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.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
