Chapter 9
Phoebe’s fingers curled around the wooden grip of the pistol, her pointer finger on the trigger.
She raised her right arm straight out and pointed at the target about eighty feet away.
The ball had already been rammed down the front of the barrel, the charge powder loaded in the pan and the pistol cocked.
Falcon’s voice rang in her head. Practice makes progress.
She couldn’t tell Slade she was already a proficient markswoman.
If she had, she would have had to reveal why.
After they’d picked up the gossip column, Slade had brought her to Hortons second floor, which had a well-equipped and spacious shooting range.
Slade’s green eyes observed her keenly. “Now remember all I just said. Aim and squeeze. There will be a split-second delay before the gun kicks back and the shot is released.”
The wood was warm against her palm but the trigger cold as ice as she took aim and tightened her finger.
Her eyes were riveted forward when the slight kick-back made her dig her feet in firmer where she stood, a split second after the loud pop sounded.
The resulting hole appeared in the first ring outside the bullseye.
Slade blinked in astonishment at the target and then back at Phoebe. “Have you done this before?”
Blast! Should she have aimed for the second ring instead of the first?
She shrugged, affecting an air of innocence. “I may have picked up a few pointers from Egan in the not-too-distant past.”
She felt rather than saw his searching eyes traveling from her forehead down to her eyes, her cheekbones, and then lingering on her lips. Heat rose to her cheeks. Energy crackled in the air affecting her equilibrium as his eyes remained on her.
“What have you been doing with yourself since I last saw you that day in Eileanach’s stables?
You certainly didn’t graduate from Ayr Academy and immediately start as a lady’s companion.
” Slade’s quiet, intimate voice collided with her senses.
His green discerning eyes darkened as he continued to study her.
Phoebe’s heart stuttered as flashbacks flooded her head. She turned away from him, his gaze too intense. She walked to the table a few feet away where she placed the pistol, her back to him so he couldn’t see the rawness in her eyes.
The day he spoke of was seared in her memory.
It was the last she’d seen Slade before he’d left for the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich.
A bleak and cold day, not only because she’d wondered if she would ever see Slade again but because she was mourning Alex’s death, and the encounter on the moors had happened a few days before in broad daylight.
No one knew she’d been bruised beneath her clothes.
No one knew her world had crashed and combusted to cinders.
She’d been too scared to tell anyone. Scared of Faye Ross’s retaliation.
That day, she’d wanted to tell Slade that, despite her misery and hellish reality, just being near him had brought her comfort and relief from her bleak life.
Being with him had given her a chance to forget.
But Slade had been in a hell of his own then, having just lost his love, Sylvia.
Now, unaware Slade had closed the distance between them, the touch of his hand on her arm jarred her senses.
The alarm bells were so loud, Phoebe didn’t think, just reacted as trained.
Phoebe swung around, pulled her hand back and sent the ball of her palm forward, straight into her assailant’s gullet.
Not an assailant. Slade!
Oh, dear God.
Slade’s eyes bulged as he coughed, sputtered, and stepped away from her, both hands holding his throat.
Phoebe’s jaws dropped. Heat and mortification enveloped Phoebe completely as she realized what she’d done and stepped towards Slade. Concern a heavy weight of regret in her chest. “I’m … I am ever so sorry, you startled me. It wasn’t my intention to—”
“It’s fine. I’m fine, just give me a second.” His voice was a painful-sounding strangled whisper. Phoebe’s palm went up to cover her mouth. She wanted to weep in dismay.
Slade’s palms rested on his knees as he bowed his head and continued to cough. When he finally straightened, his face was red, and his eyes glistened with embarrassment and astonishment.
“Your defensive skills are quite good without the aid of a gun.” His voice slowly returned to its usual richness.
“Did I hurt you? Are you well?” Phoebe asked, guilt tightening her chest.
Slade laughed in self-mockery. “I shouldn’t have come up behind you like that. Forgive me.”
Phoebe hesitantly joined in his laughter, although hers sounded strangled. “I shouldn’t have struck you. I beg your pardon.”
“Then we are even. Where the devil did you learn to punch like that? It makes me wonder how little Fifi became … you,” he said, his brows arching in question.