“What a cunning little weapon,” the viscount said and reached for it. “May I?”
She handed him the pistol.
“How tiny it is,” he exclaimed.
“It’s a lady’s pocket pistol,” she told him as he examined it.
Oliver frowned at her. “When did you acquire a pocket pistol, Celia?”
“A little while ago,” she said blithely.
Gabe grinned. “You may not know this, Basto, but my sister is something of a sharpshooter. I daresay she has a bigger collection of guns than Oliver.”
“Not bigger,” she said. “Finer perhaps, but I’m choosy about my firearms.”
“She has beaten us all at some time or another at target shooting,” the duke said dryly. “The lady could probably hit a fly at fifty paces.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said with a grin. “A beetle perhaps, but not a fly.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, she could have kicked herself. Females did not boast of their shooting—not if they wanted to snag husbands.
“You should come shooting with us,” Oliver said. “Why not?”
The last thing she needed was to beat her suitors at shooting. The viscount in particular would take it very ill. She suspected that Portuguese men preferred their women to be wilting flowers.
“No thank you,” she said. “Target shooting is one thing, but I don’t like hunting birds.”
“Suit yourself,” Gabe said, clearly happy to make it a gentlemen-only outing, though he knew perfectly well that hunting birds didn’t bother her.
“Come now, Lady Celia,” Lord Devonmont said. “You were eating partridges at supper last night. How can you quibble about shooting birds?”
“If she doesn’t want to go, let her stay,” Gabe put in.
“It’s not shooting birds she has an objection to,” Mr. Pinter said in a taunting voice. “Her ladyship just can’t hit a moving target.”
She bit back a hot retort. Don’t scare off the suitors.
“That’s ridiculous, Pinter,” Gabe said. “I’ve seen Celia—ow! What the devil, Oliver? You stepped on my foot!”
“Sorry, old chap, you were in the way,” Oliver said as he went to the table. “I think Pinter’s right, though. Celia can’t hit a moving target.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she protested, “I most certainly can hit a moving target! Just because I choose not to for the sake of the poor, helpless birds—”
“Convenient, isn’t it, her sudden dislike of shooting ‘poor, helpless birds’?” Mr. Pinter said with a smug glance at Lord Devonmont.
“Convenient, indeed,” Lord Devonmont agreed. “But not surprising. Women don’t have the same ability to follow a bird in flight that a man—”
“That’s nonsense, and you know it!” Celia jumped to her feet. “I can shoot a pigeon or a grouse on the wing as well as any man here.”
“Sounds like a challenge to me,” Oliver said. “What do you think, Pinter?”
“A definite challenge, sir.” Mr. Pinter was staring at her with what looked like satisfaction.
Blast it all, had that been his purpose—to goad her into it?
Oh, what did it matter? She couldn’t let a claim like his or Lord Devonmont’s stand. “Fine. I’ll join you gentlemen for the shooting.”
“Then I propose that whoever bags the most birds gets to kiss the lady,” Lord Devonmont said with a gleam in his eye.
“That’s not much of a prize for me,” Gabe grumbled.
She planted her hands on her hips. “And what if I bag the most birds?”
“Then you get to shoot whomever you wish,” Mr. Pinter drawled.
As the others laughed, Celia glared at him. He was certainly enjoying himself, the wretch. “I’d be careful if I were you, Mr. Pinter. That person would most likely be you.”
“Oho, man, you’ve really got her dander up this time,” Gabe exclaimed. “What on earth did you do?”
Mr. Pinter’s gaze met hers, glinting with an unholy amusement. “I confiscated her pistol.”
As Gabe gasped, Oliver shook his head. “You’ll learn soon enough—never take away one of Celia’s guns. Not if you want to live.”
“I’m not that bad,” Celia grumbled as the duke and the viscount eyed her with a twinge of alarm, though Lord Devonmont’s grin broadened. “I’ve never shot a person in my life.”
“There’s always a first time,” Gabe teased.
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” She regarded them all stoutly. “I promise not to shoot any of you. How about this? If I win, you gentlemen owe me a rifle. Between the five of you, I’m sure you can afford a decent one.”
“Five?” Mr. Pinter said. “Don’t I get a part in this little game?”
She stared him down. “I thought you had certain duties to attend to.” He should be investigating her suitors.
“Whatever duties he has for me will keep, Celia,” Oliver said. “Do come with us, Pinter. I want to see how well you handle a fowling piece.”
Mr. Pinter smiled at her. “I’d be honored, my lord. As long as her ladyship doesn’t mind.”
Of course she minded. But if she tried to cut him out, they’d say she was afraid he would beat her.
“Not in the least,” she said. “Just be prepared to contribute your part for my rifle.”
But as she headed for the door, it wasn’t the rifle she was worried about. It was that blasted kiss. Because if he won …
Well, she’d just have to make sure he didn’t.
Chapter Eight
Taking aim as the grouse rose, Jackson fired, bringing down another one. He moved forward with the others as the dogs raced off to pick up the birds. The six men and Celia were spread out in a line across the field so that each of their kills would be clearly delineated, but it made it hard to keep track of how many the others had shot.
The dogs loped back to lay the birds at Stoneville’s feet. Since Jackson had no dogs of his own, his lordship had gamely relinquished the use of them to him. Apparently, Stoneville meant to gain his amusement solely from watching Jackson bait Celia.
Jackson wasn’t entirely sure why, but neither did he care. He cared only about making sure he shot well enough to beat Celia’s three suitors, to prevent them from gaining the kiss.
So you can gain it yourself.
He scowled as they halted in their new spot to reload. Nonsense. But if he did happen to win it, he would treat her like the lady she was. Devonmont was just the kind of joking fellow to be impudent with her in front of everyone. Lyons had already had a taste of her lips, so he might very well think to make his second taste more intimate. And Basto, who already had a fondness for holding her hand, confound the insolent devil—
Jackson swore under his breath. He was acting like some jealous idiot. All right, so he was jealous, but this wasn’t about that. He merely wanted to keep Celia from making an enormous mistake.
When she’d tried to get out of shooting, Jackson had realized she was serious about choosing one of these idiots as a husband. Clearly, she thought if she pretended to be some milk-and-water miss, it would help her chances.
So he’d made sure she didn’t do any such thing. If they were worthy of her, they had to be worthy of the real her, not the pretend one she presented. Personally, he thought them all fools for not seeing she was putting on an act.
And couldn’t she see that a marriage built on such deceptions would fail?
No, she was too blinded by her determination to prove her grandmother wrong about her. Well, he couldn’t let her stumble into some idiotic engagement with gentlemen who didn’t deserve her. Especially not after what he’d learned about them.
“I see you’re no stranger to grouse shooting, Mr. Pinter,” Lyons called over as he, too, reloaded.
“My uncle took me a few times,” Jackson answered.
The beaters flushed the grouse. As the birds rose, he and the others fired. He hit another grouse.
They were piling up. For the competition, Stone
ville had designated a time limit of two hours. Jackson wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he would guess from the position of the sun that the end of the first hour was nearing.
Assuming he got to keep his kills, his aunt would be ecstatic over the abundance of game birds for their table. “Would that uncle be William Norris, the magistrate?” Stoneville asked Jackson as they all trudged forward again.
“Yes. His friends liked to hunt. Sometimes I went along.”
“And here I thought you only fired at people,” Celia called over from the other side of him.
“I rarely need to shoot in the course of performing my duties. But I do have to use my pistol occasionally.” He slanted a glance at her. “Unlike you, my lady, I don’t carry mine for show.”
Her cheeks pinkened, but she merely sniffed and halted to reload again. So did he.
He probably should stop tormenting her about her damned pocket pistol, but it still shook him. Powder or no powder, such a weapon could easily provoke a man to attack her.
Still, Jackson admitted that it probably wouldn’t have that effect on this lot. They didn’t seem the bullying sort, just the coax-a-woman-into-their-bed sort. As for their shooting abilities, Lyons was a good shot, but Devonmont didn’t seem to take the sport seriously. Basto was the big surprise. Clearly he’d had some experience with guns. He was deft in his loading and a decent shot, too. But he wasn’t particularly fast. He kept stealing glances at Celia that were filled with longing and perhaps desire.
Jackson didn’t like that one bit. When he gave her his report, he would emphasize the viscount’s utter unsuitability as a suitor. Devonmont’s, too.
Lyons’s unsuitability was more murky. But Jackson could still make a case against the man, and he fully intended to do so as soon as he could get her alone. Preferably in a public area where what happened between them last night couldn’t occur again.
Liar. You want to kiss her so badly you can taste it.
It was a wonder he could shoot straight with her standing so near. She’d dressed to entice again today, this time in a heavy redingote the color of the forest. It turned her hazel eyes just green enough to remind him she was a Sharpe, with the same eyes as most of them. The expensive tailoring of her wool attire, a cross between a gown and a coat, reminded him she was a lady and an heiress, especially since she’d refrained from wearing her usual smock.
He’d never seen her shoot and had assumed that her prowess must be exaggerated. It was not. He hadn’t been able to keep track of her kills while focusing on his own, but he was fairly certain the number came close to his. He noted her concentration, the care she took in aiming, the way she compensated for wind and other variables. He’d never met another woman like her. She was magnificent.
“Listen, lads,” Devonmont called out. “I’m freezing over here. Might we take a few moments to warm our blood with a bit of drink?”
“Go right ahead,” Celia said archly. “I’ll just keep shooting.”
“That’s no way to treat our guests, sis,” Stoneville chided. “We should probably move to the east field anyway—this one’s just about played out. Gentlemen—and lady—put down your guns and come have some refreshment. We’ve got wine and ale, and Cook sent out some fine things in case we got hungry, too.”
The gentlemen seemed happy to rest, but Celia looked disgruntled. Jackson hid a smile. One would think she’d leap at the opportunity to flirt with her suitors, but she was bent only on winning. He liked that about her.
The footmen quickly set up a table with plates of bread, butter, cheese, and cake. But it was the pewter mugs of ale that Jackson welcomed, needing something to heat his blood. The weather was brisk, and he noticed Celia shivering, even in her wool redingote, though she didn’t seem to notice it herself. She was preoccupied by the servants who were counting the birds in the bags to give them a report of who was ahead in the shooting.
Jackson poured her a mug of ale and walked over to hand it to her. “Drink this, my lady. It will warm you.”
“Thank you,” she murmured as she took the mug.
His fingers brushed hers, and her gaze shot up to meet his. For a long moment they stared at each other, and he was reminded of how soft her mouth had been last night, how sweet her scent as he’d backed her against that wall and—
“Lady Celia, will you have some lemon cake?” Basto asked in a hard voice that was far too possessive.
She jumped as if caught in a naughty act. Pasting a smile to her face, she strolled over to the viscount. “I would adore some, thank you,” she said without a backward glance at Jackson.
Meanwhile, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. How could she even tolerate that arse, let alone welcome his attentions? Every word out of the fellow’s mouth was prompted by a desire to gain her fortune.
But she didn’t know that yet.
“So, Gabe,” the duke said as he poured himself some wine, “after this is over, you should try out my new Manton detonator gun with the percussion caps.”
“Thanks, old chap, but Celia got one a couple of months ago. We’ve been giving it a regular try-out—I believe she’s using it today. It’s a fine gun, isn’t it, sis?”
The duke frowned. “Manton told me I was one of the first to have it.”
“One of the first,” Jackson emphasized. “It appears Lady Celia was the first.”
She shot him a warning look. He ignored it.
“What Mr. Pinter meant to say,” she said smoothly, “was that Mr. Manton probably tells all his customers that.”
“That is not what I meant to say, my lady,” Jackson retorted, unreasonably annoyed. “I said what I meant, and I’d thank you not to put words in my mouth.”
“I’d thank you not to provoke m—” She caught herself, casting a furtive glance at her listening suitors. “Forgive me, sir. I wasn’t trying to ‘put words in your mouth.’”
“Of course you were.” He was more than willing to draw her fire if it drove her into showing her real self. “That’s why you spoke as if you could read my thoughts. Which we both know you can’t.” If she could, she’d know that right now he wanted nothing more than to drag her away from these curst gentlemen and kiss every inch of her.
“I say, Pinter,” Gabe put in, “you’re awfully argumentative today.”
“The word you’re looking for is ‘prickly,’” Celia said, a militant glint in her eye. “Mr. Pinter doesn’t like having a mere woman speaking for him.”
That sparked his temper. “I don’t like having anyone, man or woman, speaking for me. I daresay you feel much the same.”
She colored but didn’t turn away, her eyes flashing at him.
“Meanwhile,” Devonmont put in, “I’ve never even heard of a percussion cap. Anyone care to enlighten me?”
Celia tore her gaze from Jackson. “How can you not have heard of it? That’s all anyone has been talking about!”
“Really?” Devonmont looked amused. “I need to go out into society more.”
“Indeed, you do,” Celia said stoutly. “Only last week at the Knightons’ affair, Lord Templemore told me that Manton now refuses to make flintlocks unless by special request. It’s astonishing!”
“Astonishing indeed,” Devonmont said with a glint of humor in his eye. “So what is a percussion cap, again?”
“Oh, you are hopeless.” She let out an exasperated breath. “I can’t believe you know so little about firearms.”
“I can’t believe you know so much,” Devonmont countered. “Never seen a woman as keen on guns as you. It’s rather chilling.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Jackson put in. “Better watch it, Devonmont. Her ladyship is liable to shoot first and ask questions later if she finds you doing anything she doesn’t approve of.”
“I may just take your caution to heart, Pinter.” Devonmont winked at Celia. “Then again, some things are worth risking life and limb for.”
Celia looked startled, then cast Jackson a smug smile. With a snort,
he drank more ale. Devonmont was really starting to irk him. They all were.
“So, Lord Devonmont,” Celia said, turning her back on Jackson, “would you like me to show you the difference between a percussion gun and a flintlock?”
“By all means,” Devonmont replied. “Though I can’t promise to remember any of it later, explain away.”
That was all the invitation she required. Carrying her new gun over, she launched into an animated description that would do a gunsmith proud.
Where the blazes had she learned so much about the subject? And why would a woman who’d been raised believing that her mother had shot and killed her father, not only learn to shoot, but embrace shooting? Had she ever seen anyone killed with a gun? Or was the process of aiming and firing merely a mechanical problem to her?
He didn’t understand that side of her at all. And somehow he felt that if he could puzzle it out, he’d find the key to who she was.
Then he happened to glance at the viscount, and his blood stilled. The viscount’s eyes followed Celia’s every move, and his finger kept stroking his goblet as if he wanted to stroke some part of her.
Jackson gritted his teeth. No way in hell was he letting that bloody foreigner—or Devonmont, or even the duke—stroke anything of hers. “Are we going to stand around all day discussing which guns are more effective at killing,” he snapped, “or are we actually going to kill something?”
Gabe exchanged a glance with his sister. “You’re right. ‘Prickly’ is the word.”
“Mr. Pinter is probably just eager to earn his kiss,” Stoneville put in. “And given how the numbers stand right now, he may very well do so.”
They all pivoted to look at his lordship.
Stoneville chuckled. “Devonmont has killed a pathetic eight brace of birds, Gabe a respectable fifteen, Basto an impressive seventeen and a half, Lyons an even more impressive nineteen, and Pinter an astonishing twenty brace. My sister is tied with him at twenty brace.”
“Good show, Pinter!” Gabe said amiably. “You must beat her so none of us have to pay for a blasted rifle.”
A Lady Never Surrenders Page 9