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Amelia’s eyes widened.
Damn her. Damn everyone.
He took a few deep breaths through his nose and straightened his coat; fiddled with his cuffs. When he could, he lifted his chin and said, “Don’t tell me what Connor says. Ever. Unless it’s to do with the war. Socialize with him all you want, but he’s nothing but a greasy outlaw to me. A reluctant ally in all this mess.”
He spun on his heel and marched off down the path, shaking all over as the sweat bloomed beneath his clothes.
~*~
“What in the gods’ names did you do to him?” Amelia asked, setting a tray down on the table at Connor’s elbow. She’d found him, as expected, in the small salon that was in the best repair: dusty, and a bit disordered, but one which the Sels had clearly used for themselves, what with its view of the long front drive and manor gates. She’d started a fire in the hearth, earlier, and Connor had lit candles; drag marks in the dust proved he’d hauled two wingback chairs and a small table over in front of the fireplace, where he now sat, one leg propped over the other, elbows on the chair arms: a lordly pose, despite his woodland garb.
He turned to regard the tray. “What’s this?”
“Brandy. They hadn’t cleaned out the cellars completely – but I think that’s only because they were so thoroughly stocked.” She’d never seen so many bottles and casks in one place before.
He smirked. “A man has to deal with being a lord somehow.” He took the bottle, and poured them both generous portions in the mismatched glasses she’d managed to rustle up in the kitchen.
“My lady.” He offered her one with a flourish – ruined by the fingerless leather gloves he still wore.
She snorted, but accepted it, and settled into the other chair, which smelled faintly of old, male sweat. She wrinkled her nose and took a sip. It was good brandy.
During a party, there would have been an abundance of candles, so that the whole room was glowing and overwarm. Tonight, only a handful were lit: just enough to light the way from the door to the hearth, but too few to chase back the shadows. With his hair unbound, and the firelight dancing over his face, Connor presented an odd portrait: regal features cloaked in a woodsman’s visage. This look suited him, she thought; the role of the gentleman of the manor had always seemed an ill fit, like he couldn’t wait to shed his dinnerware at the end of the night.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.
He’d been staring into the fire, but glanced toward her now. “Which question?”
“The one about Reginald. What did you say to him to make him so” – he’d seemed frightened, truly – “prickly,” she settled on.
He chuckled against the rim of his glass. “When is he not prickly? He was probably born with a stick up his ass.”
“I’m being serious. When I mentioned you, he stormed away, thoroughly rattled. What happened on your trip through the woods?”
He sighed, smile dropping off his face. “He’s only being sensitive.”
“Connor.”
“Gods, woman. What does it matter to you?”
“Because we’re organizing a war effort together, and I don’t want it to get mucked up by infighting because someone insulted someone’s mother or some other such rot.”
“Fine, fine, don’t bow up your back.” He patted the air in a soothing gesture that left her bristling.
“I won’t if you answer my question.”
He made a show of rolling his eyes and sighing. “Can’t two chaps have a conversation out in the woods without anyone needing to know all the details?”
“No.”
He sent her a long, narrow look, and sipped his brandy. “It’s a bloody good thing I never took your mother up on her offer of your hand. You’d have driven me even harder toward the bottle.”
She stared at him.
He drained his glass. “Fine.” Poured another. “Your young Reggie has got a bad case of the Death Tremors.”
“The what?”
“Death Tremors. It’s what they call it when you nearly die, and then can’t get over it. Messes with your head.” He gestured to his own. “Makes you shake and sweat and act like an absolute moron.”
