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THE ROOM WAS lit with candles, and a fire burned bright. She’d pulled the windows shut and shuttered them, so the room was warm, rolling in shadow and flickering, amber firelight.
“I thought I was a bastard,” Aodh said as he stepped into the room. “As did everyone within three miles of the castle.”
She cleared her throat delicately. “I may have overstated the matter.” Then she peered pointedly over his shoulder at Bran.
Aodh followed her gaze, tipped his head and sent Bran on his way.
She stepped away from the door and drifted into the room. He followed and set the cups on the table. A moment later, a knock came, and a small pitcher was brought in.
Katarina smiled at her servant, Agatha, who seemed bursting with happiness to see her. She bobbed a curtsey, then brought the whisky over. “It is excellent, my lady.” Agatha lowered her voice a bit. “I tasted it to be sure.”
Katarina smiled her thanks. Agatha set it on the table with a bow, nodded to Aodh, and backed out. The door shut.
Aodh watched Katarina pour the drink into his glasses. She handed him one and said companionably, “I saw a messenger with Cunningham’s livery arrive this morning.”
He blew out a sigh and sat back with the drink. “Aye. He’ll join us if the others do. Same old story.”
“They are not so bold as you,” was her encouraging reply. “It is a matter of vision.” And she took a dainty sip of the whisky.
He took a swallow too, then pushed to the edge of his chair and crooked a finger beneath her chin, pulled her closer until their noses almost touched.
“What are you up to, lass?”
“Nothing,” she whispered.
His gaze fell to the drink in her hand, then he curled his fingers around hers, made her lift the cup and drink it down.
She shuddered faintly as the heat moved down her throat, into her belly like fire. “Well,” she said softly, “shall I get us another?”
His lips brushed hers, his tongue sliding into her whisky-soaked mouth, then he pulled back. “Aye.”
Drugged not from the drink but from Aodh’s careless kiss, hot and muddleheaded, she poured them two more.
“Come sit on my lap,” he said, reaching for her.
She tumbled down onto his thighs, his arm curved around her back. She leaned close and said, “I’m glad you came up.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I’ve no idea why. Although I see you’ve developed a strange and sudden affection for whisky.”
She shifted on his lap. “This is Rardove whisky. Do you like it?”
“It’s quite fine.”
“Indeed it is. It produced m
ore income than the wool last year,” she said proudly, then lifted her glass. “To Rardove whisky.” She drank and smiled at him.
He sniffed his cup with an excess of suspicion. “I thought you didn’t drink the stuff.”
“I do not. Usually. But that does not mean I am unable to.” Or that she couldn’t hold her own when asked to. Indeed, it was one of her hidden talents: she could drink anything, in great quantities, with almost no effect.
He hesitated, then sipped.
“Oh, don’t be scared of it, Aodh,” she teased.
“You think I’m scared of whisky?” He sounded indignant.
She shook her head. “No. I think you’re scared of me.”
