Page 127 of The Laird's Masked Passion

“Stay beside me,” Colin ordered.

For once, she only nodded.

They rode hard. By the time the castle came into view, the guard had lost consciousness. Men ran from the gate at Colin’s shout. Fionn was summoned, and the wounded man was carried into the healer’s chamber with blood dripping from one limp hand.

Colin remained only long enough to hear that the man still breathed, then he turned to Breac and Murdoch.

“Council chamber. Now.”

The following meeting was brief.

“Three men dead at the northern passage,” Colin informed them. “Perhaps more enemies still in the hills.”

Murdoch’s face hardened. “I will take men there.”

“Nae until daylight. Robert may be waiting for us tae ride blind intae the same trap.”

Breac nodded grimly. “Double the walls?”

“Triple the northern watch. Close the smaller gates. Nay one leaves alone.”

His thoughts went to Elspeth before he could prevent it. Murdoch noticed. Wisely, he said nothing.

“At first light,” Colin continued, “send twenty men for the bodies. They come home with honor. Search every foot of the ridge, but nay pursuit beyond our boundary.”

“And if Robert’s men remain?” Breac asked.

Colin looked toward the darkened window. “Then kill them.”

The room fell silent.

A letter had driven Elspeth beyond the walls.

Robert had murdered three men guarding the path into Colin’s lands.

Every threat was drawing closer to the castle, closer to his clan, closer toher.

Colin placed both hands upon the table.

“We have waited long enough,” he said. “From this night onward, Robert Munro isnae merely an enemy.”

His gaze moved between Breac and Murdoch.

“He is war.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Great Hall had never seemed so silent while filled with so many people. Voices remained low. Cups were lifted and set down without laughter. At the lower tables, three empty places had been left among the guards, each marked by an untouched cup and a sprig of heather.

Elspeth sat beside Colin upon the raised dais. He had scarcely spoken since the Council. His face revealed nothing, but she saw the signs others might miss: the set of his injured shoulder, the stillness of his hands, the way his gaze counted every man, woman, and child in the hall.

When the meal had nearly ended, Colin rose. No one called for silence. None was needed.

He stood before them dressed in black, his wounded arm held slightly stiff at his side. Firelight sharpened the hard lines of his face and left his eyes in shadow.

“Three men died today guarding the northern passage,” he informed them. The words travelled through the hall without force yet reached every corner.

“They were Alasdair Grant, Finlay Ross, and Tomas MacRae.”