that it had all happened in one day only added to his anger and humiliation.
Slowly raising his hands high into the air, he straightened, turned and faced her, being careful not to make any sudden moves. For all he knew ten rifles could have been pointed at him. One quick glance told him the girl was alone and that intensified his humiliation. Deliberately, he splayed his legs, assuming an arrogant stance.
Blair bit back a startled cry when he faced her. She could almost feel the physical violence coiled like a deadly snake within the man. There was such a lethal look about him, a sudden shock of fear coursed through her. But it was a fear that was exciting and stimulating. Her heart raced and her stomach fluttered strangely.
He was tall, standing well over six feet. He was garbed completely in tans and browns which blended easily into the early spring countryside. Tight, brown breeches were fastened at his waist by a leather belt adorned with an intricately carved silver buckle and a knife sheath from which a steel blade glittered wickedly —she thought such knives were often referred to as Arkansas toothpicks. His tan shirt was partially open, revealing the dark mat of hair across his broad, muscular chest. The vest he wore was made from soft, doeskin leather. Slung low on his hips was a leather gunbelt fully loaded with cartridges and the holsters, which were strapped to his thighs with leather thongs, bore two gleaming, black-barreled pistols with walnut stocks.
His countenance was strong, hard, impassive, his nose was straight, proud, and flaring, and on either side of his face were deep indentations. The thrust of his jaw was rigid: angry but self-assured. Although his dark brown hair was not shaggy or overly long, she judged that it had been at least a week since his face had seen a razor.
With a flutter of trepidation she realized he was scrutinizing her as closely as she was him. It wasn't so much that he was staring at her, it was his eyes that were so disturbing. They were the most magnetic, startling shade of gray she had ever seen, and they were unrelenting — intense and penetrating.
Blair could feel herself falling under a hypnotic spell and she knew she had to do something to break it. Nervously wetting her lips, she pulled her gaze from his and threatened with the rifle. "Just keep your hands in the air and stay real still. As long as you do that, my trigger finger won't get itchy."
"I’m not in the habit of making sudden moves when I’m staring down the wrong end of a gun," he said in a low voice. Even though Adam's words and actions were in compliance with her orders, his tone indicated his defiance.
Recalling a line that had impressed her in one of her most favorite penny dreadfuls, Blair gave an arrogant toss of her head and remarked dryly, "It depends on who's holding the gun whether it's the wrong end or not."
Deliberately taunting her, his lips twisted into a sneer, "That's exactly what I meant ... the wrong end of a rifle. Children shouldn't play with guns — they might get hurt. Tell me, how long do I have to stay like this?" He indicated his hands in the air.
Angered because he had called her a child and, realizing she had to do something to prove to him that she knew how to handle a gun, Blair did not dignify his remarks with an answer; instead, she aimed at a spot between his feet and fired. To her surprise and dismay, the sight was off on the rifle, and the bullet went high, whizzing right between his knees.
Adam never flinched or moved a muscle—although he wanted to. Hoping that his voice would not squeak like a schoolboy's, he cocked one eyebrow and said caustically, "Careful there, little girl, I'm not quite ready to be a gelding —yet. Perhaps you didn't hear me. How long do I have to stay like this?"
Not to be bested by
Slowly raising his hands high into the air, he straightened, turned and faced her, being careful not to make any sudden moves. For all he knew ten rifles could have been pointed at him. One quick glance told him the girl was alone and that intensified his humiliation. Deliberately, he splayed his legs, assuming an arrogant stance.
Blair bit back a startled cry when he faced her. She could almost feel the physical violence coiled like a deadly snake within the man. There was such a lethal look about him, a sudden shock of fear coursed through her. But it was a fear that was exciting and stimulating. Her heart raced and her stomach fluttered strangely.
He was tall, standing well over six feet. He was garbed completely in tans and browns which blended easily into the early spring countryside. Tight, brown breeches were fastened at his waist by a leather belt adorned with an intricately carved silver buckle and a knife sheath from which a steel blade glittered wickedly —she thought such knives were often referred to as Arkansas toothpicks. His tan shirt was partially open, revealing the dark mat of hair across his broad, muscular chest. The vest he wore was made from soft, doeskin leather. Slung low on his hips was a leather gunbelt fully loaded with cartridges and the holsters, which were strapped to his thighs with leather thongs, bore two gleaming, black-barreled pistols with walnut stocks.
His countenance was strong, hard, impassive, his nose was straight, proud, and flaring, and on either side of his face were deep indentations. The thrust of his jaw was rigid: angry but self-assured. Although his dark brown hair was not shaggy or overly long, she judged that it had been at least a week since his face had seen a razor.
With a flutter of trepidation she realized he was scrutinizing her as closely as she was him. It wasn't so much that he was staring at her, it was his eyes that were so disturbing. They were the most magnetic, startling shade of gray she had ever seen, and they were unrelenting — intense and penetrating.
Blair could feel herself falling under a hypnotic spell and she knew she had to do something to break it. Nervously wetting her lips, she pulled her gaze from his and threatened with the rifle. "Just keep your hands in the air and stay real still. As long as you do that, my trigger finger won't get itchy."
"I’m not in the habit of making sudden moves when I’m staring down the wrong end of a gun," he said in a low voice. Even though Adam's words and actions were in compliance with her orders, his tone indicated his defiance.
Recalling a line that had impressed her in one of her most favorite penny dreadfuls, Blair gave an arrogant toss of her head and remarked dryly, "It depends on who's holding the gun whether it's the wrong end or not."
Deliberately taunting her, his lips twisted into a sneer, "That's exactly what I meant ... the wrong end of a rifle. Children shouldn't play with guns — they might get hurt. Tell me, how long do I have to stay like this?" He indicated his hands in the air.
Angered because he had called her a child and, realizing she had to do something to prove to him that she knew how to handle a gun, Blair did not dignify his remarks with an answer; instead, she aimed at a spot between his feet and fired. To her surprise and dismay, the sight was off on the rifle, and the bullet went high, whizzing right between his knees.
Adam never flinched or moved a muscle—although he wanted to. Hoping that his voice would not squeak like a schoolboy's, he cocked one eyebrow and said caustically, "Careful there, little girl, I'm not quite ready to be a gelding —yet. Perhaps you didn't hear me. How long do I have to stay like this?"
Not to be bested by
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