Free A Dangerous Man by Connie Brockway Page B

prime ass, Hart decided in disgust. A child of eight would be hard pressed not to hit the damned thing at this range. Acton’s implication that he had orchestrated the event so that Mercy could not possibly fail was insufferably patronizing.
    “The horns,” Hart clipped out. “See if you can shoot one of the horns, Miss Coltrane.”
    Mercy’s gaze swerved toward him. “Which horn, Mr . Perth?”
    Little egotist. “The far one. I have a guinea that says you cannot hit the far one cleanly.” Now, there was a target to test one’s skill. From here less than a foot of the appendage was showing.
    “Oh, come now, Perth,” Hillard protested. “A gentleman wouldn’t make a wager of that sort with a lady. She hasn’t any chance—”
    “Done!” Mercy said, and without a moment’s hesitation shouldered the rifle and fired. The sudden report silenced all conversation. Heads swung up, sentences hung unfinished in the air, eyes widened. They stared at the paper sculpture. Both horns still stood atop its massive head.
    “I’m sorry, m’dear,” Acton said kindly. “Perhaps you’d like to try again? Not that you have to. You can pick whatever target you like. The head? The sides?”
    Mercy laughed. “Oh, I hit the horn. About four inches from the tip, I should say.”
    “Of course you did, Miss Coltrane,” Acton agreed. “Now, would you care to try for another—”
    “Begad, she did hit the bloody thing!” a male voice called in disbelief. Down the alley Lady Acton’s military brother, Major Sotbey, was peering at the horn. He stuck a finger through the papier-mâché and wriggled it. “Dead center!”
    Acton and Hillard turned amazed stares at Mercy. She, however, was not looking at them. There was a mocking quirk to one dark brow and her saucy smile was all for Hart. “My guinea, Your High-handedness—or is it Lordliness? Unless you’d care to make another wager?”
    “As you wish, Miss Coltrane,” he replied. “Do you think that you could hit the same target again?”
    “Certainly,” she returned, and called down to the group of men studying the horn. “Sirs, would you please stand back?” They scurried to the safetyof the trees. Once more, she shot. All three of Baron Coffey’s sons broke from the crowd and ran toward the target.
    “Dead center!” one of them called. “A few inches higher, this time!”
    Mercy smiled at him, wickedly triumphant, before lowering her lashes and murmuring modestly, “I must be lucky today.”
    “Yes,” he responded, his word rife with meaning. “You must.”
    He reached into his pocket and was in the act of withdrawing a gold coin when he heard her say, “You wouldn’t care to make a contest of it, would you?”
    Of all the conceited, self-satisfied—! “No.”
    She sighed, contriving to look contrite. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I just assumed … That is, I thought you might know something about … But how foolish of me. You aren’t a sportsman, are you? I mean, what with your horse running away with you I should have realized …” She grinned apologetically and shrugged.
    He handed her the guinea, aware he was doing so with ill grace, but she was the most provoking female he’d ever encountered. And provocative , a part of him added.
    She received the coin and bounced it up in down in her palm, regarding him with an intimacy born of shared history …  teasing him, by God!
    “Oh, Hart. Do!” Beryl said. “You are so very adept with firearms.”
    “Is he?” Mercy asked, managing to invest a world of disbelief in the query.
    “Yes. He fought in North Africa, you know. He was little more than a boy and still the best shot in his regiment.” Damn it, Beryl needn’t announce his past to the entire world. “He was medaled any number of times for bravery. His fellow soldiers thought his prowess with a gun quite supernatural.”
    “Ah.” Mercy nodded. “That explains his reluctance to compete.”
    He was in the act of turning away from the