Kisses Like a Devil Read online

  He claimed his own chair and pretended to study the excellent view of the test range. Sitting next to her was no hardship for anything except his cock.

  Still, he was here on a mission. He wasn’t a professional soldier but he’d spent enough long days around them in Cuba, mapping alternative attack plans, to have learned a few tricks. Plus there’d been those hellacious battles, not to mention the months he’d actually spent in Alaska.

  His stomach plummeted, forcing restraint on his cock.

  The other observers were chatting with each other, while they finished settling into place. Meredith dropped a bit of cheese between their armchairs for Morro to gobble up.

  “He’ll fail, won’t he?” she whispered, her words hidden from anyone else by the others’ gossip.

  “Of course he will,” Brian answered quickly.

  She scanned his face and her eyes widened.

  He’d been right: It did no good, whatsoever, to lie to her. She’d just see straight through the attempt.

  Jesus, what a nightmare. There wasn’t much anybody could do to stop a Russian invasion of Alaska. Right now, all that mattered was those Klondike goldfields and America held the sea routes. A few Coast Guard cutters enforced the law up there—but what could they do against the Russian army and navy? The miners had spirit but they weren’t trained fighters.

  And the British navy in Victoria wasn’t even a handful of ships. They’d been fretting about a Russian invasion for decades but their so-called fortified positions wouldn’t have held off a dozen drunks.

  No, the Russians could just waltz right in and seize Alaska, plus the goldfields. The question would be what happened after that, when America and Great Britain came roaring back, determined to reclaim Alaska and the Klondike. Russia would need to fortify the ports very, very well or their second stay in that frozen wonderland would be damn brief.

  That must be why Sazonov was here: He wanted Eisengau’s best cannons for his jaunt to Alaska. Most European countries would buy their new guns from Germany’s great Krupp family or perhaps France. But Krupp insisted on cash for all transactions, unless otherwise instructed by their empire’s Kaiser. They’d probably refused to deal with them, since Russia was notoriously deep in debt.

  France was very skittish about permitting its brilliant new guns out of its sight. They wouldn’t even let routine maintenance be done by anyone other than a Frenchman. Alaska would seem like an unprincipled wilderness and probably too far away.

  Should he tell anyone in Washington about this? He believed Meredith’s judgment of Sazonov but would they trust a woman? Had his father ever successfully disagreed with his mother? Hardly. He snickered privately. Hell, he’d grown up knowing women had the last word, if they chose to take it.

  No, he’d just have to deal with this problem privately. Find evidence if he could, harm Sazonov whenever possible, and keep Meredith safe at all costs.

  That ridiculous military band fell silent, making the clatter of crockery and cutlery from inside the building sound like dynamite blasts.

  “Gentlemen, may I present His Excellency, Grand Duke Rudolph.”

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, wasn’t anybody polite enough to notice there were ladies present?

  The vicious dandy strutted to the balcony’s center. His polished brass helmet and multitude of buttons were almost blinding enough to distract from the crisply efficient grasp on his sabre. His young son Nicholas stood behind him, half a head taller and garbed in the sober dark green uniform of the Eisengau’s legendary Rifle regiment. Zorndorf flipped through his notebook beside the headquarters’ base, near the long tables.

  “Welcome to Eisengau, my friends. Two and a half centuries ago, this very land defeated our enemies in the Battle of St. Nicholas’s Pass, when a great avalanche crushed an invading army.”

  Brian studied the mountainside. If he rolled some big boulders off those granite needles and didn’t much care what they damaged, he could start an avalanche now. He’d wager the ruler back then had been a ruthless son of a bitch, willing to ruin good pastureland and kill animals, if not his own people. But it had created a relatively flat space in this otherwise heavily slanted world.

  “Every year, our army holds summer maneuvers here to remember our forefathers and to practice our own skills. We are honored to have you join us.” The grand duke bowed repeatedly, smiling broadly as he answered the polite applause. It was the first time Brian had seen the old goat look genuinely happy.

  “During these maneuvers, we will test the latest technologies from our armory. In this dawn of a new century, our foundry stands ready to build this equipment faster than anywhere else in the world.”

  “Sir?”

  Everyone stared at Grand Duke Rudolph’s previously impassive heir.

  “What is it?” The autocrat demanded.

  “As Master of the Armory and the Foundry, sir,”—Meredith’s hand suddenly clamped down on Brian’s wrist—“I am proud to have the traditional honor to co-sign all production agreements with you. Sir.”

  Grand Duke Rudolph’s eyebrows beetled together above his narrowed eyes. He nodded shortly, his mustache points quivering. “Of course you do.”

  Meredith’s breath hissed out, closely followed by several other men’s. If Brian had read that byplay correctly, the heir had just announced nobody, even his father, could do anything in the foundry without his permission. Which meant increasing production of cannons in Eisengau would have to go through junior, not just the old man.

  “With every consideration given to our people’s health, of course,” Nicholas added and became an impassive statute once again.

  Brian wondered how long Nicholas’s father would let him get away with that. Eisengau was not a place which welcomed change—except in weaponry.

  Chapter Eight

  Grand Duke Rudolph harrumphed and drew himself up once again, not looking back. “Today is an introduction to the maneuvers. We will start by showcasing the skills of individual men, plus our latest shotguns. After lunch, you will see our cannons. We have some mountains guns I’m sure you will like.”

  “And?”

  Sazonov. Brian was sure that Russian accent came from Sazonov himself. None of his lackeys would have dared to speak.

  “Did I not say cannons? Guns you can take into battle—and siege guns as powerful as any naval gun.”

  “Impossible!” The German representative smacked his fist into his palm.

  “Very possible indeed, for men of intelligence with fine steel at their disposal. All the necessary patents already exist.” Grand Duke Rudolph stroked his mustache, swirling its point into a longer spike. “Firing a shell more than eight times heavier at a range half again longer than the current greatest gun.”

  “Never,” muttered the French observer.

  The grand duke’s tongue flickered over his lips like a satisfied cobra. He wove his head from side to side, assessing the other observers’ stunned reactions. His lips curled, matching his heavy-lidded eyes’ satisfied curve.

  “We will enact scenarios whereby you can see how well all of these work. You will help us choose from among the many options. In honor of the new century, the first scenario—and the first demonstration—will be chosen by the youngest here.”

  Brian frowned. By all the saints, there were enough old fools in their dotage here to make a mortician salivate. He’d guess himself, Gareth, and Sazonov were the youngest. But Gareth had seen more years than he had.

  “Mr. Donovan, Count Sazonov? Please come forward.”

  Why both of us? Why not just one?

  Brian rose. Meredith’s fingers were digging into the armchair’s upholstery hard enough to score the leather. She gave him a brief, gallant smile and folded her white hands in her lap, hiding them from onlookers. Morro thumped his tail on the hardwood floor, his all-too-intelligent dark eyes demanding a farewell. Brian gave him a quick scratch behind the ears and met Sazonov in front of Grand Duke Rudolph.

  “Gentlemen,
we are about to have a shooting competition between two very fine shots. Count Sazonov has killed tigers and bull elephants in India, while Mr. Donovan has been decorated for gallantry under fire.”

  Brian and Sazonov stared at each other, equally appalled for once. What the hell was the bastard planning?

  Grand Duke Rudolph lifted his hand and two sergeants whisked the white linen cloth off the long table below, revealing a half dozen rifles, representing the top military rifles in the world.

  “Each of you will select one rifle from those below. All of them are directly from the regular assembly lines, except the Mosin-Nagant which has been customized by the Tsar’s arsenal.”

  That figured; it’d take some work to make such an ugly brute really smooth.

  “Your targets will be teacup saucers from the set used aboard the trains into Eisengau.”

  Shit, shit, shit. Sturdy little devils, wobbling and leaping erratically like rabbits, impossible to predict and damn difficult to destroy with a small bullet.

  “You must shoot it before it falls over. Twenty saucers for each of you, launched every two seconds.”

  Brian’s jaw set hard, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He’d be lucky to hit two-thirds of them.

  “What do we gain if we win?” Sazonov demanded.

  “My artillery is prepared to conduct three scenarios this afternoon, Count. The first displays an entire squadron’s speed in taking to the battlefield, while the second shows how our new mountain gun can be carried on mules. And quickly brought into action, of course.”

  Sazonov waved those off, his eyes glittering like a man with gold fever. “And the third?”

  “A direct comparison of the French 75mm with our new 155mm. With the winner standing next to the gun commanders.”

  “Nobody has a six-inch gun except a navy!” exploded Gareth, storming to his feet.

  Brian closed his eyes. Hell, 75mm was bigger than anything he’d encountered in Cuba. There they’d been damn happy to see anything larger than a rifle. But there was nothing to do now except play this hand out and see what Eisengau really was trying to sell. He blew out his breath and started considering his options for winning the match.

  Five minutes later, he was standing at his mark with a Mauser 98 rifle snugged up to his shoulder. The Spanish snipers had used the same rifle to shred American troops in Cuba. He’d seized one and fallen in love with it. Later he’d bought a newer model and had it customized.

  This one was six inches longer and heavier, not quite as smooth in action. But it could still feed bullets into the chamber more reliably than anybody else, and had damn good sights, too. All in all, it was the best damn military rifle in the world and he’d win with it.

  Sazonov had chosen a Mosin-Nagant, of course, since he was probably very familiar with that rugged Russian bastard. Brian had never fired one.

  Low barriers marked where saucers would soon emerge, rolling downhill, flinging themselves into the air like demented March hares. A faint breeze drifted across the field, then fell back, as unpredictable as the targets would be.

  Brian folded his lips together more tightly and waited. Excuses didn’t count, only results.

  The formal audience had been swelled by Eisengau’s uniformed military and the servants from within the building. Meredith stood near the balcony’s edge with Morro at her knee. She’d given him encouraging smiles and was even making conversation with Gareth.

  “Gentlemen!” The grand duke leaned on the balcony’s edge, casually grasping his starter’s pistol. “One last detail.”

  What else, you son of a bitch? Brian automatically clicked the safety on and spun to face the old devil who’d designed this hellish game.

  “Now that you’ve chosen the finest two military rifles in the world, please lay them down on the table beside you. Then exchange places with each other.”

  “Your Excellency…” Sazonov started to protest.

  “Yes, Count? If you don’t like these rules, I can always change them. For example, I can display the new 155mm cannon to my guests one at a time, starting with those who’ve come the farthest. Say, from across an ocean?”

  Sazonov’s fair skin turned an ugly mottled red.

  Brian very carefully laid the rifle down on the table and stepped back. While he hated to lose—and abhorred being manipulated—why the devil was Sazonov so extremely intent on winning this match? Wouldn’t everyone get the same information sometime today, anyway?

  But he added his own Gaelic curses when he picked up the damn heavy Russian rifle and tried to use the archaic sights. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what battles did the Tsar really expect to win with these?

  A sideways glance showed Sazonov quickly accustoming himself to the Mauser.

  Brian bit his cheek, remembering some of Uncle Morgan’s stories about stealing weapons from the Yankees as a guerrilla. He’d make do; he had to. Men had done damn good work with this rifle so he’d figure out how. He just had to do it fast, especially learning how to reload.

  “Gentlemen, are you ready?” Grand Duke Rudolph called all too soon.

  Brian held up his free hand and waited, the gun resting comfortably in the crook of his elbow.

  “Ready!”

  Brian brought the rifle up to his shoulder. Come on, help me; you’re the key to figuring out what that bastard is going to throw at my homeland.

  “Aim!” The Mauser was solid as a rock in Sazonov’s hands.

  Brian sighted down the Mosin-Nagant’s long barrel and prayed it would shoot straight.

  “Fire!”

  The first saucer ducked out of the enclosure and sped down the hill.

  BAM! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this gun was loud.

  The saucer hit a tuft of grass, leaped into the air, and fell onto its side, entirely untouched.

  The damn Russian rifle pulled left.

  Pull the bolt back, eject the spent cartridge, turn the bolt back into position.

  The next saucer was already whirling along.

  BAM! The rifle’s unusually violent slam into his shoulder was less startling this time.

  He clipped the rabbit, but the sturdy china didn’t break.

  CRACK! CRACK! Sazonov shattered two saucers in a row.

  Brian gritted his teeth and steadied his breathing.

  CRACK! One saucer exploded into dust, praise God.

  BAM! BAM! Did the china see the bullets coming and jump out of the way?

  He reloaded as quickly as possible, feeding five more rounds in from the top with the stripper clip. The technique was faster than the American Army’s insistence on individual rounds but nowhere near as rapid as the Mauser’s box magazine.

  CRACK! He’d hit that one dead on. He should do better now.

  His gun jammed when the thirteenth saucer whipped out of the starting gate. Patience, just a little patience; Sazonov wasn’t doing that much better.

  He coaxed the bolt open, crooning to the weapon under his breath, watching white dervish after white dervish escape over the green grass from the corner of his eye.

  Finally the rifle answered him. BAM! CRACK!

  For a long, long moment, the range lay empty of anything except gently waving leaves, prostrate china, and flecks of white. Men were cheering somewhere far away.

  Brian slowly clicked on the safety and set the Mosin-Nagant down on the table. It had served him far better than he’d expected.

  “Congratulations, gentlemen,” Grand Duke Rudolph called when both contestants faced him. “That was amazing shooting from both of you. However, I must proclaim Count Sazonov the winner, with ten kills to Mr. Donovan’s seven.”

  Brian advanced to shake hands with his opponent but Sazonov was already running up the stairs to speak to the grand duke. Rude son of a bitch.

  There was an appalled silence from the crowd before they clapped briefly and turned away. Poor sportsmanship was never rewarded in the finer circles.

  Darling Meredith’s face was white under her polite smile. But sh
e still forced her way through the crush to meet him. He held out his hands to her, his heart racing faster than it should be for a summer love affair.

  “I don’t understand why we can’t watch from your headquarters,” the German attaché complained querulously. “Surely we can see everything from its roof.”

  “Where the facilities are so much better,” put in Gareth’s boss.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but it was necessary to withdraw to this hostel for today’s demonstration.” Even the most unruly observer yielded to that steely tone and stepped onto wooden structure. The grand duke continued in a more cordial fashion, a glowing Zorndorf at his shoulder. “From here you can see the entire valley where we conduct maneuvers, from the railroad tracks over there to my headquarters farther down the mountain all the way to the lake at the foot.”

  The entire valley? Brian flicked a glance at Meredith. Like most of the foreign observers, she was standing on this rustic hostel’s balcony, high on the mountainside just above the railroad blockhouse.

  She’d never given a reason for why she’d had megrims after his match with Sazonov and he hadn’t pressed her. Given that caprice, he also hadn’t asked why she’d exchanged her very fashionable hat for such a plain straw boater on the journey here. The other women had kept their fashionable headgear. Some had even changed to more spectacular ones when they’d shed the morning’s heavy capes.

  Now Meredith glanced over at him and nodded definite agreement to the need for seeing the complete valley, all the while unpinning that boring bit of straw.

  Other than Grand Duke Rudolph and Zorndorf, she was the only person present who’d encountered the cannons before. Were they so massively dangerous she wouldn’t risk her headgear?

  Morro was pacing between her and the railing, always watching the railroad tracks in the distance.

  Brian decided to remain standing. If nothing else, the posture would let him order Zorndorf to stop leering at Meredith.

  “Take your seats and let’s have at it,” the Frenchman called. “It’s a beautiful day for enjoying great cannonades. We’ve already cheered the infantrymen’s attack upon those paper targets.”