His Rebellious Lass (Scottish Hearts 1)

“No. I told you that before. I have this bulky riding habit only because you told the modiste to have a ‘proper’ wardrobe made up.”

Cam ran his palm down his face. “All right. I have a solution. The other men have already left for the shooting grounds, so I’ll have your horse re-saddled and you can do your best to sit astride with your gown.”

It would not be easy to deal with all the fabric on the gown, but at least she wouldn’t have to worry about her very first house party ending in her funeral. “Excellent.”

He helped her down again, and he walked the horse to the stable, returning with another saddle.

Bridget turned from Cam, lifted the front of her skirt, bent to take hold of the back skirt, pulled it through her legs, and slipped it into the wa

istband, creating a very bulky, but at least practical garment.

Turning back, she smiled brightly at her cleverness, but her smile dropped when she saw the look on Cam’s face. She glanced down and noticed part of her left leg—a great part of her left leg—was showing. She quickly shifted the material to cover herself.

She raised her chin. “Are we ready?”

“Yes. Yes. We are ready.” He lifted her again, and she settled in.

He vaulted onto his horse, and they rode away from the stable to the hunting grounds.

The men were lined up in a row, guns at the ready. Beaters were busy driving the birds into the air. The smell of the woods and the sound of shotguns brought excited twinges to Bridget’s stomach.

No one seemed to pay her any attention as she slid from her saddle and quickly released the tucked-in fabric so the gown swirled around her feet.

They walked up to the line, where a footman handed Cam a shotgun. When he continued to watch the men shoot, Bridget said, “Sir, I would like a gun, please.”

The annoying man looked at Cam with raised brows.

“Yes. Please give the lady a weapon.”

The footman fumbled to ready another shotgun and handed it to her.

She was so angry she felt like shooting the man. If she did nothing else for the rest of her life besides helping women, it would be to see women treated like adults, not children.

Cam leaned in close. “Calm down, sweeting, and unruffle your feathers.”

Apparently her angst was visible on her face. Ignoring him, she took her place next to Mr. Connor-Smythe and raised her gun. The beater moved to a new area of the bushes, and within seconds, birds flew into the air.

Bridget took aim, squeezed the trigger, and brought down a nice-sized partridge. With a smug look, she turned to Cam, who grinned and gave her a slight salute. “Well done, Lady Bridget.”

She wished she didn’t feel so warmed by his praise.

Chapter Thirteen

Lord and Lady Banfield were holding a ball to end the house party. Gentry from the surrounding area had been invited, and they would arrive after the final dinner for the houseguests.

Cam glanced down the table at Bridget, who sat between Lord Melrose and Mr. Trentham. She appeared to be enjoying herself, despite having confessed to him on their morning ride that although she dearly loved the country, she was more than ready to return to London and get away from the “gossiping magpies.”

He’d been taken aback by the skill Bridget had displayed at the hunt the day before. She had every reason to be proud of her ability. The more time he spent in her company, the more difficult it became for him to think of a man suitable for her. The woman had a great deal to bring to a marriage in addition to her fortune.

He ran over in his mind the men who’d shown interest in her so far. Too somber, too eager, too odorous, too cold, too obnoxious, or the worst of all, too overbearing. He used to think if he found anyone willing to take her off his hands, he would be more than happy to sign the marriage contracts.

Then he got to know her, and every man whom he’d considered was simply not good enough. He wanted a man who wouldn’t stifle her enthusiasm for life, but at the same time protect the woman from herself. She also needed a man who would gladly work with her on her project. Someone who would cherish her character and encourage her kindness and caring for others. Someone who would not mind passing on all the Season’s events that Bridget so disliked and would spend time in the countryside that she loved.

Someone who would approve of breeches on a woman and enjoy the sight of her shooting and riding astride. Someone who would grow to love her.

Someone like me.

The thought rattled him to his core. He would never marry, which was precisely why he needed to reconsider some of the men he’d dismissed. Perhaps one or two of them were not so terrible after all.