'The graybeards, Miss. Stuart, are quite willing to dig their own
graves, if need be, for your cause.'
'Oh, dear! Ah, well, let's hope that it need not be. But I'm curious,
sir, how am I doing with the men between nineteen and ninety?'
'Would it please you to know that a number of them were probably quite
ready to slit one another's throats for the mere bounty of your smile?'
She didn't know if he was teasing. Not anymore. The smoky quality was in
his eyes again. She lowered her lashes, shivering slightly, wondering if
he was really a man to play with so freely. Then she raised her eyes
with a bold and sweeping challenge.
'Thank goodness, sir, that you would not participate in such a skirmish!
I mean, as one could see how heavily involved you are ...'
'What?' he demanded, scowling.
'The bountiful brunette, Lieutenant. Miss. Eliza.'
'Oh, Eliza.' He said the name dism~ssively. Too dismissively. He knew
Eliza well, maybe better than he wanted to at the moment.
'Yes, Eliza,' she said pleasantly.
'Are you engaged, Lieutenant?'
'Good heavens, no!'
'Ah, was the horror of that statement over the possibility of
engagement, or over Eliza?'
'Miss. Stuart, you are very presumptuous.'
'Sir, no one is forcing you to dance with me.'
His arms tightened around her. He was smiling, but there was a sizzle to
the smile, and it sent little shock waves rippling all along her system.
Maybe she was playing dangerously. It was delightful. Maybe she risked
igniting his temper to extremes she had yet to know. She realized that
she was willing to do so, that the storm taking place within her own
heart and body was demanding that she do so. 'Miss. Stuart, I am your
escort to this dance, remember?' he said bluntly.
'Oh ... yes, well, I suppose that I had forgotten. When I saw the way
your lips became pasted together with Eliza's ...'
'Jealous, Miss. Stuart?'
'Well, how could I be? I have just entered into your life. I couldn't
possibly mean to dissuade you from, er, liaisons you have been
nurturing.'
She heard the clenching of his teeth. The scowl that tightened his
handsome features seemed to reach inside her and take her breath away.
She felt his hand upon her waist, warm and powerful, and the fingers of
his other hand so tightly entwined with hers that the pressure nearly
caused pain. She inhaled a clean scent from him that also seemed to
speak of the plain, of the rugged vistas, of the horseman, the marksman.
Everything rugged, and everything striking.
He was a real son of a bitch, a small voice warned her. It didn't
matter.
'Do you always hop so recklessly into the fray, Miss. Stuart?'
'Whatever do you mean? What fray, Lieutenant?'
'You've barbs on your tongue, ma'am.'
'Why, Lieutenant! I'm only speaking frankly.'
'Um. I still say there are barbs there. Perhaps I should discover if I
