He wrapped his hand around hers and pumped once in agreement. He leaned down to meet her eye, close enough to see each individual lash, a shade darker than her hair. “Prepare to get wet, Miss Waverly.”
He was so caught up in thoughts of her lithe body with him in the water, her scandalized gasp still echoing in his ears, that when he turned away, he tripped over a root and nearly upended himself.
Violet laughed and called out. “Perhaps my aunt can lend you her cane?”
He chuckled. Perhaps he should have told her he’d spent hours at school practicing his shooting alongside boxing, a handy skill when you’re either being picked on or defending your cousin. Or that, once given a challenge, he never backed down.
He gave her a long look before stepping up to the line while the rest of the men postured and fiddled with their pistols. He barely glanced at the target before he fired, drawing shocked gasps and murmurs of approval from the entire field. A footman, unlucky enough to be responsible for judging, ran out to inspect the target, but Callum didn’t wait before reloading.
“Bullseye!” the footman cried, and the guests cheered and applauded.
Callum caught Violet’s eye; she clapped politely, her brow raised, then winked.
She may as well have tackled and mounted him in the middle of the field for how his body reacted.
The next five targets felled all but four men, and Callum eyed his competition with open disdain. One of the Lordlings, a bloke whose nickname was inexplicably Pigeon, had proven an above-average shot, as had the smarmy Lord Pennington and a gentleman called Hugo. Callum did not know the last well, but every encounter he’d had with the man left him eager to bathe himself in scalding water to wash off the experience.
“Is this what you Scotsmen do all day, Hawthorne?” Pennington jabbed as Callum reloaded his pistol.
He raised a single brow. “Aye. We spend the days shooting at bottles of whisky while playing the bagpipes in kilts.”
Pennington held for a beat, and Callum could practically hear the gears turning in his head before he guffawed. “Clever, very clever, and from what Valebrook has said, you use that mind to make him a lot of money. I’ve been considering tossing some of my funds your way.”
A rush of adrenaline pumped in his veins, followed promptly by a kick of doubt. He’d hate to be beholden to an arse like Pennington, but his coin spent as well as the next bloke’s. “Aye, I do fine.”
Pigeon—God help him—nodded as though he were privy to Taggart Martime’s accounts ledger. Thank Christ he wasn’t. “I’ll be in touch when I’m sure your little business is solvent.”
“Do ye mean when your da gives ye yer allowance?” Callum muttered, lining up and firing. Bullseye.
Pigeon puffed and stammered, but Pennington chortled and calmed him with a hand to the chest. “Easy, Pidge. You’ll have to forgive our Scottish friend. He must be cross after having to spendthe day working.” Pennington said the last word like employment was a moral failure before lining up. He hit his target, inches from the center.
Hugo, mercifully, chortled but said nothing as he lined up and fired, glancing the target but taking enough off to qualify as a hit.
The four men tromped through the brush to line up for the next target, watching as a pair of footmen climbed on a ladder to take down all but four targets tacked on a tree branch. “Valebrook told me this venture of yours is risky,” Hugo said, and Callum stiffened. “He doesn’t ordinarily take risks.”
“It’s no’ risky when I ken what I’m doing.”
Pigeon snickered. “Ken. He can barely speak English, how can he—”
“Shut it, Pigeon, and take your shot,” Pennington snapped.
The Lordling, seeming rattled by the chastisement, shot wide enough to send the footman scampering for cover. Hugo and Pennington chortled as he glowered and stormed to the side of the field where the rest of the guests had assembled.
Violet was there, he knew, watching. He’d seen the yellow slash of her dress following along with the shooters, like a ray of sunshine meant solely for him. She’d be watching now, nibbling on that lower lip that would soon be his, her fingers twisting at the waist of her skirt. He hazarded a glance in her direction, and their eyes met, held for a moment before she turned away, bowing her head with a coy smile.
Hugo and Pennington must have fired already, because somewhere in his mind he registered the sound of gunfire and the bellowof his name, but he was too busy watching the sunlight spilling over her skin, the sway of her hips as she walked to stand beside Trembly. Callum refocused and took his shot without hesitation, not waiting for the footman’s confirmation of a bullseye before reloading and walking towards the next and final target.
“You have your sights on the Waverly chit?” Pennington stood just behind him, his thin lips twisted into a smirk.
Callum grumbled in response, his tongue heavy in his mouth.
Hugo chuckled. “She’s been around.”
“What do ye mean?” Callum didn’t have to ask. The sick glimmer in the man’s eye when he dropped those three words said enough.
Hugo put up his hands in a defensive posture. “Nothing, I simply wanted to warn you, since you haven’t spent much time with our set.”
“I dinnae need warning.”
