Free Smuggler's Lair by Virginia Henley Page B

you passionate.”
    She laughed, and wriggled from his embrace. She had the urge to run for the sheer pleasure of having him chase her and catch her. Perhaps if she used feminine, subtle persuasion, she could keep him from his piracy.
    That night after their mating, Falcon held her for hours while they talked. He told her about his childhood, his sailing adventures to foreign lands, and the time he’d spent in London at the Royal Court. Tory entertained him with stories of how she escaped from the confines of her narrow life by the clever use of ploys, tricks, and deceptions that often needed the compliance of her brother, Edmund. The part where she used the garden shed to put on her stockings, screw her hair into a bun, cram on a black bonnet, pick up her prayer book, and put a pious look on her face had Falcon roaring with laughter.
    They slept in spoon fashion; his powerful body curved about her back, his arm anchoring her to him possessively. As Tory drifted into sleep she hoped that tomorrow night she would be able to keep him attached to her by an invisible thread that would stay him from his dangerous roving.
    When Tory awoke she was alone. She wasn’t too concerned because he always arose early and usually broke his fast in Bodiam’s Great Hall with the other castle inhabitants, including his crew. Just to make certain he hadn’t left, she went to the desk and pulled open the drawer. She let out a long breath when she saw his pistols were still in their case. She ran her fingers along the twelve-inch barrels, fascinated that such beautiful objects were meant for a deadly purpose. She heard the chamber door open behind her and spun round guiltily. Quite used to being caught in compromising situations and talking herself out of them, she spoke a half-truth. “Falcon, I was admiring your pistols. Would you teach me how to use them?”
    â€œI admit I enjoy tutoring you in pleasurable pursuits, but I’m not sure shooting qualifies as such. I assumed guns would be offensive to you.”
    â€œI prefer to think of them as defensive.”
    He came to the desk and lifted the weapons from their case. “This is a pair of naval officer’s belt pistols. The barrels and mountings are made of brass, which resists the corrosion of salt water. These are matched and have left- and right-hand locks.”
    â€œIsn’t it usual to have your name or initials engraved on the polished butt caps?” she puzzled. “These say ‘James Freeman.’”
    â€œThat’s the maker’s name.” He winked. “Expedience before vanity. I want no identifying marks on my lethal weapons.”
    She felt a chill and purposely ignored it. “You are the best tutor I’ve ever had. I shall strive to be a model pupil, milord.”
    From behind a false panel, he opened a cupboard she didn’t know about and extracted a small barrel of gunpowder. He offered Pandora a small leather pouch, which she carried in her mouth. “Come, then; I warrant target practice is never time wasted.”
    On the grass quadrangle in the courtyard, Falcon set out two metal brackets that each held a square candle, which he then lit. “Twenty paces is far enough for a beginner, I think.”
    â€œThat’s the accepted distance between duelists when they turn and fire.”
    He gave her a quizzical glance as they strode down the field. “Duels are fought with swords and rapiers, Tory. I’ve fought enough. Hellfire, don’t tell me men challenge each other with guns in your time? Where’s the honor in that?”
    She was about to ask Falcon about the duels he’d fought, but bit her lip. She didn’t want to know if he’d killed anyone.
    He opened the barrel of gunpowder and took out a flask with a small spout. Then he took the pouch from Pandora’s mouth and fished out a lead ball. He gave Tory an empty pistol to hold and loaded the other. “Watch