“I am.” He opened the carriage door before the groom could reach it and assisted her inside. Once they were settled on the squabs and the carriage was moving, he elaborated. “There is a spot just up ahead. We’ll stop there.”
Those wide brown eyes stared at him so solemnly, as though he might jump across the seat and bite her. He turned his attention to the window, watching the familiar scenery roll past, hating that she would look at him with such apprehension and yet knowing it was for the best. There could be no comfort or familiarity between them. That could lead to only one thing.
They drove for several more moments before he heard himself saying, “Tell me, Anna. In your limited recollections, do you think it a habit of yours to spy on people?”
She cleared her throat. “Lady Winningham led me to the nursery. I did not mean—I did not know—” She sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry. I should not have pried.”
He had suspected Paget motivated the encounter, and to hear Anna say as much made him feel wretched for taking out his frustration on her. She was as much a victim of Paget’s machinations as he.
“I suppose we must count ourselves fortunate that I did not startle and drop Brand.” He smiled to show that he was teasing.
A grin of relief brightened her features, and he almost regretted his levity. She was far too lovely when she smiled like that. And he was far too weak to resist her. He turned his attention to the window and stared out.
When they stopped minutes later, he helped her down and led her from the road into the trees.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I didn’t want you to walk too far on your leg. There’s a spot ahead where I used to target practice with my brothers and father.”
Anna stared at her feet as she walked. “Thank you.”
She was always thanking him. Almost as though she didn’t know kindness or consideration. As though she didn’t know love. He drew a deep breath at the notion, marveling that someone like her shouldn’t have been loved before. It troubled him far more than he liked. She deserved love.
He slid his hand from her elbow and down her arm, catching her fingers in his. Her smaller hand felt good, and he longed to strip the glove from his hand so he could feel the sensation of skin on skin.
The grass was taller, whispering against her skirts and the fabric of his trousers as they walked.
“Jamie said there should be targets there.”
She glanced up at him. Sunlight ribboned through the tree branches overhead, dappling her features in shadow and light. “Do you have a pistol?”
He patted his jacket where the weight of it rested. “Always.”
“You always wear one?” She lifted her legs high as she walked, almost as though she sought to step over the grass that came to her knees.
“Mostly. Not at home. But always when traveling.”
“And why is that? Is England not civilized?”
“It’s shocking how quickly one can step outside civilization.” He thought of their picnic. That scenario could quickly have twisted into something lacking all civility. Something ugly. He’d seen the savagery in the eyes of those men.
“Do you think danger lurks at every turn?” There was no judgment in her voice, just a faint curiosity as she flicked her gaze at him before staring ahead again.
“It can.” He stopped as they reached the three trees tangled close together that he and his brothers had used to hold various pieces of glass for target practice over the years. He dropped her hand and moved to the trees to position five of the glasses Jamie had left on the ground.
Returning to her side, he said, “Perhaps more importantly for this discussion is what you think.”
She looked up at him, her smooth forehead furrowed. “I know it does. You can never be too prepared.”
Staring into those radiant eyes, he knew she was speaking from experience. A history she wasn’t ready to share with him. Perhaps she never would. Perhaps she would be gone from his life before he ever had a chance to know the mystery behind the shadows in her eyes.
He reached inside his jacket and removed his revolver. “Then let us better prepare you, shall we?”
He motioned her closer, and then tried to ignore the sweet scent of her as he pointed out the different parts of the weapon, including how to load the balls into the chamber and cock the hammer when ready to fire.
Handing it to her, he instructed her on how to hold it and aim. “Understand?”
“Yes.”
Despite her response, she sounded nervous, and the revolver dipped as if too heavy for her hands.
“Why don’t we do the first one together?” He stepped behind her. With a tug, he pulled her flush against him, his chest aligned to her back. Even tense as a board, she fit him perfectly. He pressed his cheek alongside hers, sliding his hands over the length of her stretched arms until his hands reached her wrists. His fingers circled the delicate bones there. He felt her pulse through his gloves.
Struggling to focus, he squinted and followed her line of fire. “Are you aiming at the middle bottle?”
“Yes,” she breathed, still sounding nervous.
“Good. You’re spot on.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. Try not to jerk your arms when you squeeze the trigger. Go ahead and pull back the hammer,” he encouraged. “Fire when ready.”
She cocked the hammer and after a very long moment in which he savored the closeness of their bodies she squeezed the trigger. Her body jerked, but he absorbed the force into himself. She released a small gasp as the ball flew loose and struck the tree. Bits of bark flew at the contact.
“Not bad. You shifted your aim low when you fired. Hold your arms steady and try it again.”
She fired again, this time shattering the glass. She laughed, delighted. He moved around her, staring down at her flushed face.
“I hit it, Owen!”
“Very good. There are three more in the chamber. Want to try it alone this time?”
She nodded enthusiastically.
He stepped back, giving her space.
“Steady arms,” he reminded her, watching as she squared off to aim. “Remember not to jerk them when you fire.” She breathed some quiet words of affirmation as her face screwed tight into a look of intense concentration. It was adorable.
A loud pop cracked on the air. She jumped slightly but shattered another bottle.
He whistled. “Impressive. We might have discovered a marksman in you.”
She flushed.
“Again?” he asked.
She nodded and fired again, her body falling back a step from the recoil. He didn’t have to suggest she fire the fifth shot. She stepped forward, set her chin at a determined angle, locked her arms, and fired the last ball.
She hit the final bottle.
“You’re a natural.” She still wore that grin on her face. It was infectious. He felt himself smile. “How do you feel?”
She angled her head, studying the shards of glass marring the ground. “Surprised.”
“That you’re a good shot?”
She nodded.
“Just remember, if you ever have to do this in reality, stay calm. You may only get off one shot. You want to make it count. It might be your only chance. You can’t miss.”
She faced him and offered him the revolver. He shook his head. Pulling out his pouch, he shook five balls into his palm and held them out to her. “Once more. And why don’t you load?”
Nodding, she copied his earlier movements and carefully loaded the chamber.
“We’re out of bottles.”
“So call your shots.”
She hesitated before peering intently at the tangled trio of trees. “Third tree on the right. Bottom half of the trunk.”
Then she fired, hitting the third tree in
the vicinity she had just predicted.
“Excellent,” he praised.
She fired the remaining four shots, if not spot on, then remarkably close.
Afterward, Anna turned to face him, beaming, and his heart squeezed to see her so happy, so triumphant. If nothing else, this had been an excellent exercise for her self-esteem.
“Is this what it’s always like?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “What’s it like?”
“Marvelous.” She scrunched her nose, evidently seeking a better description. “Empowering.”
He frowned. It had been a long time since he’d ever felt exhilarated when firing a revolver or rifle. He fought the tide of dark thoughts. He didn’t want to mar the brightness of this moment for her.
“Once, yes. It was like that.”
Her smile slipped and she considered him for a moment. “But no longer,” she replied, far too perceptive.
Owen collected his revolver from her, busying his hands. “I think that’s enough for the day. You have the idea. The revolver is yours to keep. I’ll give you the case when we return to Town.”
He felt her still beside him and lifted his gaze to her face.
“You’re giving it to me?” She blinked.
He nodded. “I’ll feel better knowing you have it. When you’re gone.” Something in him sank as he uttered those words. He told himself it was simply concern for her out there alone in the world. Nothing more than that.
The brightness faded from her eyes. “You’ve done so much for me. Thank you.”
Although she didn’t sound grateful.
Together, they walked. This time he did not hold her hand. He touched her only to assist her into the carriage.
“I said the wrong thing, didn’t I?” she asked. “Earlier?”
At her question, he faced her, bewildered. He didn’t think this woman could ever say the wrong thing. She spoke with her heart. “What are you talking about?”
“Firing a gun. It’s not marvelous for you, is it?”
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t care for what I am,” he admitted. “What the war turned me into.”
“And what’s that?”
He simply stared at her, unwilling to say it. It had been said before.
“Oh. That’s right.” She nodded slowly. “A killer.”
He didn’t protest.
She continued, “Isn’t that what a soldier is?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Has it occurred to you that you’re doing a disservice to those who lost their lives? Your fellow comrades?”
He tensed, his ire sparking to life. “What are you saying?”
“They’re dead. You are not. Should you not live to honor them? As your brother is doing?”
“You sound like Paget.”
“Perhaps she’s right.”
“Marrying and begetting children will not fix me or erase the things I’ve done.”
“And what is it you’ve done that any other soldier has not?”
“Don’t you understand?” He moved across the carriage to sit beside her. “I don’t care what other soldiers have done. I only care about my actions.”
“And what did you do?”
He turned to the window, studying the tiny motes of dust dancing on the thin stream of light pouring into the shadowy confines of the carriage. “I was a sharpshooter. They gave me assignments. I would sneak into villages, enemy camps, and kill men before they even had a chance to arm themselves. Sometimes they sat at a fire, sipping their coffee, and I ended their lives. One man I executed sat at dinner beneath a tent. There were women at that table with him. Children. And I put a ball straight through his head. When I close my eyes, I still hear their screams.”
He was lost in the recollection until the brush of Anna’s hand on his face brought him back. She cupped his cheek with a tenderness he did not deserve. He snatched hold of her wrist, squeezing the delicate bones. “Do not comfort me.”
“What shall I do then?” she whispered. “Pretend I don’t care?”
“I don’t want you to care. You shouldn’t care.”
Her gaze scanned his face. “Too late,” she whispered, and firmly pressed her lips to his.
He didn’t move for a long moment, didn’t respond to the pressure of those lips on his. Her hands slid around his neck, her fingers toying lightly in the strands of his hair.
He could not resist. With a groan, he hauled her against him and kissed her like a man starved.
Anna sighed into his mouth, releasing a tiny sound of satisfaction that he swallowed deep inside himself. His fingers went for her hair, the silken strands overflowing in his hands.
They strained against each other awkwardly, side by side on the squabs, trying to touch more, taste more. Frustrated, unable to get enough of her, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. Her legs straddled him, knees coming down on either side of his hips on the seat. His hands closed on her thighs and pulled her closer until he felt the heat of her through her skirts.
He tore his lips from her. “Is your leg all right this way?”
“Yes,” she gasped, her eyes bright and wild in the shadowy interior of the carriage. “Don’t stop.” She pulled his head roughly back down to hers. Their lips collided fiercely. Her hands tangled in his hair.
He gripped her hips, guiding her into a rocking motion against him. His hands skimmed over her waist to her rib cage. He cupped her breasts, relishing the sound of her muffled cry against his lips.
He felt the aroused beads of her nipples through the fabric of her gown. Her hands clenched in his hair as he dragged his thumbs across them.
Pulling back, he watched her tremble on his lap, head thrown back, lovely throat arched. Smiling, he chafed and plucked at her nipples until she shuddered over him, grinding down on his hardness with a keening cry.
Groaning, he dove a hand into her hair and hauled her back, kissing her harshly. She whimpered into his mouth and he softened his kiss, tracing her mouth with his tongue. He loved that sound. Could spend nights listening to it, to all the sounds she made as he explored her body.
He dragged his lips to her jaw, trailing his tongue down over the stretched cords until he came to her hammering pulse. He gently nipped there at her neck and then followed with his tongue, licking and sucking until she trembled against him. All the while the delicious weight of her breasts filled his palms.
Anna pulled back this time, staring down at him with eyes that glowed, lit from a fire within. Her hair spilled loose all around her, and he reached up, burying his hands in it, trying to pull her back down to him, eager to taste her again.
She withheld herself, staring at him with those eyes that reached inside him and touched some forgotten part. “Owen.”
His name brushed over him like a caress. He trailed his thumb over her lips, tracing the lush shape, imagining the sweet torment of her mouth roaming over him.
She kissed his thumb, open-mouthed. Her moist breath fanned the pad of his finger, and he couldn’t stop himself from sliding his thumb inside the warm cavity of her mouth. She took him in, sucked, and his gut tightened.
She pulled back slightly, his thumb resting on her bottom lip. “I need you.”
Her words jarred something inside him, doused him in cold reality. Because while she might want him, he was the last thing she needed.
He expelled a ragged breath. Closing his hands around her waist, he set her on the seat across from him.
She blinked. “Owen?” Her voice vibrated with bewilderment.
“I can’t do this, Anna.” He couldn’t take her inside a carriage like she was some wench accustomed to a quick, meaningless tup.
She began to hastily tidy her hair, pulling the mass into a clumsy knot. “I understand.”
> He wanted to ask precisely what she understood, but she babbled ahead without waiting for a reply.
“ ’Twas a moment’s madness. Nothing more.”
Is that what she thought? That they had suffered some fleeting lapse in control? That he had not wanted her yesterday? That he still did not? That he would not tomorrow?
He bit back an ugly oath. He wanted her so desperately his body shook from the near pain of it. He closed his eyes in one hard blink and managed to speak in an even voice.
“Yes. Nothing more.”
Chapter Twenty
Annalise hesitated before the door to the dress shop. She looked up and down the sidewalk, grateful at the dearth of shoppers this early in the day yet. It wasn’t Bond Street, thankfully. She wouldn’t have allowed herself to be seen there, but this shop seemed obscure enough. The risk of bumping into someone who knew her would not be too great at this shop. Not that Bloodsworth would be strolling about anywhere so early in the day. He rarely rose before noon.
A bell chimed as Owen opened the door for her.
She glanced at him. “Why are we doing this again?”
“Come now.” He motioned to her ill-fitting gown. “The least we can do is procure clothes for you that properly fit. Yes?”
She grasped a handful of burgundy skirts. The gown was too large, like all her rest. She couldn’t ever recall finding a dress too large before. The fabric sagged around her waist and torso and the skirts were much too voluminous. Mrs. Kirkpatrick had fetched a maid to hem the bottom, to save herself from tripping, but Annalise knew she could have done better work herself. The hem was uneven and sloppy. All in all, she looked a bit of a mess. A fact Owen had clearly noticed.
He gestured her inside. The proprietress moved forward expectantly, eager to serve.
Annalise hesitated in the threshold. “You needn’t put yourself to such trouble.”
He looked down at her, his expression once again stoic. He failed in any way to resemble the man who had kissed her so passionately in the carriage yesterday. In those moments, his eyes had been full of brightness, of life. Hunger for her.
When he looked at her now, there was nothing there. He scanned her perfunctorily. “I’d say perhaps any trouble would be worth it. Necessary, even.”
How to Lose a Bride in One Night Page 17