Vale wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bloody hell, that’s vile.”
Cheers went up from somewhere behind them.
“Your turn, Lord Deverell,” the table host murmured politely.
Deverell pulled a face. “A toast, then,” he drawled, selecting one a yellowish shade. “May the best man win.” He gulped down the glass, and a few seconds later, a tremor cut through the man’s hand. He struck down the glass down harder than Price, coughed once, then forced a chuckle. “Harmless.”
Harmless his arse.
The table host’s brows arched, expression unreadable. “Perhaps.” The man turned his gaze to Bishop. “Your turn, sir.”
Bishop didn’t bother inspecting the remaining glasses. He reached for the one nearest and brought it to his mouth.
“Not even going to sniff it first?” Vale taunted, sweat forming on his brows.
“No need.” Bishop tipped the contents back, the dark liquid sliding over his tongue like oil and ash. It hit the back of his throat, slimy and bloody disturbing. For a fraction of a second, his stomach rebelled.
“Well?” Blackwell demanded. “That one looked the worst of them all.”
He set the glass down. “I’ve tasted worse.” Lived through worse.
Think of anything else but the taste.
Her.
Think ofher.
All or nothing.
Harcourt was next, his nostrils flaring as he tipped his pale grey choice back with a scowl. His face twisted even more. He finished with, “By God’s grace, what the devil was that?”
“Finally, my turn.” Blackwell snatched the remaining glass, a white sludge, raised it in mock salute to the room, and downed the contents as though it were water. Some members shouted their approval. The man shuddered, then grinned. “Reminds me of rations at sea.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll live through it,” Vale mocked.
“Always do,” Blackwell shot back.
Bishop said nothing. The burn of her turned feverish. He glanced up and met her gaze, not missing the recognition that teased the edges of her expression. They stared at each other as Blackwell launched into a recounting of all the bitter rations he’d tasted on the waters.
She looked away.
Not dismissively. Rather, if he were correct, as though she couldn’tbear the memory of him. Or perhaps couldn’t put the man he’d become in the place of the boy she once knew. He couldn’t blame her for either.
His fingers flexed beneath the table.
One thing was beyond dispute. Her awareness of him. And his awareness of her.
The past pressed against the present, taunting. He hadn’t planned to expose himself so soon, though some would hardly consider twelve years soon. Crane had saved his life, and he’d owed the man. Since he’d found a wife and happiness, Bishop had already decided to probe whether it was time to reclaim what belonged to him rightfully. Of course, he’d never thought he’d ever get back all he’d lost.
And yet, by some damn miracle, he had a chance to recapture her hand.
He had to win.
No other possible outcome existed.
“Round two,” the host declared.
She should notbe staring at him. They’d already locked gazes once. The force of that single meeting of looks alone had knocked the breath from her lungs. And in that breathless beat, time folded in on itself. The gallery had swayed. Or maybe she had. She’d averted her gaze, but something—an itch between her shoulders, a whisper behind her ear, a whisper withhis voice—had drawn her gaze back.
