A Dangerous Man

by Connie Brockway

  “Miss Coltrane is shooting?” Beryl asked, admiration and pleasurable shock mingling in her voice.

  “Yes,” Nathan Hillard said, his bright eyes glowing with open admiration. “In Texas many women are accomplished shootists.”

  “Ah,” said Mercy, “you didn’t tell me you’d been to Texas, Mr. Hillard.”

  “Oh! I haven’t,” he said, his smile self-deprecating. “No, I’m afraid I’ve never been off English soil. But I’m most fortunate in my friends. They’ve regaled me with tales of their own travels in your country, Miss Coltrane. I hope I have the opportunity to hear accounts of your brave young land from yourself.”

  “I’d be delighted, sir.” She moved closer to Hillard, her face alive with delight. “Texas is—”

  “And you say Miss Coltrane will be shooting?” Hart still couldn’t believe she would be so bold.

  The abrupt interruption gained him a startled glance from his sister. Mercy’s gaze swung back to meet his.

  “Yes,” Acton said. “Miss Coltrane has succumbed to my entreaties and agreed to show us her prowess with a rifle.”

  Hart relaxed. A simple display of shooting ability. Though why he should give a bloody damn if Mercy Coltrane made her name a byword for vulgar exhibitionism was beyond him.

  “Oh, how utterly splendid!” Beryl said. “Is that not delightful, Hart?”

  “Wondrous.”

  Acton clapped, drawing his other guests’ attention. Annabelle stepped back, properly unwilling to place herself in a significant position by Acton’s side. There was a hard, assessing set to her dainty features that Hart had never noticed before.

  “As you know, this afternoon’s enjoyment is a shooting match among the gentlemen,” Acton said. “But first, I have a very special surprise for you. Miss Mercy Coltrane, late of Texas, has honored us by agreeing to demonstrate shooting in the western style. If you would all please stand well away from the avenue?”

  The guests dutifully moved back against the length of pennant-hung rope stretched between the tall poplars lining either side of the bridle path. Some forty yards away the lane had been blocked off. Hart glanced down the avenue, looking for the target. Immediately, disbelievingly, his gaze swung back.

  Square in the middle of the path, its head lowered menacingly, monstrously exaggerated horns gleaming atop its yarn-covered head, stood a life-sized papier-mâché buffalo. It would have been a fine facsimile except for the pink ribbon tied about its string tail.

  Hart glanced at Mercy. She was staring in horrified bemusement at the thing. She swallowed and looked up, catching his eye. Her lush lips flattened and she notched her chin higher in the air.

  “Very pretty buffalo, Acton,” Hart said, watching Mercy with amusement. She looked indignant, apparently suspicious that her precious Texas was being ridiculed. “I particularly like the tail adornment. Was it your idea, perchance?”

  “Why, yes,” Acton said, flushing with pleasure.

  Hart nodded. “It renders the beast less frightening for the women. How thoughtful of you to take under consideration the delicate sensibilities of your feminine guests. Well, most of them, at any rate.”

  “What am I to shoot at, sir?” Mercy asked, eyeing the pink ribbon with obvious plans.

  “Why, the bison, Miss Coltrane.”

  “Yes. But what part of the bison?”

  Acton and Hillard exchanged knowing smiles. “Any part you care to hit, dear lady,” Acton said.

  The man had the makings of a prime ass, Hart decided in disgust. A child of eight would be hard pressed not to hit the damned thing at this range. Acton’s implication that he had orchestrated the event so that Mercy could not possibly fail was insufferably patronizing.

  “The horns,” Hart clipped out. “See if you can shoot one of the horns, Miss Coltrane.”

  Mercy’s gaze swerved toward him. “Which horn, Mr. Perth?”

  Little egotist. “The far one. I have a guinea that says you cannot hit the far one cleanly.” Now, there was a target to test one’s skill. From here less than a foot of the appendage was showing.

  “Oh, come now, Perth,” Hillard protested. “A gentleman wouldn’t make a wager of that sort with a lady. She hasn’t any chance—”

  “Done!” Mercy said, and without a moment’s hesitation shouldered the rifle and fired. The sudden report silenced all conversation. Heads swung up, sentences hung unfinished in the air, eyes widened. They stared at the paper sculpture. Both horns still stood atop its massive head.

  “I’m sorry, m’dear,” Acton said kindly. “Perhaps you’d like to try again? Not that you have to. You can pick whatever target you like. The head? The sides?”

  Mercy laughed. “Oh, I hit the horn. About four inches from the tip, I should say.”

  “Of course you did, Miss Coltrane,” Acton agreed. “Now, would you care to try for another—”

  “Begad, she did hit the bloody thing!” a male voice called in disbelief. Down the alley Lady Acton’s military brother, Major Sotbey, was peering at the horn. He stuck a finger through the papier-mâché and wriggled it. “Dead center!”

  Acton and Hillard turned amazed stares at Mercy. She, however, was not looking at them. There was a mocking quirk to one dark brow and her saucy smile was all for Hart. “My guinea, Your High-handedness—or is it Lordliness? Unless you’d care to make another wager?”

  “As you wish, Miss Coltrane,” he replied. “Do you think that you could hit the same target again?”

  “Certainly,” she returned, and called down to the group of men studying the horn. “Sirs, would you please stand back?” They scurried to the safety of the trees. Once more, she shot. All three of Baron Coffey’s sons broke from the crowd and ran toward the target.

  “Dead center!” one of them called. “A few inches higher, this time!”

  Mercy smiled at him, wickedly triumphant, before lowering her lashes and murmuring modestly, “I must be lucky today.”

  “Yes,” he responded, his word rife with meaning. “You must.”

  He reached into his pocket and was in the act of withdrawing a gold coin when he heard her say, “You wouldn’t care to make a contest of it, would you?”

  Of all the conceited, self-satisfied—! “No.”

  She sighed, contriving to look contrite. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I just assumed … That is, I thought you might know something about … But how foolish of me. You aren’t a sportsman, are you? I mean, what with your horse running away with you I should have realized …” She grinned apologetically and shrugged.

  He handed her the guinea, aware he was doing so with ill grace, but she was the most provoking female he’d ever encountered. And provocative, a part of him added.

  She received the coin and bounced it up in down in her palm, regarding him with an intimacy born of shared history … teasing him, by God!

  “Oh, Hart. Do!” Beryl said. “You are so very adept with firearms.”

  “Is he?” Mercy asked, managing to invest a world of disbelief in the query.

  “Yes. He fought in North Africa, you know. He was little more than a boy and still the best shot in his regiment.” Damn it, Beryl needn’t announce his past to the entire world. “He was medaled any number of times for bravery. His fellow soldiers thought his prowess with a gun quite supernatural.”

  “Ah.” Mercy nodded. “That explains his reluctance to compete.”

  He was in the act of turning away from the group when her words arrested him.

  “How so?” he heard Annabelle ask.

  “Well,” she explained, “one wouldn’t want to tarnish past glories with current defeats.”

  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.”
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  “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

  Mercy 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.
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  “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.