Pennington hesitated, then laughed. “Get your head straight, Hawthorne.” He lifted his pistol and took aim at the target. The crowd stilled. “You can do business with men like me, or you can play at defending a woman who means nothing. Your choice.”
From the tepid reaction of the spectators, Callum didn’t have to look to know the man’s shot had landed away from the bullseye, but was still on the target. Pennington turned to Callum with a knowing smirk. “If you’ve come to play the game, you need to play by our rules.”
The pistol felt heavy in his hand, the metal warm from his touch. His eyes cut to where Violet stood, her entire body tensed, then to the target.
The pulse pounding in his ears nearly drowned out the sound of the pistol firing, the cheers of the spectators, Pennington’s huff of defeat. Callum didn’t wait to see where his shot had landed; he dropped the smoking pistol into the waiting footman’s hand and stormed across the field, tall grass snagging at the wool of his trousers.
Violet’s eyes widened at his approach, her lips parting as she pulled in a breath when he came close. “Callum—”
“I need to speak with you,” he rasped. She’d barely nodded when he took her hand, tugging her away from the gawking guests and behind a copse of trees and thick forsythia, the green buds and yellow blooms blocking them from view.
He backed her against a wide beech tree and planted his hands on either side of her head.
“Callum,” she whispered, her eyes searching his face. “What’s happened?”
She had a way of seeing through him, like she could pierce to the very heart of him with a single strike, but he wasn’t afraid of the cut. His words rushed out, beyond his control. “I’m going to kiss you. But not to ruin you.”
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, but her brows furrowed. “Why, then?”
Because the world is cruel. Because you’ve been treated unfairly.
Because whatever is happening between us terrifies me, but I can’t walk away.
“Because I want to.”
He leaned in, but she lifted her palms, pressed them to his chest. “Not now,” she breathed. “We’ll be seen.”
“Isn’t that the point of all this?”
She shook her head, her lips parting, but footsteps approached, murmurs breaking through the rushing in his ears.
Violet stepped close, rose on her toes to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. “I don’t want this to be over yet,” she whispered before turning away, catching her aunt by the elbow as the woman stalked towards them, with Barney trailing behind. “I’m awfullytired, Aunt Margaret,” she said, tossing a glance over her shoulder. “Can I walk you back?”
Aunt Margaret let out awhoopas her niece spun her around and began dragging her back through the field. Barney gave him a knowing look before trotting away behind the women.
Callum watched their retreating figures until they were indistinguishable in the distant trees and his chest had filled with a strange sensation, one he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Something like hope.
Chapter 22
“Hello?”
Violet’s voice echoed in the cavernous space, ricocheting off the glass roof tile floor before her. She’d never seen a swimming pool indoors before, and she approached with caution, sliding her slippers as though the ground might give way at any moment.
The rhythmic slap of water became clearer as the pool came into view, and her entire body stilled at the sight. Callum’s form moved with remarkable grace, waves sluicing past his body in symmetrical ripples as his long arms stretched and pulled, his legs churning up wake behind him. The muscles of his bare back strained and bunched, but there was something effortless about his movement, like he belonged in the water and time spent on land was bizarre. He reached the edge where she stood and stopped, righted himself, and pushed his wet hair off his face.
Oh.Oh.
After touching him, knowing how little effort it took for him to lift and hold her, she shouldn’t have been surprised by what she saw before her. In fact, any self-respecting woman would be ashamed at how she gawked at the broad spread of muscles across his chest, the planes of his abdomen that narrowed at his waist, the coarse, dark hair between his pectorals the only thing that kept him from resembling a marble sculpture of a Greek god. She allowed herself a moment to study him, trailing her eyes down to where his body disappeared below the water, and—
Drat. He was wearing swimming trousers.
“Violet.” He drawled her name, and when she yanked her focus to his face,he smirked. “What are ye doing here?”
Words, Violet. Stop looking at his chest and use words.“Weren’t you expecting me?”
“No, honestly. I thought ye’d make an excuse to avoid yer lesson.” His gaze dragged over the heavy quilted robe she’d borrowed from Aunt Margaret. She’d tugged the lumpy fabric over her thin chemise, then knotted it tight and buttoned it up to her neck. Despite resembling a rolled carpet with feet, she felt bared to him.
