It was a question he'd asked himself, and one that Connor registered with only a portion of his mind. The crux of his attention, much like his bedchamber, was otherwise occupied. While the lass was heavy of build and plain of features, she had the most captivating eyes he'd ever seen. Crisper and clearer than a meadow in early summer. Would her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiled? Would the green depths sparkle like shards of sunlight glinting off a tumultuous sea?
It was not something Connor would be discovering any time soon. The lass was not smiling now. Exactly the opposite. It was a glare she'd fixed on him, and fixed on him hard. As for sparkling... well, the only shimmer of emotion he could detect glistening in those pretty green eyes of hers was one of sheer fury.
He drew in a measured breath, releasing it with equally forced leisure. Connor hesitated. His frown deepened as his chin lifted and he angled his head to the side. His eyes narrowed as he inhaled again, this time slowly, assessively. One dark brow shot high in his wide forehead as his gaze raked the wench. "If I'm not mistaken—and when it comes to this," he added carefully, "believe me, lass, I ne'er am—'tis the scent o' the best Scots whisky this side of the Teviot that I'm smelling. Ye wouldn't happen to have been tiddling... would ye?"
Gabrielle averted her gaze to the flames crackling in the hearth at the foot of her bed. Her shrug was implausibly tight. "Tiddling?"
"Drinking."
"Oh. Um, well, I may have had a sip or two of the brew Mairghread left by my bed," she replied evasively. "But I'd not call that 'tiddling.'"
Connor reached out and grasped the goblet. Half the contents were gone. He lifted it to his nose, inhaled deeply. A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. "'Tis a toddie."
"There, you see? I told you I wasn't drink—er, tiddling."
"Lass, this toddie has double the normal portion of whisky in it. Did ye not notice that when you drained half of it?"
"Now that you mention it, I did think it a bit potent," she agreed.
Connor's grin broadened. She hadn't lied and said she wasn't the one who'd drank it. For some reason, that pleased him. He leaned to the side and started to set the goblet back down on the table but changed his mind. "Here, now be a good lass and drink up the rest. There's nae better cure for the fever that's making yer cheeks ruddy and yer eyes o'er bright. Go on now. Slainte mhar!"
Gabrielle sneezed, sniffled, then accepted the goblet with shaky fingers. And what, she wondered, would The Black Douglas say if he found out the color in her cheeks and sparkle in her eyes had precious little to do with her fever... and everything to do with him?
The silky heat of his body seeped through the woolen plaid and sheepskin beneath, through the thin linen shift to caress her hip. She only wished she could blame her too vivid awareness of this man's closeness on the whisky she'd consumed! But her conscience wouldn't allow such a deception; instead, a small, nagging voice inside forced her to recognize the thought for the feeble, worthless excuse it was.
Gabrielle lifted the goblet to her lips and foolishly inhaled. The fumes assailed her immediately, making her eyes sting and water. Wrinkling her nose, she held her breath and took two hearty gulps, leaving only a quarter of the goblet's contents. Her mouth and throat were much too numb now to notice the whisky's passing as it slid smoothly down to the warm pool gathering in her stomach.
She started to pull the goblet away from her mouth. To her surprise, Connor reached out and, with the tip of a index finger, tilted it so the remainder of the liquor flooded into her mouth.
Gabrielle choked down the rest of the drink, glowering at him all the while. Outrage simmered to her core, swift and strong and hot. As if his forcing her to finish the drink wasn't humiliating enough...
God blast it, the heathen was laughing at her!
Well, mayhap not laughing exactly, but he was undoubtedly smiling. Small creases shot out from the weathered corners of his sharp gray eyes. Two more bracketed his sensuously thin lips. Since she could detect only those few laugh lines, Gabrielle guessed that The Black Douglas wasn't a man normally given to laughter. Pity. The gesture softened his harshly sculpted features and made him appear quite attractive in the soft bath of flickering orange firelight.
Gabrielle swallowed hard, twice, wrinkling her nose at the sharp aftertaste of whisky and lemon on her tongue. Good Lord, what had gotten into her? Had she just thought this man devilishly attractive? And had she truly been on the verge of smiling back at him?!
She had, on both counts.
It was the whisky. Aye, that explained it! The potent brew had gone straight to her head and addled her normally good sense. She seized on the excuse. What other reason could there be for so blatantly uncharacteristic a reaction?
Lowering the goblet, she opened her mouth to say something.
What might those words have been?
It was something Gabrielle was destined to always wonder about... for in the same instant Connor reached out and, with the pad of his thumb, wiped away the amber drop of whisky clinging to her chin.
The contact was shocking.
Thunder echoed outside, a distant rumbling now that the storm had begun to abate. Rain continued to batter the glass windowpane. A log in the hearth shifted, rolled, popping and snapping as it volcanoed up a spray of sparks.
Gabrielle was oblivious to it all. Her attention had tunneled inward, until she could notice nothing beyond the warm, rough feel of Connor Douglas's thumb whisking over the much softer, sensitive flesh of her chin.
The drop of whisky had been absorbed almost immediately by the battle-calloused tip of his thumb, yet his touch lingered and disturbed, soothed and burned.
Her gaze lifted, locking with his. Was it her imagination, or were his eyes a shade darker than she remembered them being only a few short minutes before?
"Ye need rest," Connor said finally, his voice oddly low and thick. As he spoke, he turned his hand and stroked the line of her jaw with his knuckles.