Wicked Wyckerly (37 page)

But Lady Belden—Lady Bell, as they called her—had been more than kind to her, and Jocelyn tried not to disappoint her hostess. She set the kitten down and left the stall so the mama cat might rest easy. “Wouldn’t you rather explain your concern for a half-dead old bird than cause a scandal?” she asked.

“Personally, I’d wring the foulmouthed featherbrain’s miserable neck, but Bernie has placed a thousand-pound reward on its return.”

“Surely you cannot still be set on buying colors!” Jocelyn declared in dismay. “You’ve already been grievously injured. It would be suicide to return to the battlefield.”

Blake Montague bared his considerably white, strong teeth and hauled her past the stalls. “What I choose to do is no concern of yours. Now tell me which of these stalls contains the damned bird, or I shall open them all.”

“Then I hope you enjoy chasing the duke’s cattle,” she agreed merrily.

Montague shot her a disgruntled look, studied her amused expression, and withdrew a pistol from his coat pocket. He aimed it carefully at the luggage cart clearly visible through the barn doors. “What if I proceed to shoot those boxes?”

Jocelyn shrieked, jerked his arm downward, and the delicate firing mechanism of the expensive firearm exploded.

In dismayed horror, Jocelyn covered her mouth to prevent crying out, as Montague lifted his boot to reveal a smoking hole through the toe.