To Taste Temptation

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  The boy broke. “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning my gun.” Sam didn’t look up. Sometimes an animal was braver when it didn’t think the tracker was interested.

  “I have a gun.” There was the sound of rustling leaves as the boy shifted.

  “Oh?”

  “Belonged to my uncle Reynaud.”

  “Mmm.” Sam got up and stood the gun on its butt. He slid the ramrod out from under the barrel.

  “M’man says I can’t touch it.”

  “Ah.”

  “Can I help you clean your gun?”

  Sam paused at that and squinted up at the boy. Daniel lay on a branch two feet over his head, arms and legs dangling. He had a scratch on one cheek and a streak of dirt on his white shirt. His blond hair hung over his forehead, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement.

  Sam sighed. “Would your mother mind if I let you help me?”

  “Oh, no,” the boy said instantly. He began inching out on the limb, closer into Sam’s yard.

  “Whoa, there.” Sam set aside his rifle and went to stand underneath the boy in case he fell. “What about your tutor?”

  Daniel craned his neck, looking back into his own garden. “He’s sitting on the bench under the rose arbor. He always falls asleep there when we take our walk.” He inched forward again.

  “Hold it there,” Sam said.

  The boy froze, his eyes wide.

  “The branch won’t bear your weight if you go much farther out. Swing your legs down and I’ll help you.”

  Daniel grinned in relief and let both legs dangle off one side of the branch, holding on by his arms. Sam caught the boy by the waist and lowered him to the ground.

  Immediately, Daniel ran to the gun. Sam watched carefully, but the boy didn’t touch the weapon; he merely examined it.

  Daniel whistled through his teeth. “’Pon my word, that’s the longest gun I ever did see.”

  Sam smiled and hunkered down next to the boy. “It’s a Kentucky rifle. Settlers use it on the frontiers of Pennsylvania in the Colonies.”

  Daniel glanced sideways at Sam. “Why’s it so long? Don’t that make it hard to carry?”

  “Not much. It’s not that heavy.” Sam picked up the gun and sighted down the barrel again. “Aim’s better. Shot’s better. Here, take a look.”

  Daniel eagerly stood beside him as Sam held the gun. “Zounds!” the boy whispered. He squinted down the barrel, one eye shut, breathing through his mouth. “Can I shoot it?”

  “Not here,” Sam replied. He lowered the gun. “Hop on the bench and you can help me.”

  The boy scrambled to stand on the bench.

  “Take this.” Sam handed him a thick rag. “Now hold the gun steady and don’t drop it. The water’s hot. Ready?”

  The boy grasped the barrel of the rifle in both hands, the rag underneath to keep his hands from burning. His brow creased with concentration. “Ready.”

  Sam picked up a steaming kettle of water from the ground and carefully poured a thin stream of boiling water down the barrel. Dirty black water bubbled out of the touchhole.

  “Zounds,” Daniel breathed.

  Sam glanced at him and smiled. “Hold it there a minute.” He set down the kettle and picked up the ramrod, wrapping a bit of rag around the end. He inserted the ramrod into the barrel and shoved it halfway down. “Want to do it?”

  “Coo! Would I?” The boy grinned at him, and Sam saw that although his coloring must come from his father, his smile was all his mother’s.

  “Then go ahead.”

  Sam held the barrel while the boy worked the ramrod.

  “Good. Push it up and down. We need to get every bit of powder out of there.”

  “Why?” The boy frowned as he labored to shove the ramrod.

  “A dirty gun isn’t safe.” Sam watched, but Daniel was doing a good job. “Might not fire. Might misfire and take the shooter’s nose off. A man should always keep his gun clean.”

  “Huh,” the boy grunted. “What do you hunt with it? Eagles?”

  “No, it’s too big for birds, even one as large as an eagle. The woodsmen hunt game—deer, mostly—but it comes in handy if a man comes across a bear or a catamount.”

  “Have you ever come across a catamount?”

  “Only once. I walked around a bend in a trail and there stood one, big as you please, in the middle of my path.”

  Daniel stopped his ramming motion. “What did you do? Shoot it?”

  Sam shook his head. “Didn’t have the chance. That big cat took one look at me and ran the other way.”

  “Huh.” Daniel seemed a little disappointed at his answer.

  “That’s good,” Sam said, indicating the rifle. “Now let’s pour in more water.”

  Daniel nodded, eyes intent and serious on the gun.

  Sam withdrew the ramrod with the rag, now black, and picked up the kettle of water again. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  This time the water bubbled out gray.

  “How many times must we do the water?” Daniel asked.

  “Until it runs clear.” Sam handed the boy the ramrod with a new rag on the end. “Remember to always use boiling water, too, so that the barrel dries well and doesn’t rust.”

  Daniel nodded as he drove the ramrod into the barrel of the gun.

  Sam nearly smiled. What for him was an easy chore took quite a bit of effort on the boy’s part, but Daniel never complained. He simply put his back into working the ramrod up and down. Sam became aware of a rustling over the wall. The scent of lemon balm drifted in the air. He didn’t look up, but his entire body was suddenly on the alert, anticipating when the woman would make herself known.

  “How much more?” Daniel asked.

  “That should do it.” Sam helped him withdraw the ramrod.

  Daniel watched him handle the metal rod. “Did you fight in a war?”

  Sam hesitated for a moment and then continued unwrapping the dirty rag from the ramrod. “Yes. I fought the French in the Colonies. Ready?”

  The boy nodded. “My uncle Reynaud fought in that war.”

  “I know.” Sam was silent as he poured the steaming water into the barrel.

  “Did you kill anyone in the war?”

  Sam looked at the boy. He was watching the water stream from the touchhole. The question had probably been an idle one. “Yes.”

  “The water’s clear.”

  “Good.” Sam wrapped a dry rag around the ramrod and gave it to Daniel.

  Daniel started working the ramrod. “Did you shoot them with this gun?”

  The rustling on the other side of the wall had long since stopped. She might’ve wandered away again, but Sam didn’t think so. He had the feeling that Lady Emeline waited, breathless, just out of sight, for his answer.

  He sighed. “Yes. At the battle of Quebec, when we seized the city. A French soldier ran at me. He had his bayonet fixed to the end of his rifle. It was already stained with blood.”

  Daniel’s little body froze. He looked at Sam.

  Sam held his gaze. “So I shot him dead.”

  “Oh,” the boy whispered.

  “Take the ramrod out and we’ll oil the barrel.”

  Lady Emeline’s voice floated from over the wall. “Daniel.”

  Sam took care not to spill the oil he was pouring on a clean rag. What did she think of his tale? It wasn’t filled with the glory so many expected in stories told about war. Then, too, she must’ve heard the rumors about him. Did she think him a coward because of Spinner’s Falls?

  Daniel twisted around. “M’man, come look! Mr. Hartley has the longest gun in the world, and I’m helping him to clean it.”

  “So I see.” Lady Emeline’s head appeared at the top of the wall. She must have been standing on a bench on the other side. Her eyes didn’t meet his.

  Sam wiped his fingers carefully on a clean rag. “Ma’am.” Perhaps he’d disgusted her.

  She cleared her throat. “I don’t see how I am
to examine this wonderful gun. There is no gate in the wall.”

  “Climb over,” Daniel said. “I’ll help you.”

  “Hmm.” Lady Emeline looked first at her son and then the wall. “I don’t think—”

  “Would you allow me?” Sam asked Daniel’s permission gravely.

  The boy nodded.

  He turned back to Lady Emeline who was now eyeing him with an inscrutable expression. “Can you climb higher?”

  “Naturally.” She glanced down at her side of the wall and then climbed on something so that now she was visible from the waist up.

  Sam raised his eyebrows and stepped onto the bench on his side. He looked over the wall. Lady Emeline stood quite primly on a tree branch. He suppressed a grin and reached for her. Her eyes widened as he placed his hands about her waist, and he felt his own breath catch. “If I may?”

  She nodded jerkily.

  He lifted her over the wall. The old wound in his side ached as his muscles pulled under her weight, but he didn’t let his discomfort show on his face. He brought her down slowly, letting her slide a little against his chest. He was taking advantage of the situation, but he enjoyed her warmth and the scent of lemon balm, anyway. Her gaze met his as he held her for a fraction of a second with her face level with his own. Her black eyes were heavy-lidded, her color heightened. He was conscious of her quickened breath against his lips. Then he set her down.

  She bent her head as she fussed with her skirts. “Thank you, Mr. Hartley.” Her voice was husky.

  “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  It was a good thing he’d kept his face straight, because she glanced at him sharply. She flushed a deeper pink and bit her lip. He watched her, wondering what it would be like to feel those sharp little teeth on his bare skin. She was an ornery creature. He’d wager she’d like to bite.

  “Come see, M’man,” Daniel repeated impatiently.

  Lady Emeline walked over to the gun and eyed it. “Very nice, I’m sure.”

  “Would you like to help us oil it?” Sam asked innocently.

  She shot him a warning look. “I think I’ll simply observe.”

  “Ah.” Sam took the oily rag and wrapped it about the ramrod. “Shove it down the barrel good, Danny. Every inch must be oiled.”

  “Yes, sir.” Daniel took the ramrod and did as instructed, his brows knit seriously.

  Sam wet another rag with the oil and began rubbing it over the outside of the barrel. “My sister says that you’ll accompany us to a ball tomorrow evening, my lady.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod. “The Westerton soiree. Quite a grand event, usually. It took a bit of work to get an invitation for the two of you. Luckily, you’re something of a novelty, Mr. Hartley. Quite a few hostesses have indicated their interest on that basis alone.”

  Sam ignored that. “Will Rebecca be ready for this ball in your estimation?”

  “Of course.” She leaned closer, apparently peering down the barrel. Daniel still worked the ramrod. “But a smaller event would certainly be easier for her first introduction to London society.”

  Sam was silent. He concentrated on the brass cheekplate on the butt of the rifle and tried to ignore the guilt worming in his stomach.

  “Rebecca mentioned that you were the one to insist on that particular ball.” Her deep pink skirts brushed his knee. “I wonder why?”

  EMELINE WATCHED MR. Hartley’s back stiffen. He knelt at her feet, head bent down as he gently stroked a cloth over his extraordinary gun. It was a long weapon but oddly light-looking, the barrel very narrow. The wood was a beautiful pale burl, the grain swirling all along the stock. She pursed her lips. Only a man would make a weapon so lovely. On the base was a brass plate, cut out in curls and polished to a high gleam. Mr. Hartley’s hands were large and brown against the white cloth, but they moved with a gentle, almost loving rhythm.

  She looked away. The feeling of irritation—an almost physical itching on her skin—had started the moment she’d heard his voice. And the irritation had only intensified when she’d watched him over the wall. He’d taken off his coat and waistcoat—very improperly, even in the privacy of his own garden. Gentlemen never, never took off an article of clothing, except in the most extreme of circumstances. Emeline refused to believe that the rules could be any different even in the wilds of America.

  So now he worked in only his shirt. The crisp, starched linen was stark white against his tan. He’d rolled up the sleeves, revealing the dark hairs on his forearms, and even though Emeline knew she was being ridiculously sensitive, she was terribly aware of those bare forearms. She longed to touch his arm, run her finger along the lean muscle there and feel the brush of those dark hairs.

  Damn him!

  “Was there a particular reason you chose the Westerton soiree?” she asked now in a voice that was shrewish, even to her own ears.

  “No.” He still didn’t look up. His queue swung over his shoulder as he shifted to rub a different part of the gun. That, too, was annoying. The sunlight showed lighter streaks of brown in his dark hair.

  Emeline narrowed her eyes at him. He gave no outward sign, but she knew he was lying to her.

  “That’s enough,” Mr. Hartley said, and for a moment she thought he spoke to her.

  But Daniel straightened and grinned. “Is it clean now?”

  “Well and truly clean.” The colonial stood, rising so close to her that they nearly touched.

  Emeline checked an impulse to step back. He was so tall. It was really quite rude of him to tower over her in such a manner.

  “Now may I try it?” Daniel asked.

  She opened her mouth to give a resounding No!, but Mr. Hartley spoke first. “This isn’t the place to shoot a gun. Think of all the things—and people—we might accidentally hit.”

  Her son’s lower lip puckered out in a pout. “But—”

  “Daniel,” Emeline said in warning, “you mustn’t badger Mr. Hartley when he has been so kind as to let you help him with his gun.”

  Mr. Hartley frowned as if she’d said something wrong. “I was very pleased to have Danny’s help—”

  “His name is Daniel.” The words were out before she could check them. Her tone was too sharp.

  He stared at her, his mouth thinning.

  She glared back, thrusting out her chin.

  He said slowly, “Daniel worked well today. He isn’t bothering me.”

  Her son beamed as if he’d been given the most extravagant praise. She should be grateful that Mr. Hartley was so kind, that he knew exactly what to say to a small boy. Instead, she was vaguely peeved.

  Mr. Hartley smiled back at Daniel and then bent to pick up the cloths and oil. “You’ll probably be busy tomorrow morning, preparing for the ball.”

  Emeline blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “Why, no. There are many preparations if one is throwing a ball, but as we are simply attending—”

  “Good.” He glanced up, his brown eyes laughing, and Emeline suddenly realized she’d walked straight into a trap. “Then you’ll be able to accompany me to view Mr. Wedgwood’s pottery. I should like a feminine perspective on what to order.”

  She opened her mouth to say something that she’d no doubt regret later but was saved by the voice of Mr. Smythe-Jones.

  “My lord? Lord Eddings?”

  Daniel hunched his shoulders and whispered, “Don’t tell him I’m here.”

  Emeline frowned. “Nonsense. Go to your tutor at once, Daniel.”

  “But—”

  “Best to do as your mother says,” Mr. Hartley said quietly.

  And miraculously, her son shut his mouth. “Yes, sir.” He went to the wall and called over, “I’m here.”

  They heard the thin voice of the tutor. “Whatever are you doing over there? Come down at once, Lord Eddings!”

  “I—”

  Mr. Hartley leapt onto the marble bench that sat against the wall. For such a big man, he moved lithely. “Danny was visiting me, Mr. Smythe-
Jones. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Startled murmuring came from over the wall.

  “Come on, Danny.” Mr. Hartley made a step with his hands. “I’ll give you a leg up.”

  “Thanks!” Daniel stepped into the big hands and Mr. Hartley gently lifted him up. The boy scrambled to the top of the wall and then onto the big crab-apple branch that lay just over it. In a moment he was gone.

  Emeline looked at the toes of her shoes as she listened to the tutor remonstrating with her son, his voice fading as they walked back to the house. She twisted a bit of ribbon on her overskirt. Then she looked up.

  Mr. Hartley was watching her from atop the bench. He jumped lightly to the ground, landing just a little too close to her, his coffee-brown eyes intent. “Why don’t you want me to call your son Danny?”

  She pursed her lips. “His name is Daniel.”

  “And Danny is the nickname for Daniel.”

  “He’s a baron. He will sit in the House of Lords one day.” The ribbon was digging into the soft pads of her fingers. “He doesn’t need a nickname.”

  “Need it, no.” He stepped even closer to her so that she was forced to look up in order to continue meeting his eyes. “But what harm does a nickname do a little boy?”

  She inhaled, realizing as she did so that she could smell him, a combination of gunpowder, starch, and gun oil. The scent should have been repulsive, but she found it strangely intimate instead. And the intimacy was arousing. How awful.

  “It was his father’s name,” she blurted. The ribbon broke.

  He stilled, his big body poised as if to pounce. “Your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “It reminds you of him?”

  “Yes. No.” She waved the suggestion away. “I don’t know.”

  He began a slow prowl around her. “You miss him, your husband.”

  She shrugged, fighting down the urge to twist and face him. “He was my husband for six years. It would be very odd if I didn’t miss him.”

  “Even so, it doesn’t follow that you would miss him.” He had meandered behind her and now spoke over her shoulder. She imagined that she could feel his breath against the spot behind her ear.