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~*~
Supper was venison cooked over the fire. The shuffling, snorting, cracking sounds coming from the opposite side of the clearing told a tale of the drakes enjoying a supper of their own: a feast which Reggie had no intention of witnessing. Bellies full, men began moving to their tents and bedrolls.
Reggie wasn’t sleepy, though.
Despite the brandy he’d been sipping the past hour, he felt more jittery than he had on the road. The heat from the fire touched his face and hands, but he was still cold – the sort of deep, internal cold that had nothing to do with the temperature.
He tipped his flask up again, but found it empty. “Damn,” he murmured.
“In need of a refill?” a now-unfortunately-familiar voice asked, just before Connor settled onto the log beside him. A canteen appeared before him, old battered tin and hide, the cork already dangling from its string. The hand that gripped it was long-fingered, rough from the outdoors, with dirt caked into the nailbeds. The hand of an outlaw, and not a lord.
Then again, Reggie didn’t have a lord’s hands either.
The nerves jangling in his belly got the better of his dislike, and he took the canteen with a murmured thanks. A sip proved it was crude whiskey – strong crude whiskey – rather than his preferred brandy. He lowered the canteen, sputtering and wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his robe.
Connor chuckled. “Careful there, my lord. A little goes a long way with that stuff.”
Obviously, Reginald started to retort, but had to swallow down the burn in his throat, first.
Distantly, but still audible, another lion screamed, the awful sound echoing off tree trunks and down through gullies and streambeds. Just as it had before, it left Reginald shivering with gooseflesh – and brought all the day’s frustration and anger back a rolling boil, one hastened by alcohol.
He turned a glare on Connor. “Why do you keep doing that?”
Firelight caught the silver and amber highlights in a messy fall of dark hair. Licked and danced over eyes gleaming with mischief, and a mouth curved in amusement. “Doing what?”
Oh, Reggie hated him. “‘My lord’ this and ‘my lord’ that, mocking me with it, when you’re a bloody lord yourself. We’re on the way to your bloody manor, aren’t we?”
Unbothered, Connor rested an elbow on his knee, and his temple on his raised fist. “You know,” he mused, “you had such a reputation for being all flashy and suave with the ladies, but you’ve been wired tight as a brand new piano since we met.”
Reggie knew, as a goader himself, and a good one, that the most delicious result of a good jab was getting a rise out of the other party. He knew that, but couldn’t stop himself from bristling. “Last I checked, sir, you’re not a woman, much less a lady, so I’m not sure why you expected to be on the receiving end of anything flashy or suave.” He punctuated this with a long swig of whiskey, and barely managed not to choke and spray it out of his nose.
“Hm. Obviously.”
“Better than being a coward who plays dead and gives up his rightful seat,” Reggie snapped, knowing it was a vicious and low retort. Oh well. The whiskey was hitting him like a kick from a mule and Connor was so…so…
“Come on,” Connor said, cajoling, the bastard. “I’ve shared my good home brew with you and you’ve given over to insults.”
“Fucking insufferable.”
Oh. He hadn’t meant to say that aloud.
Connor grinned, a flash of even, white teeth in the glow of the fire. “My first wife certainly thought so. The ‘fucking’ part wasn’t so bad, though, if you’re interested.”
There it was. Reggie had been waiting for the inevitable moment when Connor’s teasing and provoking stepped out of the shadows and revealed itself as blunt, forward invitation. This was that moment, and, somehow, Reggie still found himself shocked.
The whiskey-heat simmering in his belly rushed up his throat and flooded his face; his breath hitched, and the old, gnarly scar tissue that circled his neck throbbed beneath his high collar. Connor’s grin edged into something predatory, and all the heat in Reggie’s body flashed to ice.
Away. He had to get away.
He shoved the canteen into Connor’s chest – “oi, what are you–?” and shoved to his feet. Shaky. Wavering. Gods, the bonfire spun before him, and the ground tilted under his feet thanks to too much drink and the dizzying effects of panic. Shit, he was going to–
Fall.
Right into Connor’s lap.
“Oof. What – hey now – you’re going to–”
Reggie scrambled, flailed, and was finally gripped around the waist by strong hands, righted, and plopped back onto the log beside Connor. His vision swam, and his throat was so tight he couldn’t breathe; the rope dug into his windpipe, and he was choking, choking, choking…
