Her tone was as crisp and starchy as fresh bedsheets. Truth be told, he’d always liked their banter, even when it bordered on bickering. With her sitting atop him, he appreciated it even more. Although he was curious…whywasPeabody perched upon him as if she hadn’t a care in the world?
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
She straightened her shoulders, and the way she wobbled, nearly losing her seat upon him, gave her away. He clamped his hands on her waist to steady her. At the same time, he studied her more closely. The pink in her cheeks and unrestrained gleam in her eyes had an obvious cause.
“You’re drunk,” he said with dawning amusement.
“I am not.”
“Well, you ain’t sober.”
She frowned at him. “I can handle my drink…”
To Hawker’s everlasting delight, his prim and proper colleague let out a tiny belch. The delicate sound was accompanied by the unmistakable fumes of cognac. The indomitable Pearl Peabody had a vice after all.
“At least when you overindulge, you choose the good stuff.” He cocked a brow. “Care to share?”
Heaving a sigh, she swatted at his hands. He let go of her waist, and she immediately clambered off him. Although he regretted her absence, he told himself it was for the best. His honor would not permit him to take advantage of a woman in her cups. Moreover, his personal rule was to avoid entanglements in the workplace.
As he sat up, he saw that Peabody had been drinking whilst practicing her fighting moves. The heads of decapitated wooden dummies littered the sparring ring, and the target board had a dozen daggers planted in the innermost circle. The woman had a fierce streak, and he knew this from first-hand experience, having been trounced by her during demonstration sessions for the Angels. Of course, he hadn’t really fought back; he couldn’t hit a female, especially not one who stood a full foot and a half shorter than him and was half his weight.
From beneath half-lowered eyelids, he watched as Peabody bent over to retrieve her knitting bag. Her linen trousers revealed that she had a fine, heart-shaped bottom. He jerked his gaze back to her face as she returned. Kneeling gracefully beside him on the mats, she pulled out a bottle of cognac.
“And ’ere I thought you carried needles and yarn in that bag,” he said.
“A bag, like a person, ought to be capable of more than one function.”
His lips twitched. Even sauced, Peabody sounded as dignified as the Queen.
Brow furrowing, she plucked a small glass from her satchel. “I only brought the one.”
He snagged the bottle from her. Opening it, he took a swig, enjoying the smooth burn.
She wrinkled her nose. “You have the manners of a cave-dweller. Were you raised by wolves?”
Little did she know how close she came to the truth. The Reids were predators one and all. He’d been lucky to get out alive…although not unscathed. The muscles behind his eye patch twitched, a reflex to hold on to something long gone.
“It tastes better from the source,” he said with a shrug.
“How am I supposed to enjoy the cognac now that you’ve contaminated it?”
“Like this.” Reaching over, he held the bottle to her pursed lips. “Try it, Peabody. Relax and let your hair down.”
“My hairisdown.”
Peabody’s literal nature was part of her charm. It made teasing her even more enjoyable.
“Prove it,” he coaxed. “Take a drink.”
“I do not have to prove anything to you.”
Nonetheless, she snatched the bottle from him, and after a pause, tipped it to her lips.
“Doesn’t it taste better that way?” he murmured.
“The cognac tastes excellent because it was aged twenty-five years.”
