The Spinster and the Earl Read Online Free

ancient flintlock she’d been forced to use for hunting. The ancient relic in her hands had been used in combat long ago, when her father, as a young man, had been a merchant sailor in his majesty’s service.
    The flintlock had a long, narrow barrel, and a heavy, metal-tipped butt, which had served oftentimes as a club when the pistol was unloaded and required for immediate defense. The firing-arm was difficult to use, its weight heavy and cumbersome in her small feminine hands. Her father, Lord Patrick O’Brien, refused to entrust her with a decent weapon, ignored her pleadings by saying, “Ladies have no business handling weapons in the first place, lass. ’Tis dangerous to entrust one with one.”
    To which she’d retorted tartly, “Then I won’t be one, Da. Treat me like you would any other young gentleman in your household.”
    He’d heartily laughed, told her she was a scheming hellion, and sent her on her way with this ancient relic of a blunderbuss.
    “The unfeeling rascal,” she mumbled as she re-loaded the pistol. Her father knew she would not be able to take a decent shot with this outdated bit of metal. It’d be a minor miracle if she hit anything.
    She crouched now by the edge of a marsh. Mist rose up from the water, obscuring the landscape, which bordered the property of Drennan Castle and Brightwood Manor. Tall weeds hid her from view as she spotted another prey, a large, speckled pheasant, roosting but a few meters to her right in marsh reeds. It would be lovely to have some fresh game on the table tonight and this bird looked to be nice and plump, perfect for basting over a peat fire.
    Taking careful aim over the musket, which had no sights, she fired.
    To her amazement, the rusty hammer sprang forward the first time she pulled the trigger, igniting the flint in the powder pan and miraculously sparking to burst forth the shot with a smoking ka-bang! She felt the gun tremble as the musket ball cannoned out of the barrel. Her hand kicked backwards as the weapon sprang forward. Powder smoked the air around her, creating a cloudy haze.
    “Oh, hell and damnation!” a deep male voice bellowed out into the mist as the frightened neighs of a startled thoroughbred peeled in the air.
    She looked up in time to see a wall of shiny black horse flesh and spurred boots flash in front of her surprised eyes. Muttered angry curses could be heard over the horse’s panicked whinnies as both rider and steed galloped towards a nearby stone wall. Abruptly, the animal stopped, bolting away from the solid obstruction placed in its path.
    The hapless rider, who’d miraculously been able to keep his seat till then, was effectively tossed, his mount kicking up its hooves at the obstruction. He, the unfortunate master, continued to sail over the stone impediment landing with a solid splash into a nearby bog.
    “Merciful heavens!” She gasped, and ran to the edge of the pond where sat the thrown victim.
    A stranger glared up at her. His dark blues eyes, the same sparkling shade as the marsh lake on a cold day, silently accusing her.
    She stood as motionless as a statue, her pale, oval face unflinching at the sight of blood gushing down his leg. Her own green eyes, the color of the hills behind her, blinked back at him. Brushing aside long tendrils of black hair, which had escaped out from under her hunting hat, she observed him.
    She made not the least sign of distress by either crying torrents of remorse, or attempting a delicate feminine swipe of the fevered brow. She merely lifted one of her dark, perfectly arched eyebrows and stared.
    Although she wore a fetching hunting jacket of dark red wool, the same outfit, in fact, she’d ordered from Dublin with its matching tartan hat, she could tell by the stranger’s sour expression he thought her some sort of monstrous creature.
    “Sir, are you well?” she dared to ask, trying to remain calm while her insides tumbled nervously about, secretly relieved to see that he was