Mr. Impossible (The Dressmakers 2)

He looked down at the rifle he’d brought and smiled. This would be more entertaining than the pistol.

“I can learn that, too,” she said, misinterpreting the smile. “It must operate according to the same basic principles.”

He nodded. She gave him the pistol and picked up the rifle.

While he carefully put away the pistol, she tried the rifle’s weight and studied the mechanism — quite as gravely and intently as she studied hatted falcons.

She had no trouble loading it, though at forty-five inches long, it was a good deal more awkward to handle.

It was also a good deal more weapon to manage. She’d soon find out how much more. That would be interesting.

When all was ready, he made his face very serious, and drew closer. “You rest the butt against your shoulder, so,” he said. He explained about recoil, placed her hands, straightened the rifle, showed her how to sight, and so on. Then he moved behind her, made some final adjustments, and said, “Fire when you’re ready.”

She gave a little twitch of her backside as she sought a comfortable position. Then she fully cocked the weapon, shifted her stance slightly, and pulled the trigger.

There was a metallic snap, a puff of smoke, a brief delay, then the explosion and the recoil, driving her backward.

Though he’d warned her, she was not prepared for the recoil’s force. The rifle fell from her hands, and she stumbled back into him. He was fully prepared, though, and caught her, his arms closing over her bosom, his crossed hands firmly upon her breasts. He might have regained his balance but didn’t try. He simply gave way, and fell backward onto the sandy ground, taking her with him.

It was unnecessary and thoroughly improper — her breasts were in no danger of becoming dislodged — but he didn’t care. She would probably plant him a facer in the next second or drive an elbow into him, but he didn’t care. Smiling happily, he lay under her, his hands upon her splendid bosom while he waited for the explosion.

A long moment passed.

Then she pushed his hands away, twisted sharply about, and raised herself up to glare at him.

He grinned at her. She gazed at him for a time, green eyes fierce. Finally, she opened her mouth, and he thought, Here comes the tongue-lashing.

She let out a huff of vexation…

…and her soft mouth came down on his.

She tasted like gunpowder.

Rupert grasped her waist and held on. It was like being shot from a cannon or thrown from a precipice. She had only to bring her mouth to his, and the world flew apart, and he rocketed to places he didn’t recognize.

She pushed her fingers into his hair and held him — as though he was imbecile enough to try to get away — and dragged her mouth over his. The teasing hint of incense was everywhere, mingling with the taste and scent of gunpowder and the taste and scent and feel of her: the ripe peach of a mouth and silk velvet skin, the feathery tickle of her hair, the curving body shaped exactly for his hands.

He’d waited so very long. He’d been so patient — for him — and careful — for him. But she was so different. He’d never known a woman like her. He’d never had so many feelings. He might as well be a raw schoolboy. He became heated in an instant, like a boy.

Not that he cared who he was or how old he felt. Only her mouth mattered and the lure of her wicked tongue, drawing him deeper, and the strange champagne taste of her, sweet and tangy in his mouth and swirling through him to make a smoky haze in his brain. Only her body counted, moving sinuously over him, the delicious friction of her breasts against his chest.

The Egyptian sun beat down, but it was nighttime to him. The gritty sand under his head and back was silken sheets. He forgot where he was and why. Her mouth left his, and she rubbed her cheek against his jaw, and the touch was a jab to the heart. She pressed her lips to his neck and trailed kisses to the base of his throat, little lightning strikes to the skin. Everywhere her mouth touched caught fire and set off thunderbolts in his heart.

If he could have thought, he would have let her have her way, going at her own pace. There were all the obstacles, after all. He’d kept a distance, sure that time and proximity would wear down her resistance. He had known all this: what to do and what not to do and above all, don’t hurry her.

But that was before she destroyed his mind. Now all he could do was feel, and the feelings all added up to I want. He was hot, and his mind was a black nothing, and she was close at hand, in his hands, and he had to have her. Now.

He dragged his hand down over her backside and pressed her hard against his throbbing cock. Ah, it felt good. But it could be better, much better. He dragged up her skirt and slid his hand over stocking and garter and up under the bunched-up skirts and petticoats over the back of her thigh.

She jerked away as though he’d shot her.

“Good God!” she cried. She rolled off him, tugging down her clothing. “Are you mad?”

He blinked and dragged in air. “Well, yes,” he said thickly. “Lust does that to a man.”

“You thought we would — you would — do…that? In public?”

“I wasn’t thinking about where we were,” he said.

Her eyes widened.

“I’m a man,” he said with what he was sure must be, in the circumstances, saintly patience. “I can do one or the other. Lovemaking or thinking. But not both at the same time.”

She stared at him for a moment. Then she drew up her knees and folded her arms upon them and buried her face in her folded arms.

She did not pick up the rifle and knock him on the head with it.

Perhaps all was not lost.

“Somewhere else, then?” he said hopefully.

DAPHNE LIFTED HER head and stared at him in blank wonder.

“Somewhere more private,” he said.

“No,” she said. “Not here. Not anywhere.”

“But we like each other,” he said.

“It is completely physical,” she said.

“Isn’t that the point?”

She stood and brushed sand from her clothes and tried to straighten her petticoats discreetly. She could still feel his hand on the back of her naked thigh. Within, she was still atremble, still felt excitement and need along with other sensations she couldn’t name and didn’t trust, shivering through her.

They had come so close, too close. And in public. In public!

“The point is finding my brother,” she said, keeping her voice low and calm. It wasn’t easy. “This is not a pleasure cruise. The Isis is not a seraglio. I am not your mistress, and I don’t intend to become your mistress. I’m sorry I gave you reason to think so. I’m sorry I behaved badly.”

Oh, but how was the wild girl inside her to resist?

If, like a proper woman, she’d scrambled away from him the instant they fell, she would have had a chance. But she wasn’t proper, and it wasn’t possible. A proper woman would have been outraged. But she was improper, and she’d wanted to laugh. At the way he’d so boldly clasped her breasts. At the way it felt: so good and pleasurable and right. She’d relished the pressur

e of his hands. She’d gloried in the feel of the long, powerful body under her…and most horribly improper of all, the feel of his arousal against her backside had thrilled her to the core.

How on earth was she to behave properly when primitive urges so easily conquered her moral principles?

She was not sure where or how she’d found the willpower to push his hands away. She’d wanted to stay there, trapped in his arms, sinfully aware of his desire for her. Somehow, though, she found the strength to break away and make herself turn and face him.

Then what was she to do when he lay there, grinning at her, quite unrepentant, a mischievous boy? Devilment danced in his dark eyes. It should have warned her off. But it called to the devil in her instead, and down she went to him, to claim his wicked mouth and make it hers. She’d no sooner touched her mouth to his, felt the smile against her lips, than she caught his scent, the diabolical woman-trap that sapped her reason, will, and morals.

Nonetheless, it was not his fault.

She couldn’t blame him. He was a man, after all. It wasn’t his fault that she was so sadly lacking in moral fiber or willpower or whatever normal women used in such situations.

“You have a remarkable animal magnetism,” she went on into the taut silence. “I’ve had no practice with that sort of thing. I’m sorry for misleading you. I was taught moral principles. I ought to be capable of adhering to them. I shall do so in future, I promise you.”

He walked a few steps away and came back. He kicked a pebble. He said something under his breath. He picked up the rifle and brushed off sand.

“This will want a thorough cleaning,” he said. His voice was dry, detached. “Where the devil are the servants?”

He whistled, and Udail/Tom came running. Minutes later, Daphne found out what had kept the party engaged for so long after she’d stopped shooting.