Page 79 of Beauty and the Thief

He was still drinking at dinner, his glass never empty. While she and Aoife complained about the price of bread, the men regaled each other with tales of their misspent youth. Bridget couldn’t be certain how much of what Callahan said was true as she knew he had lived most of his life in London, not Belfast where his tales were set, but if they were even half true, he was lucky to be alive.

Finally, evening approached, and Callahan said he wanted to be home before all the thieves and cutthroats came out. This caused another raucous uproar between the two men, and then he and Bridget donned their coats and were alone.

She didn’t speak on the way back, and it wasn’t until they were in their chamber with a fire lit again that she rounded on him.

He was ready. “Let’s have it then. You’ve steam coming out of your ears for the last twenty minutes.”

“I dislike liars.” She stood in the middle of the small room, while he sat on the bed, removing his boots. She tried not to think of what they’d done on that bed last night.

“Sure and you picked the wrong profession, lass. But don’t let me stop you from destroying Baron’s plans. Go on and tell everyone we’re not really bride and groom.”

“That’s not what I meant. You lied to me.”

“Never.” His response was so simple and so firm, she felt off-balance for a moment.

“Then what were you doing drinking whiskey all night? You told me you don’t drink spirits.”

“Ah. And here I was thinking it had something to do with the stories I told of me youth.”

“I told you I don’t like men who drink.”

“So you did, but you didn’t say why. Care to elaborate now?”

She gave him a stony glare.

“I didn’t think so. Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t drinking?”

“I saw you.”

“So you did.” He gestured to the comb in her hair. It was the only adornment she’d packed and not worth much, but the stones, cheap paste, matched the color of the dress. “Let me see that bauble.”

“Why?”

“I want to eat it.”

She stared at him. “Just how much did you have to drink?”

He laughed. “Let me see it.” When she still didn’t hand it over, he rose and walked to her and plucked it out of her hair himself. Then, standing where she could have touched him if she’d extended her arm, he put it to his mouth and swallowed it.

She gasped. “What did you do?”

He swallowed, seeming to have some difficulty, but finally managing it. “What did you see?”

“You put the comb in your mouth and swallowed it. You’ll be ill.”

He touched her cheek. “I would have choked. If I’d really eaten it.”

“I don’t—”

He nodded toward her hair. “I didn’t eat the comb. It’s in your hair.”

Her hand went to her head, and she felt the comb where he’d pulled it out only moments before. She yanked it out again, this time dislodging her carefully pinned hair and stared at the comb. It was her comb. How had it returned to her hair? He’d taken it out. She’d felt it slide out.

He raised a brow. “I didn’t drink either. Don’t think it wasn’t tempting. Sean MacDonald drinks fine whiskey, but I said I was done with spirits and I am.”

“But how did you do it?” And she wasn’t certain whether she was asking about the comb or the whiskey.

“Years of practice. And a convenient vase that looked as though it needed a good cleaning. When our Aoife does clean it, she’ll wonder why there’s whiskey inside. Now, I have a question for you.”

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