Page 11 of The Trouble with Tigers
“Let’s see if you know how to load and unload the revolver,” Zeke challenged.
"’Course he knows how. Show him how it’s done, lad.” The earl set the revolver before her on the overturned hay barrel.
She squinted against the glare of the sun and scrubbed her damp palms on her trousers, mentally reviewing the loading procedure.
She could hardly concentrate, what with Zeke staring and the heat. The afternoon sun beat down on her, baking her monstrous wig onto her head.
Sweat droplets trickled from her forehead down her cheek. One had the audacity to slide to the tip of her nose. She blew itoff. How mortifying. But then she was supposed to be a boy, and boys reveled in their perspiration, didn’t they?
“I take it I need to load it for you?” Zeke reached for the firearm.
Impatient, arrogant ass.
She waved a dismissive hand at him swiped her brow, and set herself to the task, lining up the powder and ammunition.
The earl had taught her well, and, now that she’d begun, she fell into a routine, unclipping the compaction lever underneath the barrel to fill each of the recesses with powder. Next, she packed a lead ball into each cylinder’s receptacle, before placing a cap on the opposite end of each of the chambers.
“There.” She crossed her arms over her flattened chest—and winced. The strap did its job all too well.
Lord Thurgood cocked his head and frowned. “Are you unwell?”
Of course the odious man would notice. He watched her like a hawk.
“No, I’m very well. Thank you for asking, my lord.”
He shook his head and eyed the heavens as if in a silent plea for patience.
She knew exactly how he felt.
A beat later, he stalked away, his long legs devouring the distance between the grassy knoll and the abutting vegetable garden.
She sent the earl a questioning look. He merely smiled at her. At least one of them appeared to be enjoying himself.
Lord Thurgood fished a smallish pumpkin from the garden, set it at his feet, then strode toward the hoard of firewood piled beside the cottage. After rolling up his shirtsleeves, he crouched to scoop half the logs into his arms. His back muscles rippled under the load, tightening his waistcoat across those broadbands. When he rose, his muscular thighs bulged in his well-fitting tweed trousers.
Kitty heard herself sigh and then coughed to cover it. “Swallowed some dust,” she muttered, and ordered herself to stop staring at Zeke. Unfortunately, her eyes refused to obey.
In just two hauls, he moved the entire heap away from the building to make one stack.
He placed the pumpkin on the stack and strode back to where she and the earl waited. “There’s your target.”
Up close, his bare forearms were thick and bronzed, and dusted with golden hairs. Her gazed moved up his shirtsleeves, suddenly very fitted over very large, very hard looking biceps.
She swallowed with difficulty. Her mouth had gone oddly dry.
“Are you paying attention, Kit? I said—”
“I have eyes. I see the target,” she snapped, more irritated at herself than him. She’d been gaping at him as if she’d never seen a man. She was a complete idiot.
“Good. See if you can hit it,” he clipped back.
She squared her shoulders and adjusted her stance. Evidently, she didn’t move fast enough for his liking.
“Pull the hammer back,” Lord Thurgood began in a tone typically reserved for dimwits.
She pinched her lips together and cocked the hammer.
“Now line up your sight, and shoot.”
