vulnerable, but then he laughed and bowed. “Perhaps I came here to find you.”
Which caused Prudence to flush unhappily with color and flee back inside.
Yet Hal had so easily insinuated himself into the household. He seemed to have a natural gift with children. In spite of her attempt to warn him off, every day he had offered a feast of games and stories that enchanted Bobby.
Mr. MacEwen happily announced that he had found a willing hand to help him with his work. Mrs. MacEwen had been thoroughly charmed out of all of her dire suspicions.
So by the time the sun returned to Argyle, Hal had taken over the room in the stable as if he owned it, and had the run of the Manse as if he were an honored and trusted guest.
Prudence sat with Bobby for a while as the child built a tower with his blocks, then she walked restlessly to the window. Dear God, Hal could be anyone!
But it was becoming clear what he was not. He was not an ordinary, comfortable person. He wasn’t safe, or reassuring, or easy to understand. Hal was not like the boys or young men she had known while she was growing up, the respectable daughter of a country doctor. And he was nothing like her brothers.
As she stood staring blindly out at the sleeping mountains of Lorne, gunfire shattered the silence—two shots in quick succession, followed by the unmistakable thud of lead balls hitting a soft target. Prudence whirled around.
Faster than she could react, Bobby jumped up, the blocks tumbling unheeded behind him, and ran from the room.
Chapter 3
Prudence found Bobby hanging onto the five-barred gate that led from the courtyard into the sheep runs behind the workshop.
“Look, Miss Drake!” Bobby called. “Mr. MacEwen has made a new pistol, and Hal is trying it out.”
Prudence watched as Hal primed and reloaded a pair of dueling pistols that Mr. MacEwen had finished making earlier that week. Hal was in his shirtsleeves, with the cuffs rolled back to show his strong, lean forearms and clean-boned wrists. He wore no cravat. Instead, his rough work shirt lay open at the neck, the collar twisted carelessly. His hair was a little long. It overhung the high collar by several inches at the back.
“They’re a little short in the barrel for my taste,” he said to the older man. “But they don’t lack for accuracy, and the trigger approaches the dishonorable in sensitivity. A deuced fine piece of work, sir.”
With a pistol in each hand, Hal spun toward a paper target, which Mr. MacEwen had fixed to the side of his haystack. Almost casually Hal lifted each arm in turn, and fired.
“Another two bull’s-eyes!” Bobby squealed.
Prudence knew very little of firearms, even though gunsmiths kept workshops at Dunraven. But she could recognize expertise when she saw it. A stunning proficiency lay in every line of Hal’s figure—in the careless, masculine stance, the perfect line from shoulder to hand and along the barrel, the passion that concentrated his expression. The target had been neatly punctured four times in the exact center. Hal was a dead shot—and with either hand, for heaven’s sake!
She bent and caught Bobby around the shoulders. This could ruinously increase his hero-worship for the stranger. Only the promise of warm scones in the kitchen was enough to make the child jump from the gate and run inside, out of harm’s way. She watched him go with unrepentant relief.
“An awkward skill, don’t you think, angel?” Hal asked.
Prudence turned and looked up at him. He had left Mr. MacEwen examining the pistols, and walked over to her. Sunlight glanced off the ruffled hair over his forehead, casting shadows onto the clean bones of his face.
“What do you mean?”
“That I should show such a nasty and thorough proficiency with firearms.” Hal looked thoughtfully at the target. “What do you think that reveals about me?”
“I don’t know,” Prudence said. “Most gentlemen shoot, don’t they?”
She felt foolish and
Which caused Prudence to flush unhappily with color and flee back inside.
Yet Hal had so easily insinuated himself into the household. He seemed to have a natural gift with children. In spite of her attempt to warn him off, every day he had offered a feast of games and stories that enchanted Bobby.
Mr. MacEwen happily announced that he had found a willing hand to help him with his work. Mrs. MacEwen had been thoroughly charmed out of all of her dire suspicions.
So by the time the sun returned to Argyle, Hal had taken over the room in the stable as if he owned it, and had the run of the Manse as if he were an honored and trusted guest.
Prudence sat with Bobby for a while as the child built a tower with his blocks, then she walked restlessly to the window. Dear God, Hal could be anyone!
But it was becoming clear what he was not. He was not an ordinary, comfortable person. He wasn’t safe, or reassuring, or easy to understand. Hal was not like the boys or young men she had known while she was growing up, the respectable daughter of a country doctor. And he was nothing like her brothers.
As she stood staring blindly out at the sleeping mountains of Lorne, gunfire shattered the silence—two shots in quick succession, followed by the unmistakable thud of lead balls hitting a soft target. Prudence whirled around.
Faster than she could react, Bobby jumped up, the blocks tumbling unheeded behind him, and ran from the room.
Chapter 3
Prudence found Bobby hanging onto the five-barred gate that led from the courtyard into the sheep runs behind the workshop.
“Look, Miss Drake!” Bobby called. “Mr. MacEwen has made a new pistol, and Hal is trying it out.”
Prudence watched as Hal primed and reloaded a pair of dueling pistols that Mr. MacEwen had finished making earlier that week. Hal was in his shirtsleeves, with the cuffs rolled back to show his strong, lean forearms and clean-boned wrists. He wore no cravat. Instead, his rough work shirt lay open at the neck, the collar twisted carelessly. His hair was a little long. It overhung the high collar by several inches at the back.
“They’re a little short in the barrel for my taste,” he said to the older man. “But they don’t lack for accuracy, and the trigger approaches the dishonorable in sensitivity. A deuced fine piece of work, sir.”
With a pistol in each hand, Hal spun toward a paper target, which Mr. MacEwen had fixed to the side of his haystack. Almost casually Hal lifted each arm in turn, and fired.
“Another two bull’s-eyes!” Bobby squealed.
Prudence knew very little of firearms, even though gunsmiths kept workshops at Dunraven. But she could recognize expertise when she saw it. A stunning proficiency lay in every line of Hal’s figure—in the careless, masculine stance, the perfect line from shoulder to hand and along the barrel, the passion that concentrated his expression. The target had been neatly punctured four times in the exact center. Hal was a dead shot—and with either hand, for heaven’s sake!
She bent and caught Bobby around the shoulders. This could ruinously increase his hero-worship for the stranger. Only the promise of warm scones in the kitchen was enough to make the child jump from the gate and run inside, out of harm’s way. She watched him go with unrepentant relief.
“An awkward skill, don’t you think, angel?” Hal asked.
Prudence turned and looked up at him. He had left Mr. MacEwen examining the pistols, and walked over to her. Sunlight glanced off the ruffled hair over his forehead, casting shadows onto the clean bones of his face.
“What do you mean?”
“That I should show such a nasty and thorough proficiency with firearms.” Hal looked thoughtfully at the target. “What do you think that reveals about me?”
“I don’t know,” Prudence said. “Most gentlemen shoot, don’t they?”
She felt foolish and
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