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Sam raised his eyebrows and stepped onto the bench on his side. He looked over the wall. Lady Emeline stood quite primly on a tree branch. He suppressed a grin and reached for her. Her eyes widened as he placed his hands about her waist, and he felt his own breath catch. “If I may?”
She nodded jerkily.
He lifted her over the wall. The old wound in his side ached as his muscles pulled under her weight, but he didn’t let his discomfort show on his face. He brought her down slowly, letting her slide a little against his chest. He was taking advantage of the situation, but he enjoyed her warmth and the scent of lemon balm, anyway. Her gaze met his as he held her for a fraction of a second with her face level with his own. Her black eyes were heavy-lidded, her color heightened. He was conscious of her quickened breath against his lips. Then he set her down.
She bent her head as she fussed with her skirts. “Thank you, Mr. Hartley.” Her voice was husky.
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
It was a good thing he’d kept his face straight, because she glanced at him sharply. She flushed a deeper pink and bit her lip. He watched her, wondering what it would be like to feel those sharp little teeth on his bare skin. She was an ornery creature. He’d wager she’d like to bite.
“Come see, M’man,” Daniel repeated impatiently.
Lady Emeline walked over to the gun and eyed it. “Very nice, I’m sure.”
“Would you like to help us oil it?” Sam asked innocently.
She shot him a warning look. “I think I’ll simply observe.”
“Ah.” Sam took the oily rag and wrapped it about the ramrod. “Shove it down the barrel good, Danny. Every inch must be oiled.”
“Yes, sir.” Daniel took the ramrod and did as instructed, his brows knit seriously.
Sam wet another rag with the oil and began rubbing it over the outside of the barrel. “My sister says that you’ll accompany us to a ball tomorrow evening, my lady.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod. “The Westerton soiree. Quite a grand event, usually. It took a bit of work to get an invitation for the two of you. Luckily, you’re something of a novelty, Mr. Hartley. Quite a few hostesses have indicated their interest on that basis alone.”
Sam ignored that. “Will Rebecca be ready for this ball in your estimation?”
“Of course.” She leaned closer, apparently peering down the barrel. Daniel still worked the ramrod. “But a smaller event would certainly be easier for her first introduction to London society.”
Sam was silent. He concentrated on the brass cheekplate on the butt of the rifle and tried to ignore the guilt worming in his stomach.
“Rebecca mentioned that you were the one to insist on that particular ball.” Her deep pink skirts brushed his knee. “I wonder why?”
EMELINE WATCHED MR. Hartley’s back stiffen. He knelt at her feet, head bent down as he gently stroked a cloth over his extraordinary gun. It was a long weapon but oddly light-looking, the barrel very narrow. The wood was a beautiful pale burl, the grain swirling all along the stock. She pursed her lips. Only a man would make a weapon so lovely. On the base was a brass plate, cut out in curls and polished to a high gleam. Mr. Hartley’s hands were large and brown against the white cloth, but they moved with a gentle, almost loving rhythm.
She looked away. The feeling of irritation—an almost physical itching on her skin—had started the moment she’d heard his voice. And the irritation had only intensified when she’d watched him over the wall. He’d taken off his coat and waistcoat—very improperly, even in the privacy of his own garden. Gentlemen never, never took off an article of clothing, except in the most extreme of circumstances. Emeline refused to believe that the rules could be any different even in the wilds of America.
So now he worked in only his shirt. The crisp, starched linen was stark white against his tan. He’d rolled up the sleeves, revealing the dark hairs on his forearms, and even though Emeline knew she was being ridiculously sensitive, she was terribly aware of those bare forearms. She longed to touch his arm, run her finger along the lean muscle there and feel the brush of those dark hairs.
Damn him!
“Was there a particular reason you chose the Westerton soiree?” she asked now in a voice that was shrewish, even to her own ears.
“No.” He still didn’t look up. His queue swung over his shoulder as he shifted to rub a different part of the gun. That, too, was annoying. The sunlight showed lighter streaks of brown in his dark hair.
Emeline narrowed her eyes at him. He gave no outward sign, but she knew he was lying to her.
“That’s enough,” Mr. Hartley said, and for a moment she thought he spoke to her.
But Daniel straightened and grinned. “Is it clean now?”
“Well and truly clean.” The colonial stood, rising so close to her that they nearly touched.
Emeline checked an impulse to step back. He was so tall. It was really quite rude of him to tower over her in such a manner.
“Now may I try it?” Daniel asked.
