Callum smirked as the earl let his head drop. “Lady St. James,” Valebrook grated out, “as I said thrice before, this is a shooting competition. With pistols. There will be. No. Cannons.”
“I’m hard of hearing, not stupid, my boy.” Her brows knit, bringing to mind two snowy caterpillars racing towards each other. “Trebuchets?”
“Why don’t you speak with Mr. Hawthorne?” Valebook threw Callum a desperate glance before tugging him into the elderlywoman’s direct sight. “He might build you a trebuchet if you ask nicely.”
Now it was Valebrook’s turn to smirk, and Callum felt the odd desire to impress the old woman with his expertise. “Ye see, a trebuchet transfers gravitational potential energy into kinetic energy—”
“Gah, none of that.” She waved her arms around, cutting him off. “If I wanted a university lecture, I’d talk to my grandniece.” Her gaze narrowed as she tilted her head to examine his legs. “Although if read me some romantic poetry in a kilt, I might be interested—”
“Thereyou are, Aunt Margaret!” Violet skidded to a stop beside them and slid her arm around her aunt’s elbow.
Callum attempted to ignore the tension sliding off his shoulders at her arrival. He hadn’t seen her since the previous night, when he’d lost all pretense of composure with her beneath him on the table, her gorgeous legs spread for him, her arousal coating his fingers as he pushed her towards, but not quite through, climax. Knowing he’d left her wanting galled him; despite the transitory nature of his past affairs, he’d derived more pleasure from seeing a woman to completion than in reaching his own. He’d had to take himself in hand when he returned to his room after depositing Aunt Margaret in the chamber she shared with her niece. Had Violet put her hands between those luscious thighs and thought of him?
Was there any chance he could ask her without her aunt crippling him with a thwack of her cane?
“I didn’t think you’d be coming today, what with all the walking,” Violet said to her aunt.
The woman stomped her cane, and Violet jumped aside to avoid losing a toe. “Of course I was coming. Barney helped me.”
The last sentence emerged as a drawl, and Violet tilted her head. “Barney?”
Aunt Margaret’s thin lips spread in a wicked grin. “That—” she pointed her cane towards a burly young footman holding a basket stuffed with wine bottles, “—is my Barney.”
Violet stuttered as the man in question twiddled his fingers in her direction, and Callum smothered a laugh. “Why is heyour—”
“Lady St. James, Violet, have ye seen the course yet?” Callum asked.
Violet’s eyes shone with gratitude. “No, would you explain it?”
He exhaled, trying to recall what Valebrook had explained before he suffered an attack by walking stick. “Each of us has a target.” Callum raised his pistol and showed the purple ring painted around the end of the barrel. “If we hit our target, we progress to the next one. If anyone is remains at the end, we shoot to see who can be closest to the bullseye.”
“How many targets are there?” Violet lifted onto her toes and scanned the field as though she wanted to count for herself. She’d have a tough go of it; whoever had set up the event had used the rolling landscape to their advantage, tucking targets around bends and even up in trees. He hoped Valebook had generously compensated whomever on his staff handled that task.
“Eight, I believe.” It might be ten or thirty, because he wasn’t paying attention, not now that the sun pushed through the clouds so he could see Violet’s entire dress in the full sun. The day was the warmest they’d had so far, and she wore a yellow jacket and skirt that looked like sunlight had been poured over her. Little puffs of lace framed her sleeves and neckline, and a matching hat topped with purple flowers perched on her dark curls. Violets, if he wasn’t mistaken.
He smiled, despite himself, and wondered if she’d like a posy of violets, or if she’d think it cliché. Would she prefer peonies, or daffodils to match her dress, or—
When in the hell had he become a man who wanted to bring a womanflowers?
“Sounds difficult.” She looked up and her whisky eyes sparkled. There was the green again, like the first blooms of spring growing in fresh earth. “Aunt Margaret,” she said, turning to the woman by her side, “could you ask Barney to set out the blanket we packed? I’ll join you in a moment.”
Margaret spun, rather adroitly for a woman thrice his age, and waved her arm high over her head. “Oh, Barney, darling! Ineedyou!”
Violet pressed her lips together, the edges digging into her cheeks as she stifled her laughter.
Callum leaned in. “Should I be worried about Barney’s virtue?”
“Probably.” Her grin escaped and sent warmth blossoming from his ribs like flowers on a vine. “The poor man has no idea what lies ahead.”
“I’ll keep him in my prayers.”
They walked for a moment in silence, the long grasses reaching up to tickle their legs as songbirds skimmed across the surface. White and yellow daisies pushed their heads past the tips of the grass, as though fighting for their chance in the sunlight. Violet extended one hand, letting her fingertips tease the petals as she passed.
Good lord, he was jealous of flowers now.
Perhaps she wouldn’t mention what had happened the night before.If we only have tonight, then make it real. But they’d been interruptedagain—he was growing exceedingly tired of interruptions—and now they had another night, another chance. But would it be for ruination, or for something more?
Did hewantsomething more?
