intended to shoot?
With a silent curse, Richard sprinted through the copse. The lady glanced wide-eyed in his direction.
“Rich—”
He knocked into her slender frame and the abrupt movement sent her arrow flying through the air. As he took Gemma down, the bow tumbled to the ground beside them. “What are you doing?” he bit out against her ear. He opened his mouth to deliver a stinging diatribe upon her foolish ears when his body registered her soft, pliant form pressed to his. A surge of desire ran through him, blotting out words, obliterating rational thought, so all he felt and knew—was her.
Gemma stared wide-eyed up at him. Her chest moved quickly in a rhythm to match his own rapidly beating heart. “Richard,” she whispered.
He really should be fixed on the madness in her letting loose an arrow at the man he’d called friend for over twenty years, except, his body responded to her nearness in form as he appreciated her in ways he’d not at their initial meeting; the gentle rise of her small breasts, the trimness of her waist, the delicate flare of her hips.
Gemma wiggled, shifting her hips.
His shaft leapt in response even as a pained groan lodged in his throat. In the distance, muffled cheers went up and that revelry had the same effect as a bucket full of frozen Thames water. He rolled off Gemma and jumped to his feet. “What in blazes are you doing?” he hissed. For it was far safer to focus on the lady’s impulsive actions from moments earlier than his body’s unwieldy response to hers.
“Beg pardon?” She shoved up onto her elbows and her loose chignon gave way under those efforts. The endless tresses cascaded about her back like a satiny waterfall. The sight of her sprawled on her back conjured all manner of wicked images, all involving those strands draped over his pillow and—
Richard closed his eyes and counted to five. He forced them open and found her eying him with her head tipped at that perplexed angle. “What did you think you were doing, aiming at Westfield?” With a quiet curse, Richard bent and scooped Gemma up. He set her on her feet and alternated his stare between the damning arch bow on the ground and the mad arrow-wielding lady.
Gemma rushed over and rescued the expertly crafted elm bow. Looking at the bow, she furrowed her brow. Then her eyes formed round moons. She jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “Never tell me you believed I was going to shoot the marquess?”
At the incredulity coating the inquiry, he yanked at the collar of his jacket. “I did not believe you intentionally sought to maim or wound,” Or kill. “Westfield.”
Gemma folded her arms at her chest, her possible weapon awkwardly jutted toward him, as she peered at him through suspicious eyes. “You think me incapable of shooting a bow,” she said with a dawning understanding.
Another cry went up in the distance and Richard looked hopefully toward the far-off chatter. “If you are so eager to shoot a bow, I expect you are also eager to return to the activity planned by the duke.”
Gemma remained with her booted feet planted to the ground and fixed an I-am-not-going-anywhere-until-you-reply-something-to-that-statement look.
Picking through his words carefully, Richard said, “I did not think…” She gave him a prodding, knowing look.
And he knew that look was intended to be more than faintly chiding and all he could note was the glimmer that set her eyes aglow in the summer sunlight. That gleam stole his thoughts, held him transfixed, until he no longer knew…
“I knew it,” she muttered, cutting across the momentary blanket of madness she’d pulled over him. Then, in one fluid movement she grabbed up her arrow, positioned it within her bow, and with more than three hundred paces between the copse and the duke’s party of guests, she took aim. Gemma let the arrow fly and it sailed unfailingly straight past the collective crowd of guests, gliding a hairsbreadth from Westfield’s
With a silent curse, Richard sprinted through the copse. The lady glanced wide-eyed in his direction.
“Rich—”
He knocked into her slender frame and the abrupt movement sent her arrow flying through the air. As he took Gemma down, the bow tumbled to the ground beside them. “What are you doing?” he bit out against her ear. He opened his mouth to deliver a stinging diatribe upon her foolish ears when his body registered her soft, pliant form pressed to his. A surge of desire ran through him, blotting out words, obliterating rational thought, so all he felt and knew—was her.
Gemma stared wide-eyed up at him. Her chest moved quickly in a rhythm to match his own rapidly beating heart. “Richard,” she whispered.
He really should be fixed on the madness in her letting loose an arrow at the man he’d called friend for over twenty years, except, his body responded to her nearness in form as he appreciated her in ways he’d not at their initial meeting; the gentle rise of her small breasts, the trimness of her waist, the delicate flare of her hips.
Gemma wiggled, shifting her hips.
His shaft leapt in response even as a pained groan lodged in his throat. In the distance, muffled cheers went up and that revelry had the same effect as a bucket full of frozen Thames water. He rolled off Gemma and jumped to his feet. “What in blazes are you doing?” he hissed. For it was far safer to focus on the lady’s impulsive actions from moments earlier than his body’s unwieldy response to hers.
“Beg pardon?” She shoved up onto her elbows and her loose chignon gave way under those efforts. The endless tresses cascaded about her back like a satiny waterfall. The sight of her sprawled on her back conjured all manner of wicked images, all involving those strands draped over his pillow and—
Richard closed his eyes and counted to five. He forced them open and found her eying him with her head tipped at that perplexed angle. “What did you think you were doing, aiming at Westfield?” With a quiet curse, Richard bent and scooped Gemma up. He set her on her feet and alternated his stare between the damning arch bow on the ground and the mad arrow-wielding lady.
Gemma rushed over and rescued the expertly crafted elm bow. Looking at the bow, she furrowed her brow. Then her eyes formed round moons. She jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “Never tell me you believed I was going to shoot the marquess?”
At the incredulity coating the inquiry, he yanked at the collar of his jacket. “I did not believe you intentionally sought to maim or wound,” Or kill. “Westfield.”
Gemma folded her arms at her chest, her possible weapon awkwardly jutted toward him, as she peered at him through suspicious eyes. “You think me incapable of shooting a bow,” she said with a dawning understanding.
Another cry went up in the distance and Richard looked hopefully toward the far-off chatter. “If you are so eager to shoot a bow, I expect you are also eager to return to the activity planned by the duke.”
Gemma remained with her booted feet planted to the ground and fixed an I-am-not-going-anywhere-until-you-reply-something-to-that-statement look.
Picking through his words carefully, Richard said, “I did not think…” She gave him a prodding, knowing look.
And he knew that look was intended to be more than faintly chiding and all he could note was the glimmer that set her eyes aglow in the summer sunlight. That gleam stole his thoughts, held him transfixed, until he no longer knew…
“I knew it,” she muttered, cutting across the momentary blanket of madness she’d pulled over him. Then, in one fluid movement she grabbed up her arrow, positioned it within her bow, and with more than three hundred paces between the copse and the duke’s party of guests, she took aim. Gemma let the arrow fly and it sailed unfailingly straight past the collective crowd of guests, gliding a hairsbreadth from Westfield’s
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