Page 98 of Immortal Rose

“Drink of the—” I had to press my lips into a tight line to stop the giggle. “Drink of the Deep.”

I had expected anger—irritation at the very least—at what he no doubt saw as a foolish risk, but just then, Foxcourt looked as relaxed as I felt. He slid an arm over the back of his chair, lifting the glass to his lips to take an experimental sip. My eyes dipped to the hollow at the base of his throat again, then down farther still, to the muscles that shifted beneath the soft lawn.

“Do you know,” he began, “I was rather beside myself, not knowing where you and Reddy had gone, until people started bellowing down the streets about a lady drinking a captain under the table. Was it fourteen glasses or forty? There was little consensus on that.”

“Fourteen,” I informed him smugly, leaning back against my seat. The mobcap slumped over my left eye, forcing me to shove it back up again. “I could have done forty.”

“Mm.” Again with that warm, amused hum. “This is one of those rare instances I might have preferred you be a fainthearted miss. It would have spared you the splendors of the Bitter End.”

“I haven’t had the luxury of being timid,” I informed him.

Foxcourt had never looked more appealing than he did now, his dark hair tousled, the hard lines of his face softened with the scruff of a night beard, his big body sprawled out in his chair, unthreatened by any of the men around us. In fact, he looked utterly satisfied with himself, his top lip wet with rum, tantalizing. I had the sudden sense of what it would be to suck it between mine, how he would taste . . .

The curve of his sinful mouth deepened. I felt it flutter my soul as surely as if those lips had smiled against my skin. The liquid heat in my belly spread through me. I pressed my thighs tight together beneath the table, but there was no quelling it, no mistaking it.

Hell’s tits, I thought miserably.

This was hell, wasn’t it? That my body could heat and melt for one it could never—would never—have. Was it that, then? The allure of the impossible?

“I fear you may be a legend around these parts for years to come,” Foxcourt said, hooking a booted foot over his knee. He seemed unaware that it had begun to bob in time with the ballad. He seemed unaware of anything but me, in fact.

A flush touched my cheeks, and I fanned it with my hand. I should have taken off my blasted cloak.

“Rather warm in here,” I muttered, only a bit pathetically.

“Is it all alcohol you’re immune to, or only rum?” he asked curiously.

“All of it,” I said. Though immune wasn’t entirely correct. “It makes me silly more than anything.”

Silly was the only word for the way my eyes kept returning to that hollow at the base of his throat.

“Is that true for all fairyborn?” he asked.

“I only know it was true for my mother and me.”

Foxcourt’s eyes dimmed, lowering to the table. “I suppose that’s why the fairies drink only their own wine in the old stories.”

“Or—” I began, only for him to raise a hand, silencing me.

Wearing a uniform stolen true,

He became one of the enemy crew,

And when Captain Durand went to the head,

A needle did paint his fine coat red.

“That one,” he said, closing his eyes with relish. “That is my favorite verse.”

I let out an unladylike snort he seemed to enjoy. Foxcourt inclined his head, listening to the ballad as it spun on and on, his fingers tapping against the table in time to the singing men. Above us, a light pattering of rain became a torrent, thundering through even the riotous song.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” I asked him.

He nodded, frustration creeping into his expression. “It was exactly what the informant claimed. Gallian wine and a few antiques. Nothing in such great quantity that it would pass as payment.”

“Did Reddy give you the name?” I pressed. When he held up the folded foolscap, I asked, “Did you recognize it?”

“I’m not certain,” Foxcourt said, the line of his jaw tensing. “There are any number of people with the name Dobbin in our kingdom, let alone Linden.”