Page 30 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

Duncan’s eyes flicked to Magnus. Magnus did not look up from his meat.

“The Laird’s a man of hidden dimensions,” Duncan said pleasantly.

“So I’m discovering,” she replied. “I found Horace,” she added softly. “The Odes. Do ye prefer them in the original Latin or the translation?”

He looked up. She was looking at him.

“Latin,” he said.

She blinked and quickly adjusted her expression. A small, silent recalibration of the man sitting before her. “Ye read Latin.”

“Aye.”

“I…” She paused, her eyes searching his flat expression. “Me apologies. I assumed⁠—”

“Ye assumed wrong.” Magnus returned his attention to his venison, his knife scraping against the pewter. A beat of heavy silence passed. Then, composedly: “I read often.”

Duncan was smiling into his cup.

The meal continued. Elspeth spoke easily to Duncan about the grounds and the afternoon inspection.

“What are the courtship customs here?” she asked, her gaze sweeping around the table.

Magnus looked up from his plate, his voice dropping an octave. “There are none.”

It was a factual answer. He provided it as such.

She tilted her head, the firelight licking the line of her jaw. “None at all? Surely that cannae be.”

“People marry,” Magnus said flatly, “and they continue working.”

She smiled. “And what of love, me Laird?”

He looked at her. “Love?”

The word landed heavily and rather awkwardly in the drafty hall.

“Aye.” She rested her chin in her palm, comfortable as anything against the rough wood. “Quiet conversations. Walks beneath the stars. A picnic, perhaps, beside the loch.”

Magnus frowned, his dark eyebrows drawing together. “Why would anyone stand outside at night?”

She blinked, genuinely taken aback. “To admire the stars?”

“There are wolves.”

The sound Duncan made was not a laugh so much as a violent cough, wine and amusement arriving simultaneously at an intersection in his throat he was unprepared for. He pressed the back of his hand hard against his mouth, turning away from the table.

Elspeth looked at Magnus. She looked at Duncan choking. Then she shook her head slowly, her eyes fixed on Magnus.

“Ye are utterly unromantic, Magnus Wallace.”

“Romance,” he said, his voice level, “is expensive and highly inefficient.”

She opened her mouth to argue. Closed it. Opened it again, her eyes wide. “Expensive?”

“The candles alone,” he said, returning to his plate with deliberate focus, “for the stars and the picnic ye’ve described would run a considerable expense. And the time spent standing outside in the damp could be used for something better.”

“Please,” she said, a breathless laugh catching in her throat. “Stop.”