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“What’s your poison?” she asked Ravenwood.
He turned away from the window he’d been studiously staring out of since they left the White Bear coaching inn. “Pardon?”
“Old French cognac, Scotch whisky, rum, gin... I’m practically a traveling tavern.”
“I’m partial to Scotch whisky,” he said with a bemused look.
She selected the whisky and concentrated on pouring it into the cup instead of onto the upholstery.
She handed him the cup. “Peatmoor Old Scotch whisky.” She poured a generous portion for herself. “If the bottle’s to be believed it ‘carries the wild rough scent of the Highland breeze.’”
“To your health.” Ravenwood lifted his cup.
They swallowed at the same time, their gazes locked. She downed the fiery liquid without sputtering or saying any of the foul words that sprang to mind.
She’d been practicing.
She wiped her sleeve across her lips. “Another?”
Ravenwood arched one brow, shadows playing over the keen edges of his handsome face. “Why not?”
The whisky burned going down her throat but she approved of the mellow warmth it spread through her belly.
“Ah.” She swirled the dregs in her cup. “Puts one in mind of a good stiff breeze to lift a bonnie Highland laddie’s... tartan,” she said with her best Scottish burr.
Ravenwood choked on his drink. “Have you even been to Scotland?”
“No, but they make delicious whisky and the men wear skirts. What’s not to like?”
“They’re called kilts.”
“Whatever they’re called, I hear they wear nothing underneath. A Highland breeze might be the beginning of a very special show.” She tilted her head, glancing lasciviously at his lap. “For a lady’s eyes only.”
The remainder of his whisky spilled down his cravat.
She hid a smile behind her silver cup. Her plan was off to a capital start. She was definitely out-rogueing him by a healthy margin.
“You really must be more careful, Your Grace. That’s very expensive imported contraband.”
“I’ve Scottish blood on my mother’s side.” He hooked one ankle over the opposite knee and leaned back in his seat, the very picture of aristocratic nonchalance. “I’ve been known to wear a kilt on occasion.”
If he’d been wearing a kilt, the foot-propped-on-the-knee move would have given her a very entertaining show indeed.
Devil take her wicked imagination.
“Is it warm in here?” She fanned herself with the spy novel she’d brought to read on the journey. Actually it was quite chilly. She had woolen blankets tucked around her and heated coals in a brass warmer at her feet.
“When did you start drinking whisky?” he asked. “Doesn’t seem up your alley.”
“You don’t knowwhat’sup my alley,” she said archly.
“Apparently not.” He ran the edge of the cup over his chin, drawing her attention to the stubble of whiskers already shading his angular jaw. Why did that faint, shadowy evidence of his masculinity make her want to kiss him again?
Must be the whisky.
He spread his arms over the back of the carriage seat. They stretched nearly the entire length of the seat. His eyes were the color of the whisky in her glass.
He caught her eye and his lips slid into a slow smile.
