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And after those endless, agonizing nights, he’d spent far too many dawns pacing outside her bedchamber, wondering why he couldn’t simply walk in, waken her with a kiss, tell her all, and order her to marry him.

Uncle Lew was right—he could no more stay away from Juliet than he could give up Charnwood. That’s why he’d started spending his time out here, far from temptation.

And she was right, too—he was afraid of letting something slip. He was afraid of letting everything slip. All because he wanted her, because he was rapidly sliding into the abyss that had swallowed up his foolish father.

Oh, and didn’t she know his weakness, too, coming here in all her splendor to torture him. Look at her standing in the clearing—a golden Greek goddess in apple green, spreading spring with every sunny smile. Unfortunately, Greek goddesses had a dark side, and he’d uncovered hers.

So what trick did she have up her gold-bedecked sleeve this time? Why—though his mind screamed, “Run!”—was he standing here waiting to find out?

Because he was curious. Because he could never resist a challenge.

Because he wanted her so badly he’d risk anything for an afternoon with her.

Tearing his gaze from the open door, he doused the fire in the forge, then hurried to the basin to scrub off soot and grime. He dragged on a shirt and tucked it into his breeches hastily. On his way out the door, he stopped at his gun cabinet, unlocked it, and withdrew a case of dueling pistols.

By the time he joined her, she was humming tunelessly to herself, as if ladies took lessons in shooting from half-dressed rogues every day, as if nothing else had ever passed between them.

Good. If they could be civil and no more, perhaps he’d make it through this without wanting to strangle her…or drag her into his arms and kiss every sweet inch of her delectable body.

She turned as he approached, and her gaze fixed on the open neck of his shirt. “I thought you were going to dress.”

“This is as much as I wear when I’m working. If you expected formal attire, my lady, you shouldn’t have come.”

“It’s fine.” Her gaze drifted down the front of him, and she colored inexplicably. “Perfectly fine.”

Opening the pistol case, he held it out to her. “Your weapon, madam.”

She stared into the case, a look of unease spreading over her face. “Don’t you have any that are smaller?”

“You are certainly finicky today. Perhaps you’d prefer a slingshot.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “I was merely thinking that I have no reticule large enough to contain a pistol of this size.”

A reluctant smile touched his lips. “No, I don’t suppose you have. But there are pocket pistols. I just don’t have one ready to hand, since I prefer larger guns.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Removing her pretty kid gloves, she tucked them in her skirt pocket, then snatched the pistol from the case.

“Careful now. You never know when a gun is loaded, and flintlocks are notoriously jumpy. You wouldn’t want it to go off before you’re ready.”

Brow tightening in great solemnity, she nodded. She was taking this seriously, and he pitied any London gentleman who crossed her when she returned.

He drew out the powder flask, the rammer, a leather patch, and a lead ball, then set down the case. Soon he was showing her how to check the flint and ready the patch and ball, but every motion seemed laced with sexual meaning. Readying the patch meant sucking on the thin leather square to dampen it—an action he’d never thought twice about until he said, “Now you try,” and she did so. As he watched her suck the leather, all he could think was how it would be to have that delicate little mouth sucking on his—

With a curse, he took the pistol from her and demonstrated how to pour the black powder down the muzzle and ram the ball down after it. Except that it meant shoving the rammer in with a deep thrusting stroke—

He groaned. This was absurd. He was getting hot and hard over loading a gun, for God’s sake!

Well, at least he’d be safe with the shooting part. Lifting the pistol, he fired easily at the center of the target. Her horse whinnied, and she gave a little shriek. When he glanced over at her, she looked pale. He suppressed a smile. It was one thing to contemplate shooting a pistol in the abstract and quite another to do it. He handed her the gun. “Now you try loading it. But be careful—the barrel’s still hot. Wait until it cools a little.”

She held the gun gingerly, less eager than before. “What if I do it wrong?”

“Then you’ll blow your head off,” he drawled. When her gaze jumped to him in abject alarm, he chuckled. “I won’t let you do it wrong.”

That seemed to satisfy her. Biting her lower lip, she propped the butt against her hip as he had, then concentrated on following the steps he’d shown her. He tried not to dwell on her erotic motions. He had to keep his mind on the task at hand, or she’d hurt herself.

To his surprise, she was as nimble at manipulating a gun as she was with a needle. God help him if she ever did decide to put a ball through his skull.

When she finished, she cradled the butt awkwardly in both hands. “So it’s loaded.”