Page 61 of Heart of Iron
He shuddered, eyes closed, fighting something she didn’t understand.“Can’t.”He tore away from her, red heat flushing his cheeks.The look he shot her was dark, dangerous.Hungry.Slowly he shook his head.“Even this should never have happened.”
He might as well have stabbed her in the heart.
“You wanted me,” she whispered.
“What I want and what I should do ain’t the same.”He ran his hands over his head, disheveling the neat queue.Strands of thick honey-gold cascaded around his face, caressing the stark cheekbones.
The denial rocked her.As if in mockery, her pulse raced through her veins, something hot and heavy throbbing between her thighs.Her body had not realized what the rest of her had.
“Why?”
“Because I’m verwulfen, Lena.”
“I don’t care.You know I don’t care—”
Will caught her wrists.“I do.”
Everything she’d ever feared.Heat flushed behind her eyes and she turned her face away.This had turned into one of the most horrendous nights she’d ever had.
“Let go of me,” she said.
Moments ticked by.Then he let her go and stepped away.Finally some space to breathe.Swallowing hard, she forced her tears back and clutched at her ruined gloves.“You may as well return to the ball,” she said.“You have a job to do.I’ll find my way to the carriage.”
“Lena—”
“I’d rather you went back.I want to go home.”Wherever that might be.“To Waverly Place.”
Unable to bear his presence anymore, she pushed past in a flurry of skirts and made her escape.
Thirteen
The shop bell chimed.
The man behind the counter looked up, his smile paling somewhat when he saw who stood there.A mercenary gaze raked over Will’s workman’s shirt and leather trousers.“May I help you, sir?”
The display cases gleamed in the weak sunlight.Row upon row of pistols filled the cases.In the corner was another case with less common forms of weaponry; a gilded crossbow, meant for a lady; a handheld mace; even a pair of leather fingerless gloves, with razors cut into the back of them.One punch and you’d kill a man with them.Will looked at them lingeringly, then pushed toward the pistols.He wasn’t here for himself.
“I’m after a pistol,” he said.“Somethin’ dainty.”
The shop owner’s eyebrows lifted.“Something like that won’t come cheap.”
Without looking at him, Will tossed him a purse.It bounced on the counter, heavy coins clinking together.“Weren’t expectin’ it to.”
He leaned on the counter, splaying his hands wide as he examined the contents.A heavy derringer, a German-made M1879Reichsrevolver, a steam-firing pistol… And there, something small enough to fit Lena’s hand.
The inlay was mother-of-pearl, the fittings gilded.A brass eyesight was mounted on the barrel and delicate little etchings lined the handle.“That one,” he said, stabbing his finger at the glass.
“A beautiful piece, sir.May I ask its purpose?It was designed for target shooting.”
“Protection.”
The shop owner unlocked the case and lifted out the mahogany box the pistol rested in.“It’s a seventeen caliber.Won’t stop much more than a pigeon, or small animal, I’m afraid.Unless you’re a damned good shot.”
“It will when I’m done with it.”He fingered the smooth barrel.A few alterations and Lena would be able to take down a bear—or a blue blood.Her own father had designed a type of bullet that would explode on impact.All he had to do was replicate the chemical mix and refine the bullets to something that would fit the compact pistol.
The shopkeeper fussed about him until his teeth were on edge, now that Will had proven to have good coin.
“And these,” he said instinctively, pointing toward the half-gloves before it was too late.
