The Indiscretion (29 page)

"Oh, come on," he complained. "You're nail-spitting
mad. Why?"

She was smiling, but he'd called it right. Her expression opened
up with awareness. "I don't know," she said, then frowned down at the
ground. "You. I hate the hypocrisy of doing one thing and pretending
another. I can't stand it."

"Me?"

She shrugged, baffled by herself. "The moor," she began,
then shook her head. "Oh, the pretending that—" She stopped, looked
away, refused to go further.

He understood anyway. "Darlin'," he said, "I'm not
the source of the – the hypocrisy, as you call it. I get the impression you
were living fine with it before I arrived. It's the truth you don't like. I
remind you that, for three and a half days, you were free and happy: yourself
without so many restraints."

She looked at him, one uppity eyebrow raised, putting a sarcastic
slant to her mouth. "It's not that simple."

"Isn't it? Seems to me you want to be yourself – have your
fling on the moor – and have everyone approve. You want the impossible."

She laughed, though not with perfect ease. "I want to live in
a way that allows me to be honest with the people I love."

"I'd worry more about living in a way that's honest with
yourself."

She rolled her eyes. His answer was too straightforward for her
English tastes. She said bluntly, "I just want you to go. You make me
nervous."

Nervous? It could have been the wind. It had picked up a little.
But it was a fact, now that he thought of it: He'd watched her shots go from
golds and reds to reds and blues. It seemed possible he distracted her.
Nervous
. He filed the word away.

Thankfully, he himself improved the more he practiced. On the very
first arrow that counted, he hit gold. His own accuracy so startled him, he
just stared at it; he couldn't think of a single smart-mouthed thing to say, a
true indication of how astounded he was. He glanced at Liddy, wanting her to
acknowledge the amazing shot – he'd never do it twice.

So what'd she do? With that one eyebrow arched a little higher
than the other, she contemplated him a minute longer than was polite, then let
out her breathy laugh. "Oh, jolly good," she said.

He laughed, too, because her tone meant the opposite. So Liddy.
"Not going to celebrate my good shots, huh?"

"No."

Sadly, he didn't have any more to celebrate this round. Though he
wasn't all that unhappy with himself by the end: the one gold, two reds, a
blue, and one stinking white – but it counted, he reminded her, and, in this
way, refreshed her memory that hers wouldn't. He was at twenty-nine points,
down eight. Not bad for a man who hadn't shot a bow and arrow in six years and
had never shot an English one – or Welsh one, as she corrected him, those being
apparently better in her mind. It was a good one, he had to admit. An easy
pull, hardly any shimmy, straight and true. He expected to do better next time
around.

And she needed to do worse.

He handed the bow back, both of them giving a little jump as their
hands brushed. Nervous, he thought. Why, it would he unfair to make her nervous
on purpose.

He watched her load and shoot her first arrow. It was pure music
watching her deliberation, her concentration: her expertise. Then
swoof-ff
.
Thunk
. Magic. Sam stared at the target in the distance, then
laughed in wonder. She'd struck so close to the three arrows already dead
center in the gold that she'd chipped the feathers off one – a spark of blue
drifted to the ground. He could barely credit her skill. "Chihuahua,
you're good."

Out the corner of his eye, he saw her cast her eyes down. This
time, she blushed, the tops of her cheekbones pinking up.

He looked at her directly and watched the color spread across her
nose, all the way from hairline to hairline. He said, "You're a regular
Annie Oakley." He smiled with genuine appreciation. "Though a lot
prettier," he added. "Hell, they should write books about
you
."

Her eyes jumped to his, wide, then away.

As she loaded again, he found his favorite tooth and pushed his
tongue against it. She'd do it again. The woman was a machine. And, fair or
not, he couldn't very well afford to lose. Meanwhile, something else occurred
to him: He hadn't mentioned what he wanted for his prize – mostly because
everything he wanted was obscene. He would settle for less, but, in any case,
he didn't want her to clean up his preferences too much before he had her beat.
Liddy, on the other hand, had neglected to discuss his prize because she hadn't
thought of the possibility she could lose.

She should really start thinking about it. As a favor to her, he
mentioned, "I don't want to catch you unaware here now." She glanced.
He continued. "I've been thinkin' about what I want when I win."

She let out a little laugh as she raised the loaded bow.
"Your prize is you get to stay."

"I already get to stay. Your father invited me."

"Well, don't worry about it. You aren't going to win
anyway." She aimed down the shaft of the arrow.

"I think we should worry about it. I mean, just for form's
sake."

She uncurled her fingers—

Just as she let the arrow go, he said, "If I win, you sleep
with me."

"What?" she swiveled, laughing – it was nervous
laughter, breathless disbelief. She shook her head, her lips parting in what
wanted to be an open-mouthed smile: a woman who'd heard wrong about to make a
joke of what he couldn't possibly have said.

Th-wh-h-ip.
They turned
together toward the sound. Her arrow had pierced the blue circle, missing both
the red and gold of the target's center.

Smiling to himself, Sam said, "For a whole night." For a
week, a month, a year. His love slave. She'd never do it, but, aah, what a fond
thought. "Yep, seems fair to me. If I lose, I put a whole lot more
distance between us. If you do, you put a whole lot less."

"No," she said, glaring.

An idea came to him, an inspiration of the moment. "All right.
Your knickers, shoes, and stockings. Your underthings. Oh, and your hat, too,
come to think of it. After all, you already have my hat and underwear. It's
only right." He kept blathering. He didn't want her to shoot. Not till he
had a moment to – to negotiate a little here. He chuckled. "Actually, I
was pretty sure you'd balk at sleeping with me, so this is a good
compromise."

She snorted once, ignored him, and raised the bow again. "I
won't give you my knickers, either. So name something else."

"Oh, no. I'm happy with what I've asked for. I like the idea
of you goin' back to the house bare-legged and drawer-less, mindful every
barefoot step I beat you fair and square."

She looked a little more worried this time when she glanced over
at him. Then she let out a little breath and said, "Oh, yes. Quite fair.
You're trying to throw me off. It won't work."

He raised his hands, a show of palms. "Good enough. I'll be
quiet."

She fussed this time, setting the arrow's nock in the bowstring
twice, not happy the first time with her grip of it. She straightened her arm,
white-knuckled, the bow in her fist, aiming down the arrow—

"Just so long as you agree, right?" he asked. "I
don't mean to interrupt here. I apologize. But, see, I wouldn't want us to
shoot without having agreed. I don't want you complainin' after it's
over."

She looked across her own arm, cocking that eyebrow at him the way
she could. "Don't worry. I won't. You're going to lose."

The arrow flew, singing through the air, then thwapped into the target
at – aha! Sam wanted to crow. A black! Her worst shot.

"A shame," he said, containing himself as he tsked. Then
he remembered and couldn't hold it in. He laughed outright: "A black,
which doesn't even count for you. You may as well have missed."

Slowly, she turned toward him, the bow down – if there had been an
arrow in it he wouldn't have trusted her not to put it through him – fury all
over her face. Ooh, she was a fierce thing. "You're cheating," she
said.

"No, I'm not. We've talked all the way through all these
shots. We're just having what you Brits call a chat."

"Well, shut up. I'm finished chatting."

"Right." He winked at her. Fourteen points and only two
arrows left. The best she could do was thirty-two. Why, he could probably beat
thirty-two. Thing was, she had that damn thirty-seven to add to it, with his
having a mere twenty-nine.

She reached over her shoulder, pulling an arrow from the quiver.

"You never said," he reminded her. "About my
winning. You agree, right?"

She only loaded the arrow.

"Your knickers. If you lose, you'll peel them off right where
you stand, hand them over, no hedging."

She paused, her concentration broken. She looked at the ground,
then she looked at him. "No," she said. "It isn't all right. You
can't have anything so intimate. Not that it matters. But, no, so stop
tormenting me with it."

"You don't get to say."

"Of course I do."

"I didn't. You just told me, if you win, I leave. I don't
like that, either. It seems a little extreme."

"Are we doing this or not?" she asked.

"Sure we are. Just agree." When all she did was glower,
he said, "You're the one who's so cocky. If you're so sure you'll win,
just nod, allow me to have my fantasies here."

She blinked. He'd called her on it. She jerked her head once. A
nod, he thought.

That's what he gave her credit for, at least. "Fine.
Shoot," he said.

He'd let her be from here, he thought. Let silence and imagination
work on her – imagination, whoa… Would she ever look good with no shoes,
stockings, or knickers. And her hat off and hair down … yep, there was plenty
for her imagination to grab hold of.

The truth was, his own had gotten way out of hand. He watched her
carefully, though not for the pleasure of seeing her pluck off one amazing shot
after another now. He couldn't have cared less if her every arrow sought
ground; he prayed they would. While he drifted in the bliss of watching her
body, its sway, the tilt of her head on her long neck, the way her back curved
in at her narrow waist, the way the fabric of her dress pulled taut over the
valley of spine. He speculated, fascinated to know, if she'd really take off
her drawers out here for him. And her stockings and shoes and hat. He
remembered her underthings being silky out on the moor, fancy, full of ribbons.
Had there been lace? Would they be warm from her bottom?

Oh, her bottom. He loved her backside. There was probably
something wrong with him for being so taken with it. Nonetheless, he remembered
that part of her anatomy clearly: the way it swelled out so quick from her
waist, how soft and firm it was under his hands … the way it tucked neatly, the
moons narrowing, as it went under her to give way into her sex…

She shot two whites in row, then stood there biting her lip,
staring at her debacle: the target just close enough to see the blue feathers
in all the wrong places.

Sam accepted the bow while he calculated. She'd shot a gold, a
blue, a black, and two white. With her handicap, all he needed was twenty-three
points to win.

Alas, however, it turned out now she distracted him as badly.
Lordy, the idea of her taking her drawers off out here raised his temperature
five degrees. He felt feverish from fantasy. Of his first three arrows, one
missed the target completely, then he hit a red and black – with Lydia clicking
her tongue, daring to gloat. He was quick to tell her that, for him, that was
ten points. She was fast in saying that was a long way from enough. While he
admitted to himself that his managing to hit the butt at all was the real
miracle.
Butt.
Doggone, what a stupid
name for a target. And didn't he know the butt he wanted to go after and
exactly what arrow he wanted to bury where?

He had two more arrows.
Now,
try here, Sam, to keep your attention out of knicker-stripping territory long
enough to find thirteen points
. With his fourth arrow he made a stinking
blue – and Liddy clapped her hands.

"Ah, the sissy's going to win," she said, wagging her
leather fingertip at him.

He needed a red to tie.

He was shocked when he hit gold. So was she. The arrow hit, and they
both gaped. Then Sam laughed from sheer relief. He hadn't been aware of how
wound up he'd been till the tension let go and pure joy let loose in his chest,
reverberating, deep and free. Oh, such laughter. Dirty laughter. Dirty elation.
He looked at Liddy. "I get your knickers. Start shuckin'."

Her gaze snapped up to his. "You aren't going to take that
win, are you?"

"Sure I am."

"I outshot you. Why, if
your
blacks and whites hadn't counted—"

"Yeah, but they did."

She scowled, looked around as if people were standing everywhere,
then said, "They can see us from the house."