Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Her feet touched the floor, but her body did not immediately remember how to stand.
Margaret swayed, the sudden absence of his arms leaving her oddly unmoored. Her knees trembled weakly beneath her, as though they had not yet accepted that the danger had passed. She tightened her grip on the book out of instinct rather than need, pressing it to her chest like an anchor.
Heat lingered everywhere he had touched her. She drew a careful breath, then another, willing the shaking to still. It did, but her pulse continued to race, loud enough that she was certain he must hear it.
“Thank ye,” she said at last, managing steadiness by sheer discipline. “The… noise startled me.”
Her voice sounded weaker than she would have liked. She hated that. She hated that her body had betrayed her composure so completely, that it still remembered the strength of him before her mind could arrange itself properly again.
She waited for him to apologize, about the door, or the hour, or the inconvenience of nearly knocking her from a ladder. It would have been the courteous thing… the expected thing.
Instead, his gaze dropped. She followed it instinctively, feeling suddenly self-conscious, and realized what had drawn his attention. The book was still clutched in her hands.
A Treatise on Fortifications and Defensive Works.
Of all the volumes she might have risked her neck for…
His mouth curved the moment he read the title. “That book is nae worth a broken spine.”
Margaret drew a breath, then another, before daring to lean back just enough to look up at him. Her heart was still racing, and her senses were lagging behind the abrupt end of danger. Candlelight caught in his eyes, and she was acutely aware of how close they still stood.
“I was unable tae sleep,” she told him. “I find that understanding one’s surroundings is comforting.”
“Ye chose fortifications for comfort?”
Her lips curved faintly. “I find ignorance far more unsettling.”
His eyes rested on her face, and the look made her feel oddly exposed, as though he were cataloguing her in the same way he might a map or a coastline.
“Ye should nae climb ladders alone at night,” he said.
“And ye should oil yer hinges,” she countered, before she could stop herself.
The sound he made surprised her, for it was a low breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
He stepped past her and steadied the ladder, setting it firm again. “If ye intend tae continue risking yer life for books, at least choose better footing.”
She met his gaze, held it, then inclined her head once. “I will.”
He gestured toward a nearby table. “Dae sit. If ye are going tae read, dae it without breaking yer neck.”
Margaret did not move at once. Instead, she tipped her head slightly and regarded him with a look that was far too composed for a woman whose pulse was still misbehaving.
“Ye see,” she said, “ye are still giving orders.”
“I am,” he agreed with a grin. “Fer yer own protection and well-being.”
She drew her lips together in a small, unmistakable pout. It was entirely deliberate.
“How fortunate I am,” she replied dryly, “tae have me safety so thoroughly managed.”
His eyes darkened with amusement. “Ye nearly fell from a ladder.”
“Because someone chose tae announce himself like a collapsing battlement.”
“It is an old door.”
“And yet,” she said, settling into the chair at last, “ye persist in surprising people with it.”
He folded his arms, leaning back against the edge of the table opposite her. “I will endeavor tae be quieter next time.”
“See that ye dae,” she said, then paused. “Though I suppose that would ruin the drama.”
A huff of breath escaped him. It was definitely a laugh this time, however brief. She felt an unexpected spark of triumph at that. It warmed her more than the candlelight ever could.
His gaze drifted, inevitably, back to the book resting on the table between them.
“Have ye read that one before?” he asked.
Margaret followed his glance, then shook her head. “Nay. Nae that one.”
Interest sharpened in his eyes, where amusement had been. “Then why choose it?”
She considered the question, tapping one finger lightly against the worn leather. “Because I’ve read another like it. Machiavelli’s The Art of War.”
His brows lifted before he could stop them. “Ye’ve read military treatises.”
“I have.”
He studied her as though she had confessed to something far more scandalous than sneaking into a library at night. “Voluntarily.”
“Aye,” she replied sweetly.
There was a pause. A longer one this time. She noticed it and enjoyed it.
“What?” she prompted. “A lady cannae have an interest in weapon manuals and military records?”
His mouth curved again. “It is nae common.”
“Nor is it forbidden,” she countered. “Though I suspect many men would prefer it so.”
He tilted his head. “And what, precisely, drew yer interest?”
She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “Curiosity tae begin with. Survival, after.” At his look, she added. “A lady at court learns quickly that walls fail, guards can be bribed, and alliances shift. Knowledge lasts longer.”
“And what did this other book cover?” he asked.
“Siege dynamics,” she replied without hesitation. “The weaknesses most often overlooked. Supply lines, morale decay, the mathematics of waiting.”
His attention sharpened fully. “And what did it say about holding a position against superior numbers?”
“That it depends less on the walls and more on who controls the exits,” she said at once. “Starve an army of movement and information, and numbers become a liability.”
Silence fell. Margaret felt the moment she had crossed from playful provocation into something else entirely. His expression had gone still, the way it must have when he listened to a report that mattered.
“That,” he said slowly, “is nae a conclusion most reach on a first reading.”
She shrugged lightly. “It wasnae me first.”
For a moment he only watched her, as though adjusting some internal measure.
“Have ye read it often enough tae ken how it works in practice?” he asked, almost casually.
Margaret’s lips curved. “Aye.”
The word was simple, yet certain.
“That is excellent,” he said, even more amused than she was. “Because we can test it.”
She blinked. “Test it how?”
Instead of answering, he straightened and stepped away from the table. “Come with me.”
Margaret hesitated only long enough to be sensible and then rose. Curiosity had always been her most dangerous trait.
The corridors were silent as they walked. She was acutely aware of how close he kept to her, not touching her at all, but still present. This time, no guards challenged them. No doors barred their way. Whatever rules governed this castle, they bent easily for him.
They stopped before a wide oak door reinforced with iron bands. Domhnall pushed it open.
The practice hall lay beyond. It was high-ceilinged, bare-walled. He lit the torches, set at regular intervals. Straw targets lined one wall, their centers marked and scarred by countless strikes. Along the far bench lay weapons arranged with deliberate order.
Margaret took it in with a quick, assessing glance. Domhnall crossed to the bench and lifted a small bundle of throwing daggers. Their blades were narrow and balanced, and their grips were wrapped in dark leather. He turned back to her and held them out.
She raised one brow. “Ye expect me tae throw these?”
“I expect ye tae try.”
Her mouth curved. “Ye are aware that I am nae one of yer men.”
“I am aware,” he said, folding his arms. “Humor me.”
There it was again, that infuriating, irresistible confidence, as though he already knew the outcome and was enjoying the path toward it.
She stepped closer, taking one of the daggers from his hand.
It felt cool and solid, familiar in a way that sent a quiet thrill through her.
She weighed it once, testing the balance.
“Ye dae realize,” she said lightly, “that if I embarrass meself, I will hold ye personally responsible.”
“I am prepared tae bear the burden,” he replied.
She turned toward the targets, rolling her shoulders once, letting her focus settle. The world narrowed, the way it always did when she concentrated. She forgot about him and the charged silence between them, focusing instead on distance, weight, and intention.
She threw.
The dagger struck true, sinking cleanly into the straw just off-center. She did not look back at him immediately. She did not need to. When she finally did, his expression had changed completely. Amusement was gone. What remained was sharp, intent attention.
“Well,” she pointed out, unable to resist. “It appears I have nae been entirely wasting me time.”
His voice was lower when he spoke. “Dae it again.”
She did. And then again. Each throw landed with quiet precision. It was not perfect, but it was evidently practiced. When she turned at last, she found him watching her as though she were a revelation he had not anticipated.
“Ye enjoy this,” she said softly.
“I enjoy competence,” he replied. “And surprises.”
Her pulse quickened at the way he said it.
“And ye?” he asked. “Dae ye enjoy defying expectations?”
She bestowed one of her most dangerous smiles upon him. “Immensely.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. She was keenly aware of how late it was, how improper this was, how easily the line between testing skill and testing restraint could blur. And yet, neither stepped away.
Margaret was the one who moved first. She crossed the short distance between them, and then, she held out the dagger hilt-first. Her fingers were wrapped loosely around it, offering it back to him as though this were an ordinary exchange and not something far more precarious.
“Have I satisfied yer curiosity?” she asked.
Her voice was steady. Her pulse was not.
At first, he did not take it. His gaze searched her face, lingering on her mouth, her eyes, the faint flush she could not quite will away. The moment stretched, taut as a drawn bow.
Then his hand closed around the dagger. His fingers brushed hers.
The contact was brief. It was nothing more than skin against skin, but it struck like lightning, sharp and undeniable.
Heat flared up her arm, settling dangerously low, in the pit of her stomach, and she drew in a breath she had not meant to take.
“Fer taenight,” he said quietly.
They stood far too close now. They were close enough that she could see the faint scar at his jaw, which somehow, only made him even more strikingly handsome. The space between them felt like a challenge rather than a boundary.
She wanted him to kiss her.
The thought startled her with its clarity, with how fiercely it rose and how little reason it required. She imagined the taste of his mouth, and the imagining alone was enough to make her fingers curl.
Then thunder cracked in the distance. The sound rolled through the castle, rattling the windows and snapping the moment cleanly in two.
Margaret flinched from the abrupt return of sense.
What am I daein’?
The realization struck hard. This was dangerous, not because of scandal or propriety, for she had already stepped past those lines, but because of how easily she was losing herself in him, and because control, once surrendered, was not easily reclaimed.
She stepped back at once.
“It’s late,” she managed to muster, forcing calm into her voice. “We should both get some rest.”
He did not argue. Neither did he move to stop her. That made it worse.
She turned before she could change her mind, before desire could gather itself again and undo her resolve. She walked toward the door, even as her heart raced.
“Good night, me laird,” she added, without looking back.
Then she left the practice hall, with the echo of thunder still lingering in the air and the echo of him lingering far longer.