Page 107 of The Laird's Masked Passion

Colin continued. “We send tae the Crown before sundown. Robert Munro broke peace before witnesses and targeted me wife.” The words tasted like iron. “He wants us tae ride blind intae his land. We willnae oblige him. We gather proof, allies, and men. Then when we move, nay one will ask whether we had cause.”

Breac nodded. Murdoch did not like it, but he nodded, too. Around the table, agreement settled slowly, uneasily, but firmly. Then Malcolm Grant, old enough to have advised Colin’s father and foolish enough to believe longevity made all thoughts useful, leaned back with a sigh.

“Yer faither would have ridden already.”

The room froze. Colin’s eyes lifted. Malcolm seemed not to notice the sudden stillness. Or perhaps, worse, he did and thought himself entitled to continue.

“I only mean ye have his look when wrath takes ye. A hard thing, that. Like Black Alasdair come back tae sit at his own table.”

Colin said nothing. Pain moved through his shoulder, sharp and clean. It was almost welcome. It gave him something to hold.

Another man, perhaps seeking to soften what had been said and succeeding only in making it worse, cleared his throat. “And the lady has yer maither’s air. The way she stood in the meadow with the bairns, there was something of Lady Aileen in it. A brightness, perhaps. A gentleness.”

The names struck the room like two blows.

His father.

His mother.

Alasdair, whose blood lived in Colin’s face no matter how much he hated the mirror.

Aileen, whose name was spoken in the castle as if she were a hymn, a ghost, or a wound no one had permitted to close.

Colin felt something old and violent rise in him, but it was not rage. Rage would be simple. This was grief buried so long it had grown teeth.

Breac shifted slightly beside him, only to remind him that he was not alone in the room. Colin did not look at him. He looked at Malcolm first, then at the second man.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that every man leaned in despite himself.

“If one more person at this table speaks of me faither as if he is a measure fer me, he will leave me land before nightfall and never return.”

No one moved.

Colin’s gaze shifted. “If one more person speaks of me maither as if she is a tale tae be laid over me wife, he will follow.”

The second man paled. “Me laird, I… meant nae disrespect.”

“I dinnae care what ye meant.”

His voice had not risen. That made it worse. He saw the effect of it in their faces, in the lowered eyes and tightened mouths.

“Me faither is dead,” Colin reminded them. “Me maither is dead. Speak of them again tae draw likeness, warning, poetry, or comfort, and ye will find exile a generous punishment.”

Silence held. Even the fire seemed to burn more quietly.

At last, Malcolm lowered his head. “Fergive me, me laird.”

The other man followed. “Fergive me.”

Colin remained standing until the room understood apology did not erase command.

Then he looked back at the map. “We were discussing letters.”

Breac was the first to move. He reached for the ink and parchment as though nothing unusual had happened, though there was a tightness around his eyes Colin knew too well.

“Tae the Crown,” Breac spoke. “Then Niall, Domhnall, and Ruaridh.”

“Aye,” Colin nodded.