Page 145 of The Laird's Masked Passion

“It willnae.”

Again, a promise he could not command fate to obey.

Elspeth seemed to know it. She nodded once and moved toward the door.

“Elspeth.”

She stopped without turning. Colin wanted to tell her that every refusal cost him, that each command meant to protect her placed another stone between them, that he would ride south that very hour if the danger belonged only to him.

Instead, he said. “Dinnae leave the walls.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“Aye,” she answered. “Me laird.”

The title had never sounded so little like affection.

She left and the door closed quietly behind her. Colin remained beside the table, anger burning through him with nowhere useful to go. He was angry with Robert, with Thomas Fraser, with the Crown, and most of all with himself for making protection feel so much like imprisonment.

Elspeth had not intended to seek Colin so soon. A woman ought, she believed, to preserve at least the appearance of pride after her husband refused her something she wanted desperately.

She ought to withdraw with dignity, remain cool through supper, and permit him several uncomfortable hours in which to contemplate the consequences of disappointing her. Instead, she spent less than ten minutes pretending to inspect thepreparations in the eastern gallery before admitting she had heard nothing the housekeeper said.

Elspeth dismissed herself from the gallery and went in search of him. She found the council chamber empty. The study door stood open, abandoned maps still spread across the table. A servant told her the laird had gone toward the older western rooms with Breac and Murdoch.

Elspeth followed. The passage there was narrow and little used, its walls hung with faded tapestries and the stern faces of MacKenzies who appeared to regard happiness as evidence of weak breeding. She nearly reached the last door when Colin’s voice stopped her.

“Nay.”

The answer came from within one of the smaller rooms. Elspeth slowed.

Murdoch spoke next. “A convincing argument.”

“I gave ye an order.”

“Aye,” Breac replied. “And we are naturally overcome by it.”

Elspeth almost continued forward. The men were discussing patrols, no doubt. Or Robert. Or the Crown’s representative. Nothing good had ever come from three armed men gathering behind a closed door, unless one counted whisky disappearing as an accomplishment.

Then Breac laughed. “Tell us, then. Is it still only her bed ye want?”

Elspeth stopped. The corridor seemed to lengthen around her. Silence followed from the room.

Murdoch made a low sound of amusement. “Aye, laird. Ye were very certain before. A wife for the alliance, a woman for the bed, and naething permitted near the heart.”

Elspeth’s fingers went cold. She knew she should move. It was shameful to listen at doors. It was humiliating to remain where a private conversation might wound her. A sensible woman would retreat before hearing anything that could not be forgotten. Elspeth had rarely been sensible at the necessary moment.

Murdoch laughed again. “There. He has gone silent.”

But the words had already done their damage.

A woman for the bed.

Unable to stop herself, Elspeth entered the room. The three men turned immediately. Every trace of humor vanished. Colin’s face became absolutely still.

“What daes that mean?” Elspeth asked.

No one answered. She looked from Breac to Murdoch, then back to her husband.