“Whiskey,” Hannah said.
Charlotte tried very hard not to wrinkle her nose at the proffered drink. “I’m afraid I am not accustomed to anything stronger than sherry. I would become very inebriated, very quickly.”
“That is the point.” Hannah wiggled the container impatiently, causing more of the vapors to escape.
Sophia popped into Charlotte’s vision. “What Hannah is so inelegantly trying to say is that drinking alcohol will help dull the pain when Matthew jabs your skin with a needle.”
“‘Jabs’ is not a very comforting word,” Hannah protested.
Sophia shot her cousin an irritated look. “You’re the one who started plying her with hard spirits without explaining why.”
“It’s a wonderful, peated elixir from the Highlands.” Hannah waggled the flask for emphasis. “Who wouldn’t wish for some?”
“It might be best if you both weren’t arguing,” Matthew interjected quietly. “Charlotte is losing more blood than I would like, and I must work fast.”
“I’ll take a sip,” Charlotte said hastily as she reached for the whiskey with her uninjured arm. If the liquor would alleviate some of the pain, she’d gladly down it, no matter how pungent.
Her first swallow triggered a coughing fit. The liquid burned down her throat, and her upper arm stung from the involuntary movement of her body. The second sip went down a trifle better, as did the third.
“How do you like it?” Hannah asked cheerfully, as if they were in the coffeehouse trying one of Sophia’s creations instead of jammed into a secret room with Charlotte’s blood dripping onto the rough-hewn floor. “Isn’t whiskey fiercely delicious?”
“Would you like my honest opinion?” Charlotte asked after she managed another fiery swig.
“Oh, most definitely,” Sophia said.
Charlotte still tried to answer as diplomatically as possible. “I must admit to preferring champagne.”
Sophia grinned. “Don’t we all?”
“Not me,” Hannah shook her head. “I don’t want ethereal drinks. The bolder the better.”
Charlotte took another mouthful, and it caused her to splutter. “Bold is one description for it.”
“The more you drink, the more you’ll like it,” Hannah said sagely.
A pleasant warmth kindled in Charlotte’s stomach and slowly spread through her body, making her think of immersing herself in a hot, freshly drawn bath. A sweet haze descended, and despite the circumstances, Charlotte giggled suddenly. “I do believe you are right, Hannah. Whiskey can be exceedingly delightful.”
Chapter Nineteen
For the entire carriage ride to Tavish’s estate, Charlotte had been staring at Matthew with what he could only describe as dreamy eyes. She was, of course, entirely pickled by the whiskey Hannah had given her. But still…
Her gaze moved languidly over his face, lingering first on his eyes. Next, it traced his jawline, looped around what he assumed were his ears, bounced over the flyaway pieces of his queue, and finally returned to his eyes.
As Charlotte thoroughly studied his irises, her lips spread into a soft, beckoning smile that caused the most vibrant sensations to riot through Matthew. The iridescent sparks only intensified when her lavish attention latched on to his mouth, because then she pursed hers as if in preparation for a kiss.
Matthew’s body had grown from warm to burning hot, and he was sorely afraid it might begin reacting in other, more inappropriate, ways. His heart quickened into a rhythm so sweet that it almost pained him with its honeyed force. Hope too—the fickle mirage—bloomed inside him as he dared to imagine that Charlotte’s reaction was not some passing, spirit-induced fancy, but a true affection.
The fact that Charlotte had risked her life to save his only compounded Matthew’s wishful longing and further muddled his feelings. He hated that she had been wounded saving him, but healso felt immensely grateful. He was more than a little in awe over Charlotte’s bravery—and the fact her courage had protected him. Her fierce strength, hidden under so many layers of refinement, had been one of the things that had always drawn him to her.
And now his want had transformed into raw need.
Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, they were not alone. The tipsy Charlotte was wedged between the Wick cousins while Matthew, with Pan perched on his shoulder, sat on the opposite bench. Beside him lounged Tavish, who had rushed to London after receiving a message about the trouble with the dragoons. Tavish had decided that the safest course of action was to travel to his estate rather than deposit a drunken, injured Charlotte at her parents’ home in the middle of the night. Hannah had sent a message to Alexander, telling him to arrange things so it appeared that Charlotte was staying at Lady Calliope’s.
Judging by the amused look on Hannah’s face and the curious one on Sophia’s, the Wick cousins were clearly aware of Charlotte’s keen interest. Matthew hadn’t hazarded a glance at Tavish in a long while, but his mentor was holding himself stiffly… as if he was desperately trying not to laugh.
Suddenly, without warning, Charlotte leaned forward… or rather she swayed vaguely in Matthew’s direction and then tipped over. Luckily, Hannah and Sophia caught her. Charlotte seemed oblivious to the fact she had almost tumbled onto the floor of Tavish’s well-sprung carriage. Instead, she stared up at Matthew, her expression like that of a blissful sprite.
“Your eyes are a marvel, Matthew.” She slurred her words slightly as she unsteadily jabbed a finger in his direction. Even though she mashed some syllables together and hung on to others too long, her overall elocution was remarkably clear.
