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“Nay.”
She took a hesitant step. He laid the flask on the little table and went back to his whittling.
She leaned closer, examining it as if it were a sleeping beast, then picked it up and carefully uncorked it. Holding it away from her body, she bent and sniffed.
The odor assaulted her. She swiftly set it down. “Mon Dieu, you are a horrible man. That smells awful.”
His astonishing blue eyes lifted. He said nothing.
Beast.
She kicked her skirts impatiently out of the way and took another restless turn around the tent. He seemed entirely indifferent to her, as if she did not even exist, which was highly galling. They were intimately, painfully aware of each other, closer than a married couple, and not saying a word.
On one circuit around the space, her swirling skirt dragged against his knee. The fabric tugged on her belly and chest, slowing her step. The sensation traveled up her body in a wash of chills, shocking her. It was as if he'd reached out and pulled her back toward him.
He exhibited no response, as if he did not even realize he'd been touched.
It was infuriating.
“Do Irishmen do nothing to entertain themselves beside carving small pieces of wood into smaller pieces?” she demanded.
“Aye,” he said laconically. “We kill things.”
“Ha. This I can believe.” She paused. “What manner of things?”
“Usually arrogant, spoiled heiresses,” he replied without looking up.
“Again we speak of my arrogance.”
“'Tis so prominently on display.” For a moment all was quiet, then, his attention still fully on the wood, he said, “Do you sing?”
Her step hitched. “I beg your pardon?”
“Perhaps you might wish to sing to pass the time?”
He was making fun of her.
She folded her arms over her chest. “Yes, I have the very lay in mind. The Tale of The Irishman Who Whittled Away His Greatest Folly.”
His head remained bent, dark hair falling past his scruffy jaw, but she thought, maybe, she saw a faint dented line deepen on his cheek. A smile.
Oh dear.
She hesitated, then said in a tentative voice, as her hopes were very low indeed, “Have you ever heard of...chess?”
He stopped whittling. Went so far as to look up and pin her with a gaze so crystal-blue and cold, she might have suggested they thrust lance tips into puppies.
“I believe I've heard of it.”
She couldn't resist giving her gown a small flounce. “I am quite skilled at the game. A master, so I am told,” she added humbly.
“Are you now?”
“I am now.”
“Does that mean you wish to play...me?”
The light touch on “me,” the faint hesitation that preceded it, as if she was surely jesting, to wish to play his vaunted self, ignited a flood of hot indignation. And, unfortunately, recklessness.
