Page 31 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

Duncan had recovered sufficiently to drink his wine, though his eyes above the rim of his pewter cup were bright with mirth.

Magnus continued eating until his eyes betrayed him.

She leaned forward to reach the bread basket, a small, ordinary movement. The neckline of the green dress was modest; he had already established this. He had been thorough about it. And yet, as she moved, the flickering candlelight caught the smooth, pale curve of her collarbone, the long column of her throat, and the small, dark shadow at the base of it.

A sharp, tight heat flared in his gut. He looked away instantly.

He looked at his plate. He looked at the stone wall above her head. He looked at Duncan, who was no longer staring at him.

She was speaking again, her hands moving as she talked, small, elegant gestures to emphasize her point. Magnus kept his eyes fixed on the wall. The firelight danced across the rough granite.

Then she laughed at something Duncan muttered.

Magnus looked back. Just for a single second. The color was high in her cheeks, the same vibrant flush he had seen in the courtyard, the same one from the windy field, rising beautifully under the warm candlelight. She looked up and caught him staring.

A second. Less than a second.

Her chin rose slightly. The rich flush in her skin deepened. She did not look away in panic. Instead, she looked back at Duncan.

Magnus looked back at the wall.

He had finished his venison. He became acutely aware of his empty plate, of the untouched piece of bread he had been too distracted to eat.

He looked at the candle flame, and then, involuntarily, his eyes drifted right back to her. He traced the curve of her lips while she listened to his cousin.

Daenae look at them.

He stood up. The heavy wooden bench scraped loudly across the stone floor.

Duncan looked up. Elspeth’s eyes snapped to his. Magnus was already reaching for the pewter cup he had barely touched throughout the meal.

“Correspondence,” he said, his voice clipped and rough. “I’ll tend to it in the study.”

He turned on his heel and swiftly made his way out.

The stone corridor was significantly cooler than the hall, the draft cutting through his linen shirt. He crossed it with his hands tucked rigidly behind his back, intentionally avoiding thinking about the smooth curve of her collarbone.

His study was pitch black. He lit a single tallow candle, sat heavily behind his desk, and pulled the stack of correspondence toward him. He focused on the top letter, a missive from an Inveraray merchant regarding winter grain that required an immediate response. He read the first line three times.

He set the paper down, his jaw tight.

Duncan appeared in the doorway soon enough.

“Ye should remove those poetry books from the library,” Magnus said, keeping his eyes down. “Before she finds more nonsense to discuss at the table.”

Duncan leaned casually against the doorframe.

“For someone who doesnae care,” he drawled, “ye’re trying very hard to stare everywhere else but at yer betrothed.”

Magnus looked up. His dark eyes locked onto his cousin’s face. He held Duncan’s gaze for one heavy moment. Then another.

“What does that mean?” Magnus asked, his voice dangerously soft.

Duncan only smiled. He pushed off the timber doorframe, turned around, and walked away down the dark corridor.

Magnus was left alone in the confined circle of candlelight. The letter from Inveraray lay before him, and Duncan’s words lay squarely in the middle of his desk.

Trying very hard to stare everywhere else.