Page 45 of The Laird's Masked Desire
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.
