Then Captain Balfour stepped up.
“Do you think he truly is as excellent a shot as Colonel Archer supposes?” Miss Crowley asked, leaning forward, gaze expectant and eager. She handed the spyglass back to Isla.
“We shall see,” Miss Forsyth said.
Unlike the other gentlemen who had taken several seconds to line up and calculate their shots, Captain Balfour lifted the rifle to his shoulder, sighted, and fired in one fluid motion, as if the rifle were nothing more than an extension of his arm.
Crack!
It seemed impossible that such insouciance could result in accuracy, and yet . . .
The bit of cotton covering the hole in the center of the target evaporated, the paper not so much as fluttering.
“Oh, gracious!” Miss Crowley exclaimed.
Isla peered through the spyglass. Captain Balfour’s bullet had indeed only struck the cotton plug, passing cleanly through the hole left by his comrades’ bullets.
Such precision was . . . impressive.
Isla lowered the spyglass, passing it to the other ladies. Her heart hammered like thundering hooves in her chest while her mind scrambled to reconcile the boy she had loved with this . . . this . . . competent, focused soldier.
The men reloaded and backed up to the marker for one hundred paces.
The scene repeated itself. Gray’s shot went a little wider, as did Lord Milmouth’s. The three officers shot dead center again.
At one hundred and fifty yards, the differences between the military officers and the others became more pronounced. Gray’s shot barely hit the target and pasted a scowl on his face. Lord Milmouth missed altogether.
Captain Ross and Colonel Archer landed shots within the blackened-out center of the foolscap.
Captain Balfour was the only one to hit the target dead center. Again.
The men walked toward the two-hundred-yard marker, passing the bridge where the ladies stood.
Predictably, Miss Crowley raced down the stairs to speak with them. Isla and the others followed at a more sedate pace.
As they approached, the gentlemen were ribbing Captain Balfour good-naturedly over his bad manners in always besting them.
Gray stomped alongside them, forehead frowning. Isla found the irritation of his pricked ducal pride rather comical. Her brother was so used to being the lord of anything and everything he touched. To be bested so thoroughly by someone else—a Balfour, no less! the horror!—must be trying his patience.
Isla suppressed a smile.
“Give someone else a chance for once, Balfour!” Captain Ross was saying.
“I can’t help it if your shots are inconsistent, Ross,” Captain Balfour retorted. “Perhaps ye should practice more and laze about less.”
He glanced to the side as Isla approached.
“Your shooting has been remarkable,” Miss Crowley gushed.
“Why, thank you.” Colonel Archer gave a theatrical bow, setting everyone to laughing. His head lifted, and he fixed Isla with a warm smile. “What think you, Lady Isla? Have we wooed you with our shooting prowess?”
He was openly flirting with her, but then, his romantic intentions were hardly a secret. However, it would have been easier to bear without the hot press of Captain Balfour’s gaze.
“Indeed, you have.” Isla blushed, ordering her eyes not to flicker in Captain Balfour’s direction. “To be honest, Colonel, I was unaware my own brother was such an excellent shot. Grayburn has been hiding his talents.”
Isla wasn’t sure if she said the words as a compliment or to further needle her brother. Regardless, Gray gave her a ducal nod of thanks.
“Yes, I wager it is the purview of brothers to learn skills without their sisters’ knowledge.” Colonel Archer grasped Lord Milmouth’s shoulder. “My father taught me to shoot well away from our womanfolk’s hearing.”
