Page 161 of The Laird's Masked Passion

Elspeth dismounted before Colin could reach her. She nearly stumbled when her feet struck the ground, then gathered her skirts and ran. Lady Morven opened her arms. They met halfway across the courtyard. Elspeth clung to her mother with a sound Colin had never heard from her before: half sob and half broken laugh.

Lady Morven held her just as tightly, with one hand cradling the back of her daughter’s head. Colin looked away. Some moments belonged to those who had waited too long for them.

His men occupied themselves with the horses. Servants lowered their gazes. Even Breac, who insisted upon accompanying them, turned toward the wagons as though the straps required immediate inspection.

“I thought ye were hurt,” Elspeth said through tears. “He wouldnae tell me anything properly.”

“I am well.”

“Ye are using a stick.”

“Because I prefer it tae falling.”

Elspeth laughed, though tears still covered her face. Lady Morven drew back and examined her. Her hands moved over Elspeth’s cheeks, shoulders, and arms as if requiring proof that every part remained.

“When I saw ye had been taken…” Lady Morven’s voice failed.

“I am safe.”

“Aye.”

Lady Morven’s gaze moved beyond her daughter. It found Colin. There was gratitude there, but also memory: a cathedral,smoke, and the man who had taken Elspeth away while Morven remained behind. Colin accepted both.

He approached slowly. “Lady Morven.”

“Laird MacKenzie.”

Elspeth reached for him. Colin took her hand and came to stand beside her.

“Me husband saved me,” she said.

Lady Morven looked at their joined hands. Something softened in her face.

“So I was told.”

“He nearly got himself killed daeing it.”

“Elspeth,” he frowned.

“What?” she pouted. “It is true.”

Lady Morven’s mouth trembled toward a smile. Colin felt the strange discomfort of standing near two women who might unite against him with very little effort.

Then Thomas Fraser appeared in the doorway and the warmth left the courtyard. He had not changed. His clothes remained severe, his posture rigid, and his face as carefully emptied of feeling as the day he delivered his daughter to another man’s altar.

Elspeth’s fingers tightened around Colin’s. Thomas descended the steps.

“Laird MacKenzie.”

“Fraser.”

His gaze moved to Elspeth. Colin felt her prepare herself. It was almost invisible: the slight lift of her chin, the straightening of her spine, the old defense returning before her father had spoken a word. Thomas studied her bruises, now faded to pale shadows, and the scar near her ribs hidden beneath wool.

“Ye are well?” Elspeth blinked.

“Aye.”

“I heard Munro came near tae killing ye.”