Page 47 of The Scot Beds His Wife
“Don’t be cute. It’s just the hard truth.”
Aye. And the longer she touched him, theharderit truly was.
“Also,” she continued. “Your aim is more accurate if you face what you’re shooting at.” She moved behind him and put her hands on his hips, nudging him to square off with the targets.
He pressed his lips together, staving off a groan. “I’m a big target, lass, I turn sideways to make myself smaller should someone be shooting at me.”
“Anyone shooting at you now?” She released his hips and stepped around him, a level expression feathering her gaunt features.
“Nay, but I’ve learned to keep my watch up around ye in that regard.” Dammit, why did she refuse to smile? He thought he’d die of old age before he saw her blush, and here she was pink as an autumn sunset, but still refusing to smile.
“Well, you have my gun so I’m trusting you to be a gentleman.”
Big mistake.
“Show me how to stand, again? Like so?” he asked, all innocence and absorption. His forward directionpurposely atrocious, his boots together. His arm bent at a shameful angle.
“You really are bad at this.” There it was. At least the ghost of a smile. She adjusted his position again, this time from the front. Kicking her boot between his. “Part your legs,” she ordered. “And bend your knees a little.”
He swallowed around a tongue gone suddenly dry. “Generally speaking, bonny, those are commands given by me.”
She snorted, but the unladylike sound was close enough to a laugh that he decided it counted. “Just when I was beginning to think you weren’t as much of a pig as I’d initially assumed.”
He grunted out a sound of amusement—for her benefit—as she moved out of the way and motioned to the targets. Concentrating, he inhaled, and squeezed the trigger four more times. Three of the four targets pinged his triumph.
He’d have hit the fourth one, if she hadn’t bent over to pick up her bandana in those fucking trousers.
His dry mouth watered.
Turning around, she caught him staring, and slapped him on the arm with her dusty bandana. “You talk all this nonsense about separating yourself from a tainted Mackenzie legacy—”
“It’s not nonsense.”
“Then why insist on being such a hooligan?” she challenged. “I heard of your boudoir scandals and shenanigans long before I even made it to the Highlands. You’re infamous in your own right.”
He decided, now that he’d established a certain length of trust between them, he might give honesty a longer attempt. “I look at it this way… I’m adjusting my expectations for a satisfied life.”
“How’s that?” She reached for her pistol, and he caught her palm in his.
“If I put out my hand for a drink, a gun, or a woman to fuck, my hand is always full… my expectations always met and my life a merry one. But what do ye suppose happens when I reach for something more? For honor. For justice. For truth. For understanding or love…”
She only thought about it for a beat, examining her small fingers wrapped in his with undue exactitude. “You’re always reaching.”
“With an eternally empty hand.” He opened her palm, and placed the handle of the pistol inside it.
She turned away, but not before he caught the bleakness twisting her features.
Wanting to fill the emptiness.His. Hers.Gavin reached for her, pulled her back against him, and brushed his cheek against the downy hair at the crown of her head.
“I am glad we made peace, bonny…”
“Just because we’re not at war, doesn’t mean we’ve made peace.” As she said this she expelled a sigh that could have been composed of eternities and relaxed against his chest in slow, careful increments.
“If ye sell Erradale to me, ye’ll not be breaking yer vow. I’ll no longer be a Mackenzie. I swear it. Perhaps ye can stay here and—”
Her body made a heave, a little like a cough but not quite. She clamped her hands over her mouth, as though to hold in a sob.
“I’ve hadenoughof the empty promises of charming, beautiful men!” she hissed through her fingers. Wrenching out of his hold, she sprinted for the estate, her hand firmly holding back whatever wanted to escape her lips.
