She turned her head back toward him. “Ye thought I might?—”
“At the very least, a book or two should give ye some inspiration. Ye write wonderfully, Emma. The last thing I want ye to think is that marrying me would stop that in any way.”
An intense wave of emotions suddenly washed over her, almost overwhelming.
Not once did that thought ever cross her mind. Yet, for some reason, Jack had thought ahead. He had anticipated what she might need and decided to move one step ahead.
Without thinking, she stepped toward him and wrapped her arms around him. It was quick, and it was real. A grunt escaped his lips as she buried her face in his neck, letting the scent of sandalwood and something else soothe her.
There it was again, the smell that she could never place.
“That was very thoughtful,” she murmured.
Then, she realized what she had done. She released him and turned back to the shelves as if they had called her by her name. Her fingers slid along the row once again until they stopped at a title in faded gold.
“William Drummond,” she murmured. “Of Hawthornden.”
“Aye,” Jack said, nearer now. “The Flowers of Sion sits two shelves up. The Cypress Grove is there as well.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Ye ken the names.”
“I ken more than names,” he said. He tapped another spine. “Henryson’s Testament of Cresseid, though I daenae read that one very often. Montgomerie’s sonnets are there, and Sir Robert Aytoun is close by. If ye want something more recent, Allan Ramsay lies on the second shelf, and The Gentle Shepherd sits with his songs.”
She moved to the next case. “And these?”
“Gaelic,” he explained. “I have a copy of Alasdair mac Mhaighstir Alasdair. The Birlinn of Clanranald sits on that higher shelf. Duncan Bàn MacIntyre as well, Moladh Beinn Dóbhrainn, in both tongue and translation. Iain Lom’s verse on Inverlochy. Sìleas na Ceapaich has a place, though the pages are thin as old leaves. There is Macpherson too if ye want tales of Fingal, though men argue over them.”
Emma turned around fully, shock plain on her face. “Ye have read them.”
He smirked. “Ye seem shocked.”
Emma swallowed. She must have been wearing all her emotions on her face at that moment. “I daenae ken what ye’re talking about.”
He held her eyes. “I can see it on yer face, lass. Do ye think I buy what I daenae use?”
“I just… wouldnae have thought that someone like ye?—”
He stepped closer, close enough that she felt the heat of him, yet not quite touching. “Someone like me?”
Emma rolled her eyes, swallowing down the thrill at his proximity. “Ye ken what I mean.”
“Nae in the slightest,” he responded, the usual smirk tugging at his lips as he folded his arms. “What do ye mean, someone like me?”
She looked at the shelf almost as if to keep herself steady. “A warrior. A man with little time for words, especially ones on a page.”
His voice dropped until it was almost a whisper. “Nay, explain it true.”
She drew a small breath. “Men who carry steel daenae often carry books.”
“Then they should,” he said. “Books are a weight a man can use.”
She felt a laugh bubble up her throat and swallowed it. “And do ye use them much, me Laird?”
She saw the surprise on his face at the mention of his title, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had come.
“When there is need,” he responded. “Winter nights are long around these parts, and when ye havenae much to do than sit by the fire, ye read a good book.”
She traced the rim of a leather spine. “So ye read a lot. Is that what ye’re telling me?”
