Page 42 of The Forsaken

“Am I? I had no idea.” Kerr greeted the other. “Archdale.” It wasn’t, after all, the younger man’s fault.

“Kerr.” Culross’s brother completed his pour. “Culross has a way of knowing just what to do and say to get under a person’s skin.” He passed the short-rimmed glass to Kerr.

Kerr grabbed the glass. “Fortunately for us, since your brother’s been leg-shackled, he’s not as clever as he once was.”

“I’ll toast that.”

They clinked rummers.

Culross reclined in his lounge chair. “You are both children.”

“Given that you’re expanding your brood, you know something of it.”

Archdale coughed on his drink.

Kerr failed to hear the captain’s response—and the other man was better for it. The moment the word ‘child’ left Culross’s mouth, Kerr recalled the too-tempting-for-his-own-good chit who’d narrowly escaped death three times now. More if one counted all the vagrants, he’d felled last night keeping her alive.

Not once last night, however, had tears filled her eyes the way they had when she walked away from him today.

And that set off a whole maelstrom of emotions he couldn’t name—and didn’t care to.

Kerr downed his drink in a long, swift swallow, grabbed the bottle, and poured himself another.

With this glass halfway to his mouth, a tingling feeling scraped his nape. From over the rim of his freshly made brandy, Kerr scanned the stodgy club. The usual stares met him, but there was something off this time.

People might—and did—stare at Kerr, but contrarily, Kerr, with a single sluiced stare, could shut those looks down. His glower served him well. Until now, it would seem.

Culross called his attention. “Ah, you’re growing soft. You only just noticed you’re all anyone’s talking about?”

“He always is,” Archdale pointed out.

Kerr took in the room and frowned. “Not this type.”

Culross barked his amusement. “High on the instep, much?”

The younger Archdale and Kerr spoke simultaneously.

“Logical is what the fellow is.”

“I’m being matter-of-fact,” said Kerr.

Culross wanted to get a rise out of him. This is what Kerr got for his loyalty to Andromena Smith. Blast and damn. Since he’d kissed that dauntless minx, his logic was in question. What was not, however, was his self-confidence. Culross could call it pride all he wanted.

Kerr knew better.

As a child, he was scrawny, chitty-faced, and the son of a madman. He got his arse regularly handed to him because of it, and he understood why. Later, when he grew tall and strong, and his pointy features finally fit his face—no longer rodent-like, as the other boys used to jeer—he also understood why tavern wenches and the cute bedmakers at Eton started climbing into his bed to become his bed partners.

“…You have an inflated sense of your own skills with women. That was an improvement, but I still don’t see it…”

He set his teeth hard enough that his jaw ached.

Archdale pushed the bottle at his fingertips.

Kerr splashed several fingerfuls until the amber brew touched the rim, and splashed drops over the sides.

One thing both he and Culross possessed in like measure?

Obstinacy. Neither intended to bow. No matter how many times Archdale volleyed his stare between them, waiting for someone to crack.