Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

He stalked after her, only to catch her up at the third target. This one had been set thirty yards away on the top of a hill; the elevation difference was supposed to add difficulty. This time, when he took the position, she came to stand next to him.

“You’re thinking too much,” she told him. “I’m sure that if you had pencil and paper you could calculate the precise angle at which you should shoot. But your body is smarter than your mind. It knows what needs to be done. Trust it.”

Heat broke around him once more. His body knew exactly what it wanted to be doing right now, and it had nothing to do with shooting bullets at targets. He wanted to tear her rifle from her hands and let it fall to the ground. He wanted to wrap his arms around her. He wanted to crush her frame against his. This welter of heat had nothing to do with anger. This wasn’t fury. It was passion.

Stupidly, he groped for some semblance of peace. Calm. But his body was having none of that. He was painfully, horribly excited. He turned away from her and fought for nothingness. He hadn’t tried to solve mathematical problems since his days in Oxford, but it seemed like a good idea now. If Newtonian physics couldn’t break through this arousal, he wasn’t sure what could. If a bullet fired from the muzzle at a velocity of one hundred feet per second, at an angle of fifteen degrees, traveling over thirty yards and a substantial incline…then Mrs. Farleigh was still going to be standing next to him, gorgeous and capable and telling him that he could do better.

He fired.

She shook her head. “Too much thinking.”

Too much thinking of the wrong sort. Now that the image of holding her was lodged in his head, he could not banish it. He did not trust himself to speak, not even to say a word when she once again hit the center of the target. He flubbed the fourth station entirely, missing the target altogether.

She simply shook her head once more. “You can do better.”

That wave of heat—sheer arousal—crested and crashed around him. It was white-hot desire. He couldn’t have explained what was happening or why. But her breaths lifted her chest more rapidly. She looked at him—taunting, yes, but playful. And…and… Oh, dear. He was undone. Because her pupils were wide, her tongue touching her lips. If he reached for her, she wouldn’t flinch.

“I did tell you I was an indifferent shot,” he growled.

“A fine excuse.” She turned and disappeared into the track through the woods. The last target was down by the water, half obscured by branches and a fallen tree that had been overgrown by ivy. He wasn’t sure he could hit this target when he was calm. Now, it seemed altogether out of the question.

“You need to let instinct take you forward.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Truth.”

His hands clenched as he loaded his weapon. “Even if it were true, I’ve had no opportunity to practice, to hone that instinct—”

“More excuses. I won’t hear them, Sir Mark. I make you a wager. Defeat me on this last target, and I’ll let you kiss me.”

He should have stopped to think. But on those words—kiss me—logical discourse dropped from Mark’s mind, disappearing as the blood rushed from his head. He couldn’t think, couldn’t imagine anything except the soft touch of her lips on his, the palms of his hands about her, her body strained flush against him. He wanted to pick her up and hold her against a tree. He wanted to taste her.

And so it was not thought that made him turn from her, made him approach the flag that marked thirty paces from the target. He did not think as he raised the rifle to his shoulder, did not contemplate as he focused on the bull’s-eye. He just squeezed the trigger. Black powder and sulfur surrounded him in an acrid haze. His arm ached from the force of the recoil.

The cloud cleared, and they strode forward.

Somehow, he’d hit the bull’s-eye—barely nicking the dark edge of it, true, but the best shot he’d made all afternoon. Perhaps it was coincidence.

Perhaps it wasn’t. He swallowed and looked at her. He could almost taste success, sweet and smelling of black-powder smoke.

She didn’t say anything. Instead, she turned and paced back to the flag. He followed. It was only now, watching the curve of her backside, the languid sway of her stride, that sanity began to trickle back.

She could beat his shot easily; he’d seen her do it three times in a row.

But did she want to?

Did he want her to? No. And yes. He didn’t want it to happen like this. He didn’t want to kiss her because he’d lost his temper. He certainly didn’t want her to grant him a kiss because she ceded him the win out of pity. He didn’t want her to make herself small for him.

She waited until he stood behind her before raising her rifle, and then she fired in one fluid movement. She didn’t look at him as she walked forward. She must already know the outcome.

He didn’t want her to shoot to miss—not for any reason, not at all.

She stopped at the target. There, embedded clearly in the center, was her shot.

She’d beaten him.