“Oh, do ye like it? It’s new. Here’s a wee bit of advice, Peter, if ye want it.”
“I’m listening.”
“Complimenting women’s beauty is all fine and good, but it gets stale very quickly. Do ye really think, when ye tell a beautiful woman that she’s beautiful, that it’s the first time she’d ever heard that?”
Peter pursed his lips, considering. “That’s an excellent point. What do ye recommend, then? I see ye are applying yer healing skills to my clumsy wooing, by the way.”
“I’m a woman of many talents.” Emma drained her ale and set it down with a clack.
Thomas was at the top of the stairs now, unashamedly watching them, his arms folded across his chest.
“Ye want to compliment her on something specific. Hair, features, and clothes are fine, but again, all that proves is that ye have eyes, ye know?” she continued, feeling the ale start to go to her head. She ought to have eaten something with it, but it was too late now.
“Oh, aye. Go on.”
“Talk about something unique to her. Her intelligence, her capability, her skills. Her personality, maybe, and her mannerisms. Good compliments can woo a lady, but ye have to be good at it.”
Peter chuckled at that. “I like the idea of being good at wooing, but really, I only need to be good at wooing one person. The woman who’ll become me wife, of course.”
“Ah, see, that’s a good one. Women like that.”
Peter burst out laughing, shaking his head. “Ye are incorrigible, Emma Gallagher.”
She grinned at that. She might not be interested in flirting with him, but it was good to make someone laugh. It was good to feel like she was part of a conversation that was actually enjoyable. Like she wasn’t being compared to, say, Astrid.
At least their necklaces weren’t actually matching. It would be too much if Emma’s necklace was just one in a long line of identical jewels, distinguished only by their colors.
And then, things took a turn for the worst.
Encouraged by her light manner and the way their conversation had turned easy, Peter leaned forward and casually placed his hand on her lower back.
He’d obviously been planning the move for some time and covered it up by shifting closer, under the pretense of leaning against the railing.
Emma hesitated, trying to formulate how she would politely but firmly tell him to remove his hand. She glanced up and found that he was staring directly into her eyes.
“Emma, look, I know that ye are betrothed, I know that. It’s just… well, I feel a connection between us. Is it so strange?”
She opened her mouth, trying to think of what, exactly, she would say to let him know that there was no connection. That there would never be a connection.
And then, something smashed on the ground behind Peter, making them both flinch and spin around.
Thomas had come right up behind Peter, standing only inches away. He’d smoothly swept Peter’s empty tankard off the banister onto the wooden floor. The tankard had smashed, leftover dregs of ale seeping out of the wreckage and onto the floor.
Peter blinked, recognition dawning. He lifted his chin and kept his hand on Emma’s back.
Oh, wonderful.He means to make a claim.
“That was my drink,” he said mildly.
Thomas’s expression was livid, his eyes flat and cold. He glanced at Emma just briefly, and the look in his eyes sent an oddly pleasant shiver down her spine, something heated and anticipatory.
When he spoke, he didn’t snarl exactly, but somehow his teeth seemed longer, more vulpine.
Wolfish, even.
“Me hand slipped,” Thomas responded, his voice a low growl.
Emma noticed for the first time that the three of them were alone on the landing. She wasn’t sure whether the other guests had simply chosen to move on or whether Thomas’s approach, in a cloud of anger, had driven them away.
