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His smile grew to encompass both sides of his mouth. The goblet remained in the air, a silent challenge. He had an uncommonly handsome smile. How unfortunate.
She reached for the goblet, careful not to touch the winding dark flames that licked across his hand and fingers. She closed her fingers around the stem and tugged.
He did not let go.
She looked up, surprised to find she wasn’t surprised, but…prepared.
Surprise did not haunt his features either. So, neither of them was surprised. And neither of them was letting go.
No doubt there were several paths of wisdom through this moment. Unfortunately, Katarina knew none of them. Wisdom had fled. It was as if she’d been blindfolded, dropped in a foreign land, and told to reach the shoreline. Diplomacy and experience meant nothing; previous knowledge was of no use. There was only Aodh Mac Con and his desires, and how she met them.
Something small and fiery charged through her, a miniature lightning bolt.
Surely, clinging to the wine cup just now was not wise.
Yet she did not let go. She could not. Her fingers were locked on the goblet’s stem, her gaze on his. There developed the distinct possibility they might go to battle right here, right now, over its gilded rim.
“If you ever take my blade again, lass, death will be the least of your worries,” he said amiably.
“I shall recall that to mind.”
“Do,” he urged, then uncurled his fingers, releasing the cup. “’Ware,” he murmured. “’Tis strong.”
It was an ambiguous victory, but what could she do but claim the spoils? “I consider myself warned,” she said, and lifted the cup to drink his wine, his soft, exquisite—St. Vincent, it is velvety—wine.
A half smile played at his mouth as he watched her, one dark brow slightly raised. It was not so much a challenge as…something else.
Which, unfortunately, triggered a something else inside of her, not unlike the reverberations from a struck bell.
Papa would have called it anger, Mamma would have named it pride, but Katarina knew precisely what it was: danger.
She drank the entire cup of wine without stopping, slowly, holding his ice-blue gaze over its rim the entire time. She drank it down until there was nothing left inside but dregs. Exceptional dregs.
The half smile became a whole smile, and he nodded slowly. As if she’d said something. Or rather, told him something.
That could not be good.
She set the cup down on the table, careful not to come any closer to his body, while demonstrating she did not care how close she came to his body. He rested a hip against the table and watched.
“That was speedily done,” he said, a faintly admiring tone to his words. “More swiftly than I’ve ever seen a cup of wine downed.” He reflected a moment. “Even by Cormac.”
“I am sure your Cormac has other talents,” she said modestly. “You’ll be pleased to hear I am also quite skilled with a cup of ale.”
He laughed, a low, entirely masculine sound. “I am impressed.”
She waved her hand. “Do not be. It is not a terribly useful talent.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I would say that depends entirely upon the occasion.”
She studied him. “Would you? And upon what occasions do you deem it wise to render yourself witless, Aodh Mac Con?”
Certes not the wisest thing to say, but then, this moment was not made for wisdom. It was parry and thrust, stand and deliver or die. That was life over the Pale in Ireland: the edge of a knife.
Especially when one had an Irish warrior standing in one’s bedchamber.
One who was…smiling at her.
He stood, hip against the table, arms crossed, head tilted slightly to the side, not answering, just…watching her, as a hawk might do, if hawks smiled.
