Page 101 of Just Imagine
When had she gotten anything she wanted? “Are you afraid I’ll beat you?” she managed to ask.
He shrugged. “I figure there’s a pretty fair chance of it. I’m a good shot, but you’re better. I’ve known that since the night you tried to kill me when you were eighteen.”
“You knew how I’d react when you forbade me to shoot, didn’t you?”
“Maybe. Or maybe I figured that champagne you’ve been drinking has tilted the odds in my favor.”
“I wouldn’t count too much on the champagne.” It was false bravado. Although she wouldn’t admit it, she had drunk too much.
Veronica descended on them, her habitual amusement cast aside. “Why are you doing this? If this were Vienna, it would be different, but this is Charleston. Kit, you know you’ll be ostracized.”
“I don’t care.”
Veronica spun on Cain. “And you . . . how can you be a party to this?”
Her words fell on deaf ears. Will Bonnett had reappeared with his pistol case, and Kit and Cain were swept out through the back doors into the garden.
20
Despite the moonless night, the garden shone as brightly as if it were daylight. Fresh torches had been lit in the iron brackets, and kerosene lamps had been brought outside from the house. A dozen champagne bottles perched along the brick wall. Veronica noticed that only half of them were empty and gave hurried orders to the butler to replace the others. Honor might be at stake, but she wouldn’t see good champagne wasted.
The Southerners groaned when they saw the matching guns Bonnett had produced. They were the Confederate version of the Colt revolver, plain and serviceable, with walnut grips and a brass frame instead of the more expensive steel frame of the Colt. But they were heavy, designed for wartime use by a man. This was no gun for a woman.
Kit, however, was accustomed to the weight and barely noticed it as she took the gun nearest to her from the box. She inserted six of the paper cartridges Will had provided into the empty chambers of the cylinder and pulled the loading lever down each time to press them into place. Then she fitted six copper percussion caps at the other end of the cylinder. Her fingers were smaller than Cain’s, and she was done first.
The distance was marked off. They would stand twenty-five paces from their target. Each would fire six shots. Ladies first.
Kit stepped up to the line that had been scratched in the gravel. Under normal circumstances, the empty champagne bottles would have held little challenge for her, but her head swam from too many glasses of champagne.
She turned sideways to the target and lifted her arm. As she sighted through the notch and bead, she made herself forget everything except what she had to do. She pulled the trigger, and the bottle exploded.
There were surprised exclamations from the men.
She moved on to the next bottle, but her success had made her careless, and she forgot to take those extra glasses of champagne into account. She fired too quickly and just missed the second target.
Cain watched from the side as she picked off the next four bottles. His anger gave way to admiration. Five out of six, and she wasn’t even sober. Damn, but she was one hell of a woman. There was something primitive and wonderful in the way she stood silhouetted against the torch flames, her arm extended, the deadly revolver forming such marked contrast to her loveliness. If only she were more manageable. If only . . .
She lowered the revolver and turned to him, her dark brows lifting in triumph. She looked so pleased with herself that he couldn’t quite suppress a smile.
“Very nice, Mrs. Cain, although I believe you left one.”
“That’s true, Mr. Cain,” she replied with an answering smile. “Make sure you don’t leave more than one.”
He inclined his head and turned to the target.
A hush had fallen over the crowd as the men became uneasily aware of what Cain had known from the start. They had a serious match on their hands.
Cain lifted the revolver. It felt familiar in his hand, just like the Colt that had seen him through the war. He picked off the first bottle and then the second. One shot followed another. When he finally lowered his arm, all six bottles were gone.
Kit couldn’t help herself. She grinned. He was a wonderful shot, with a good eye and a steady arm.
Something tight and proud caught in her throat as she gazed at him in his formal black-and-white evening dress, the copper lights from the torches glinting in his crisp, tawny hair. She forgot about her pregnancy, she forgot her anger, she forgot everything in a rush of feeling for this difficult and splendid man.
He turned to her, his head tilted.
“Good shooting, my darling,” she said softly.
She saw the surprise on his face, but it was too late to snatch back the words. The endearment was a bedroom expression, part of a small dictionary of love words that formed the private vocabulary of their passion, words that were never to be used in any other place, at any other time, yet that was what she’d done. Now she felt naked and defenseless. To hide her emotions, she tossed her chin high and turned to the onlookers.
