A Dangerous Man (10 page)

He froze. Impossible that she was baiting him. Impossible, but true.

“Oh, I’m sure Hart could still manage some very nice shots, were he of a mind to,” Beryl insisted.

“Yes. Of course he could,” Mercy said in a soothing, not entirely convincing manner.

“Really, Miss Coltrane,” Beryl said. “He never misses.”

“In his salad days he was undoubtedly peerless. I’m only sorry I’ve placed him in an untenable situation.”

“What situation is that?” Beryl asked.

“If he loses, well … it might be uncomfortable for him to be bested by a woman. If he wins”—her voice dripped with incredulity over
such a likelihood—“why then he may appear to be less than a
gentleman—”

“Yes,” he bit out, rounding and glaring at her. If she had set her mind on making herself and him the subject of conversation, so be it. If he was an accomplice in her social downfall, it was because she’d insisted.

“Yes?” How could lashes that long and thick flutter that fast? “Yes what, Lord Mr. Perth?”

“Yes. I’ll compete. How could I refuse so gracious an invitation?”

“Here, now, Perth. Miss Coltrane had the right of it. A gentleman competing against a lady? ’Tisn’t done,” Acton protested.

“Oh, surely an exception can be made?” Annabelle asked sweetly. “I mean, if both participants are willing and it is a friendly sort of competition …?” Several of their audience raised concurring votes.

“Allow me to act as your loader, Miss Coltrane,” Nathan Hillard offered. The man was unctuous, his presence at Mercy’s side ubiquitous, and his smile too warm by half. He’d invite comment if he continued to hound Mercy with his attention like this. Mercy, however, did not look hounded. She looked pleased.

She dimpled at Hillard before blinking innocently at the rest of them. Her gold-flecked eyes grew large. “Oh, of course it’s friendly!”

“I think I’ll just go talk to some of the other ladies,” Beryl said nervously, finally awakening to
the vulgar situation her words had embroiled them in. She hurried away, disappearing into the throng.

“Well, if you really want to, Miss Coltrane …” Acton said dubiously.

“Oh, I do!” she assured him. She held out her rifle. “Here, Mr. Perth. See if you can hit the horn too.”

His eyes narrowing on Mercy’s innocent face, Hart shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it to one of the men. He rolled his sleeves back over his forearms and took the rifle from her.

For just a second his fingers brushed the back of her smooth, pale hand. He felt her skin too acutely—soft and velvety, chill with autumn’s breath. It was just like when he had touched her in that damn kitchen. Too intense. Too much … attraction.

“I will try not to disappoint, Miss Coltrane,” he said.

Chapter 8

M
ercy rubbed the back of her hand as she watched Hart check the action on the Winchester. The place his fingers had brushed still felt traced with electricity, a harmless fire of sensation.
Harmless?
There was nothing in the least harmless about Hart Moreland.

He was scowling, sighting down the barrel. The hard sinews in his forearm, exposed by his turned shirtsleeves, flexed beneath tanned skin as he lifted the rifle. His wrists looked strong. His hands were beautiful, elegant … a blind sculptor should have such hands. Not a gunslinger.

He glanced over at her and his sapphire-shot eyes glinted with rueful enjoyment. The light from overhead, rendered by a capricious wind dancing in the leaves, touched his soft brown hair with golden highlights and patterned his lean face with flickering shadows. She glanced at the other guests: well-tended, dutiful, safe gentlemen and women.
They didn’t even realize there was a shape-shifter in their midst. Dark and light, illumination and obscurity …

“The horn?” he asked.

“Ah, yes,” she mumbled, forcing her gaze away. “If you think you can—”

He shot.

It was casual, the way he had brought the rifle up. He didn’t even shoulder it. Just raised it and fired. There was nothing vainglorious or showy in the act, just smooth, economical grace.

Mercy had the notion that he only raised it as far as he did so as
not
to appear ostentatious. She bet he could have fired from the hip and still shot the papier-mâché horn off.

“Good show! Bang on!” shouted several male voices.

“Next target?” Hart asked.

Mercy laughed with pleasure. There was just a hint of self-congratulation in his voice, a touch of smugness that made him seem so much more human and thus more appealing. “Shall we put a bit more distance between the target and the rifle?”

“Pace off another thirty yards,” he called down the field.

Acton’s liveried attendants didn’t stand a chance. The gentlemen of the audience, now thoroughly involved in the impromptu competition, rushed to accommodate.

“Ladies
first,” Hart said.

“The ribbon?” Carefully sighting down the barrel, she released her breath in a long, steady exhalation,
her weight on her forward foot, her back straight as her father had taught her. She squeezed the trigger. The ribbon jumped and landed on the ground.

“Brava, Miss Coltrane,” Hart said. “But you’ve robbed me of my target.”

“Set it up again!” called Hillard as he offered her a flute filled with champagne. “To the victor goes the spoils.”

Mercy laughed, accepting the glass and taking a sip, eyeing Hillard over the brim. He looked delighted by her skill.

“You are as talented as you are lovely,” Hillard announced, his gaze as warm as Hart’s was cool.

“Is she not?” Acton agreed.

The ribbon was retied and Hart stepped forward. With no more haste or preparation than he’d evinced on his first shot, he fired. Once more, the ribbon fluttered to the ground. More cheers went up and, interspersed with the cheers, wagers.

Acton called a servant over. “Set up a table,” he told the attendant. “Hillard, be a good chap and take the bets, will you? We’ll make it a charity event.” He touched her briefly on the arm. “Would you be so kind as to delay a few minutes, Miss Coltrane? Some of the guests would like to wager on the outcome of your contest.”

“Of course.”

“I will, of course, wager on you, m’dear.” Hillard’s voice was soft, but from the sudden tensing of Hart’s long body it was apparent Hart had heard him all too clearly.

“Oh, please don’t,” Mercy returned, for the first time a note of fret coloring her round American accents. She didn’t want to be responsible for anyone’s money, and from the little bits and pieces she’d overheard, she could only assume that Nathan Hillard did not have money to wager on frivolous bets.

Hillard shrugged. “It’s for charity. And besides, you can’t possibly lose. You’ve already won the hearts … of us all.”

His words were, again, spoken quietly, but something in the set cast of Hart’s face told her he’d heard, and while Nathan’s approval warmed her, it was perhaps more because of embarrassment than pleasure.

“Thank you, sir.”

Acton motioned to Hillard, who cast her one last regretful glance before following their host. She was suddenly alone with Hart. Annabelle was some few yards away, her eyes narrowed on Acton’s back.

“What next, Miss Coltrane?” Hart asked in a low voice. “Another thirty yards? Or do we simply flay chunks off that contraption’s paper hide until there’s nothing left but wire? How long do you insist we make spectacles of ourselves? People are
betting
on us, as if we were some Cheapside entertainment.”

His disapproval touched a raw nerve. Her cheeks warmed once more, but not with pleasure. She was mortified by his condemnation—once more a guilty girl-child caught wearing her
brother’s trousers and boots. And with mortification, anger rose.

She had been chided by the Dowager for asking for aid. She had been stymied and stonewalled by every person whom she’d approached seeking information about her brother. Every query she’d made had elicited the same appalled response. “A lady does not ask such things. A lady does not know of such places. A lady does not possibly make such inquiries.”

Damn them all!
she thought furiously. She had committed no crime by demonstrating her skills and she would not let this glacial-eyed stranger rob her of her simple pleasure in her accomplishments.

“You can bow out at any time,” she said.

“I wouldn’t dream of disappointing a
lady’s
whim.”

“Miss Moreland,” she called to Annabelle, still standing statue-still nearby. “If you would please throw your champagne glass in the air.”

“Excuse me?”

“On my mark, throw it as high into the air as you can,” Mercy said tightly. “You
do
know how to throw? Your brother did allow you to toss things on occasion, did he not?”

Annabelle flushed, nodding, and Mercy felt like a cad. It wasn’t the child’s fault Hart was her brother. “Excuse my manners. If you would, please?”

“Certainly.”

Mercy raised the rifle. “Now.”

The crystal flute spun twenty feet into the air.
Just as it hit the top of its arc, Mercy fired. Splinters of glass sparkled for an instant against the pure blue sky.

“Here, now,” a man called reproachfully. “The wagers hadn’t been set yet!”

Hart ignored him. “Throw this, Annabelle,” he said, scooping up an abandoned champagne flute and tossing it to his sister. He held out his hand for the rifle and Mercy slapped the butt into his waiting palm.

Before he’d said a word or even shouldered the gun, Annabelle hurled the glass high overhead. The rifle snapped into place. The glass shattered.

Still angry, Mercy cast about for another target, dimly aware of gasps of astonishment rippling through the crowd.

“You there, sir!” she hailed a befuddled-looking youngster standing on the edge of the alley two dozen yards away. Undoubtedly one of Baron Coffey’s boys. “You in the deerstalker. Yes, you, sir. Kindly throw your hat.”

Roars erupted as the guest scurried to place bets.

Mercy settled the rifle against her shoulder. The young man looked fondly at his hat, sighed, and heaved it into the air.

The dinner had been excellent and filling. For three hours courses were presented in rapid-fire succession: consommé, salmon croquettes,
petits
pois
napped with mint,
salade russe
, galantine of pigeon, tournedos of beef,
crème de framboise
and meringues, and finally cheeses served alongside pears and apricots fresh from Acton’s quarter-mile-long glasshouse.

As each course had been brought to the table, and each wine decanted and consumed, the conversation had grown more and more laudatory. It all revolved around the afternoon’s shooting match.

The women, taking their cue from the gentlemen’s approval and the Duchess’s indulgent if forced-looking smile, had reservedly adopted Mercy into their sphere. They plied her with questions about her life in Texas and congratulated her on her skill. Mercy could not refrain from spearing Hart with an occasional triumphant glance. He surprised her by accepting her superior smiles with a gleam of amusement.

Now, dinner ended, the women chatted as they waited for the men to reappear, pungent with smoke and after-dinner brandy.

Annabelle drifted toward her, apparently worried that her approach would not be welcome. Mercy silently chided herself for her earlier rudeness to the girl.

“Please, sit by me, Miss Moreland,” she asked, rearranging her plum- and turquoise-striped skirt to make room on the chintz-covered settee. With a murmured thank-you Annabelle sank to the edge of the cushion, hands folded gracefully in her lap.

It took Mercy a minute to realize that Annabelle
was covertly studying her. For the life of her Mercy could not think of a single topic of conversation to broach with such a paragon. And she could not help returning those sidelong glances. Annabelle was so completely a lady. Her mother would have been transported had she raised so angelic a creature as this.

The other women were sharing intimacies, renewing friendships, while she and Annabelle sat here like roosting chickens waiting for each other to cluck. There had to be something they could say to each other.