time he saw her, her indefinable allure grew stronger.
Every. Time.
As he drew closer, he dismounted, taking a moment to appreciate just how the pockets on the back of her trews would fit his fingers as he cupped her wee arse. Wasn’t frequently a man chanced upon such a view of just exactly how much a lass had to fill his hands. She wore no strange contraptions, bustles, bows, or petticoats to hide or enhance a thing.
And she didn’t have to in order to entice his absolute attention.
She boasted a heart-shaped arse, he noted.
His favorite kind, as it turned out.
After emptying her second pistol into the distance, she reached into the pocket of her men’s chambray shirt and retrieved six bullets.
The sun had begun an eventual descent into the west behind gathering storm clouds, but for a moment, the afternoon burnished a rare and flattering gold.
“Well, if it isn’t the infamous Lord Thorne-in-my-boot.” She flipped the chamber to the side to reload.
“It’s better to be infamous than invisible.” He winked, expecting a flash of blue fury in return.
“Not necessarily,” was all she muttered.
Though he’d come to throw down a white flag rather than a gauntlet, Gavin had found himself looking forward to their verbal dance.
Which was why the melancholy note in her reply threw him. Why hadn’t she looked in his direction yet?
As he drew abreast of her, Gavin scanned the north fence where her tin targets swayed. “Who taught ye how to shoot like that?”
“My father.” How her lithe fingers could make loading a pistol seem strangely erotic, he’d never know. Maybe it was her coaxing the rather phallic shafts into their chambers. The perfect fit.
The perfect weapon.
Wisely, he said nothing, but was unlucky enough to find that she’d glanced at him in time to catch his expression. “That surprises you?”
“A wee bit.”
“Why, because your father killed mine with a dueling pistol?”
Unable to look her in the eyes, he watched the west wind toss the long hair she’d secured behind her with a leather thong, his fingers curling at the memory of threading through the silken strands. “Well… I wasna going to mention…”
“I imagine I practice more than he did,” she remarked dispassionately.
He could understand why. If the past repeated itself, it made sense that she’d do what she could to fight. To win.
“Not to be rude or anything.” She picked up the second pistol, her long fingers disappearing back into the same breast pocket. “But what the fuck are you doing on my land?”
God save him, she was lovely.
“I came to cry peace with ye, lass. And to…” Well, he’d meant to apologize for his high-handed behavior. For accosting her in the forest and stealing a kiss.
But he couldn’t seem to. Because, dammit all to perdition, he couldn’t conjure remorse.
