Page 44 of The Laird's Masked Desire
“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’sThe 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.”
