“Aye, well, I used to be considered something of a master,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
A smile pulled at her mouth to hear her words tossed back at her. “Did you, now?” she said, not looking up.
“I did, now.”
It sounded as though he might be smiling too, but she did not look up to learn the truth. She did not need to see any more of his small, handsome smiles. She kept her gaze studiously on the chessboard.
It was unfortunate, then, that at the very edge of her circle of vision, she could see a portion of a wide male chest, and even more unfortunate that, where the soft tunic was unlaced at the collar, one could see a dark swirl of masculine hair.
If she tilted her gaze downward just the smallest bit, and moved her body to the side, she could espy a bent knee and his muscular thigh, clad in dark gray hose, and....
Best not to go any further.
She refocused her eyes firmly on the chess pieces, but they kept drifting toward the silver flask, which was sitting on the table in front of him. Every so often, he took a sip from it.
Finally, she pointed. “What is inside there?”
He glanced at it. “Uisce breatha.”
“And what is this complicated-sounding thing?”
“Water of life. Whisky.” He paused. “Would you want a taste?” He laid it on the table.
“Water of life?” she echoed. “Pah, it smelled like death.”
He clucked his tongue and reached for it. “Just as well you don't try it. It would be too much for a woman from England,” he said, taking it back.
She reached out. Her hand froze an inch above his wrist, hovering there. She could almost feel the heat of him.
Do not touch.
He opened his hand, offering the flask. Be my guest, his hand said. His hand was very hospitable.
Her face flushed. The rest of him was not at all hospitable, no matter how piled with softness his little bed might be. His whole being was comprised of hardness. Armor, muscles, intent. He was a warrior. Everything about him was meant to conquer, to make others fear and submit.
“I am not frightened of you,” she announced, a trifle too loudly.
The firelight from the candles on the table reflected in his blue eyes, which no longer looked blue as night fell, just very, very dark. Black like opals.
“I am glad to hear it, my lady.” He smiled. “Only of my whisky.”
She arched a brow. “Is that a challenge?”
“If you want to be challenged,” he said in a slow drawl.
Want to be? She was dying to be challenged. To live, to be met, to be seen. She'd been courted by some of the richest, most noble men in England, and not one of them had made her feel the way she felt right now, with this man’s eyes on her.
She glanced at the innocent silver flask of devil-drink. “I will have some of this ‘life water,’” she announced.
He arched up a brow, waiting.
“Please,” she said. The word fell clumsily from her lips, but it seemed to suffice. He slid the flask to her side of the table.
She picked it up and held it aloft in the air. “And it will not kill me?” she confirmed.
“We can only hope,” he said, laughter in his reply. Whether he hoped it would or would not, wasn't clear.
She took a deep, preparatory breath and threw the drink back in her throat.