Mr Impossible (26 page)

He pointed to a
large mound some twenty yards away. There were many such mounds of
rubble hereabouts.

“
Don’t
I need a target?” she said.

“
Choose a
spot to aim at,” he said. “For now, you mainly need to
practice loading, aiming, and firing. Later we can work on your
sharpshooting skills.”

He showed her how
to fully cock the weapon. He stood behind her, and holding his arm
alongside hers, showed her how to aim. The weapon was heavy, and she
was more than a little afraid of it. These weren’t the only
reasons her hand shook. She’d caught his scent. She was acutely
aware of his nearness.

“
Hold the
pistol with both hands, if you need to,” he said.

She did so, and it
helped, but the shakiness went deeper than unsteady hands.

Then he moved away,
and her head cleared.

“
Fire when
ready,” he said.

She took a deep
breath and pulled the trigger. There was a click and a little puff of
smoke, then a blast so powerful that she nearly dropped the weapon.

“
Excellent,”
he said. “You hit the mound.”

The mound was the
size of Bedford Square. Blindfolded, she could hardly miss it. Still,
a wave of happiness surged through her. She wanted to jump up and
down. She wanted to dance. She wanted to throw her arms about his
neck and kiss him senseless—for teaching her how to
do
something, a useful thing that men knew how to do, a skill that even
her indulgent brother hadn’t taught her.

“
Try it
again,” Mr. Carsington said. “This time, see if you can
do it without any prompting from me.”

This time she went
through the preliminaries a degree more confidently, aimed, and
fired. Again the ball struck somewhere in Bedford Square.

She fired several
more times, and it seemed the ball struck nearer and nearer to the
spot she aimed for.

“
It is not so
very difficult, after all,” she said casually, while her heart
pounded with happiness. “Now I should like to try the rifle.”

Chapter 12

SHE WAS VASTLY
PLEASED WITH HERSELF, flushed and smiling, her green eyes sparkling.
For a not-beautiful woman, she was amazingly handsome at times,
Rupert thought.

She’d been
pale at first—frightened, no doubt, as people unused to
firearms so often were. But she wouldn’t let fear master her.

He’d noticed
this about her the first time they met. She must have been frightened
in the dungeon. It was dark, and it stank of death and decay—and
those were the more agreeable odors. Yet she’d beaten back fear
for her brother’s sake.

Since then, Rupert
had seen daily examples of her pluck. They all made him want to get
her naked, naturally, but he had other feelings, too. He wasn’t
sure what they were: a sort of fondness, a kind of affection,
something oddly like what he felt for his brothers.

He hadn’t
thought overmuch about it, though, and didn’t do so now.

At present he was
vastly entertained watching her: the fierce frown of concentration
while she loaded the pistol, the grimly determined stance as she held
the weapon with both hands, and the reasonably straight shots she got
off in spite of a not-quite-steady grip.

It was great fun
teaching her, too, especially the parts where it was necessary to
stand quite close, touching a little now and then.

He looked down at
the rifle he’d brought and smiled. This would be more
entertaining than the pistol.

“
I can learn
that, too,” she said, misinterpreting the smile. “It must
operate according to the same basic principles.”

He nodded. She gave
him the pistol and picked up the rifle.

While he carefully
put away the pistol, she tried the rifle’s weight and studied
the mechanism—quite as gravely and intently as she studied
hatted falcons.

She had no trouble
loading it, though at forty-five inches long, it was a good deal more
awkward to handle.

It was also a good
deal more weapon to manage. She’d soon find out how much more.
That would be interesting.

When all was ready,
he made his face very serious, and drew closer. “You rest the
butt against your shoulder, so,” he said. He explained about
recoil, placed her hands, straightened the rifle, showed her how to
sight, and so on. Then he moved behind her, made some final
adjustments, and said, “Fire when you’re ready.”

She gave a little
twitch of her backside as she sought a comfortable position. Then she
fully cocked the weapon, shifted her stance slightly, and pulled the
trigger.

There was a
metallic snap, a puff of smoke, a brief delay, then the explosion and
the recoil, driving her backward.

Though he’d
warned her, she was not prepared for the recoil’s force. The
rifle fell from her hands, and she stumbled back into him. He was
fully prepared, though, and caught her, his arms closing over her
bosom, his crossed hands firmly upon her breasts. He might have
regained his balance but didn’t try. He simply gave way, and
fell backward onto the sandy ground, taking her with him.

It was unnecessary
and thoroughly improper—her breasts were in no danger of
becoming dislodged—but he didn’t care. She would probably
plant him a facer in the next second or drive an elbow into him, but
he didn’t care.

Smiling happily, he
lay under her, his hands upon her splendid bosom while he waited for
the explosion.

A long moment
passed.

Then she pushed his
hands away, twisted sharply about, and raised herself up to glare at
him.

He grinned at her.
She gazed at him for a time, green eyes fierce. Finally, she opened
her mouth, and he thought,
Here comes the tongue-lashing
.

She let out a huff
of vexation…

…
and her
soft mouth came down on his.

She tasted like
gunpowder.

Rupert grasped her
waist and held on. It was like being shot from a cannon or thrown
from a precipice. She had only to bring her mouth to his, and the
world flew apart, and he rocketed to places he didn’t
recognize.

She pushed her
fingers into his hair and held him—as though he was imbecile
enough to try to get away—and dragged her mouth over his. The
teasing hint of incense was everywhere, mingling with the taste and
scent of gunpowder and the taste and scent and feel of her: the ripe
peach of a mouth and silk velvet skin, the feathery tickle of her
hair, the curving body shaped exactly for his hands.

He’d waited
so very long. He’d been so patient—for him—and
careful—for him. But she was so different. He’d never
known a woman like her. He’d never had so many
feelings
.
He might as well be a raw schoolboy. He became heated in an instant,
like a boy.

Not that he cared
who he was or how old he felt. Only her mouth mattered and the lure
of her wicked tongue, drawing him deeper, and the strange champagne
taste of her, sweet and tangy in his mouth and swirling through him
to make a smoky haze in his brain. Only her body counted, moving
sinuously over him, the delicious friction of her breasts against his
chest.

The Egyptian sun
beat down, but it was nighttime to him. The gritty sand under his
head and back was silken sheets. He forgot where he was and why. Her
mouth left his, and she rubbed her cheek against his jaw, and the
touch was a jab to the heart. She pressed her lips to his neck and
trailed kisses to the base of his throat, little lightning strikes to
the skin. Everywhere her mouth touched caught fire and set off
thunderbolts in his heart.

If he could have
thought, he would have let her have her way, going at her own pace.
There were all the obstacles, after all. He’d kept a distance,
sure that time and proximity would wear down her resistance. He had
known all this: what to do and what not to do and above all,
don’t
hurry her
.

But that was before
she destroyed his mind. Now all he could do was feel, and the
feelings all added up to /
want
. He was hot, and his mind was
a black nothing, and she was close at hand, in his hands, and he had
to have her. Now.

He dragged his hand
down over her backside and pressed her hard against his throbbing
cock. Ah, it felt good. But it could be better, much better. He
dragged up her skirt and slid his hand over stocking and garter and
up under the bunched-up skirts and petticoats over the back of her
thigh.

She jerked away as
though he’d shot her.

“
Good God!”
she cried. She rolled off him, tugging down her clothing. “Are
you mad?”

He blinked and
dragged in air. “Well, yes,” he said thickly. “Lust
does that to a man.”

“
You thought
we would—you would—do…
that? In public
?”

“
I wasn’t
thinking about where we were,” he said.

Her eyes widened.

“
I’m a
man,” he said with what he was sure must be, in the
circumstances, saintly patience. “I can do one or the other.
Lovemaking or thinking. But not both at the same time.”

She stared at him
for a moment. Then she drew up her knees and folded her arms upon
them and buried her face in her folded arms.

She did not pick up
the rifle and knock him on the head with it.

Perhaps all was not
lost.

“
Somewhere
else, then?” he said hopefully.

* * *

DAPHNE LIFTED HER
head and stared at him in blank wonder.

“
Somewhere
more private,” he said.

“
No
,”
she said. “Not here. Not anywhere.”

“
But we like
each other,” he said.

“
It is
completely physical,” she said.

“
Isn’t
that the point?”

She stood and
brushed sand from her clothes and tried to straighten her petticoats
discreetly. She could still feel his hand on the back of her naked
thigh. Within, she was still atremble, still felt excitement and need
along with other sensations she couldn’t name and didn’t
trust, shivering through her.

They had come so
close, too close. And in public. In
public
!

“
The point is
finding my brother,” she said, keeping her voice low and calm.
It wasn’t easy. “This is not a pleasure cruise. The
Isis
is not a seraglio. I am not your mistress, and I don’t intend
to become your mistress. I’m sorry I gave you reason to think
so. I’m sorry I behaved badly.”

Oh, but how was the
wild girl inside her to resist?

If, like a proper
woman, she’d scrambled away from him the instant they fell, she
would have had a chance. But she wasn’t proper, and it wasn’t
possible. A proper woman would have been outraged. But she was
improper, and she’d wanted to laugh. At the way he’d so
boldly clasped her breasts. At the way it felt: so good and
pleasurable and
right
. She’d relished the pressure of
his hands. She’d gloried in the feel of the long, powerful body
under her… and most horribly improper of all, the feel of his
arousal against her backside had thrilled her to the core.

How on earth was
she to behave properly when primitive urges so easily conquered her
moral principles?

She was not sure
where or how she’d found the willpower to push his hands away.
She’d wanted to stay there, trapped in his arms, sinfully aware
of his desire for her. Somehow, though, she found the strength to
break away and make herself turn and face him.

Then what was she
to do when he lay there, grinning at her, quite unrepentant, a
mischievous boy? Devilment danced in his dark eyes. It should have
warned her off. But it called to the devil in her instead, and down
she went to him, to claim his wicked mouth and make it hers. She’d
no sooner touched her mouth to his, felt the smile against her lips,
than she caught his scent, the diabolical woman-trap that sapped her
reason, will, and morals.

Nonetheless, it was
not his fault.

She couldn’t
blame him. He was a man, after all. It wasn’t his fault that
she was so sadly lacking in moral fiber or willpower or whatever
normal women used in such situations.