Page 22 of The Laird's Masked Passion

“She is holding a dirk,” Colin said.

“Aye, that was me first clue.”

Elspeth looked between them. “If this is how Highland men conduct introductions, I begin tae understand why so many of ye require swords.”

Niall pressed a hand over his heart. “Niall MacLeod, at yer service, me lady. Friend tae yer husband, enemy tae poor judgment, occasional rescuer of men too grim tae thank me properly.”

“I havenae yet seen evidence of rescue,” she frowned.

“Give me time.”

“I have given this marriage one day already. It has disappointed me with alarming efficiency.”

Niall laughed. The sound moved through the small camp, wholly unsuited to the cold dawn and the danger pressing beyond the trees. Colin ought to have been irritated. Instead, he found himself watching Elspeth’s face. She did not smile, but some part of her sharpened with satisfaction, as if Niall’s amusement proved she could still draw blood in conversation if not with steel.

“The road is quiet for now,” Colin said. “Quiet enough tae move before full light.”

She looked toward the trees, where the dark was thinning into damp green. The burn flashed pale between stones. Birds had begun to stir, and at each call her shoulders tightened before she forced them still.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“North,” Colin answered.

“Tae yer castle.”

“Aye.”

Colin bent to roll the blanket before either could read too much into the fact that he was actually taking herhome. “Break camp.”

Niall, the traitor, looked amused again. “As me laird commands.”

“I am nae yer laird.”

“Nay, but ye glare with such commitment that one feels moved tae obedience.”

Elspeth watched them. Colin saw the thought forming despite her mistrust. She understood that Niall was not merely one of his men. There was no fear in the way Niall teased him, no servility, no careful distance. It revealed more than Colin meant to reveal, which was that he had friends, men close enough to mock him and live, men who stood with him in the cathedral and rode after danger when the sensible course was to go home.

It made him feel strangely exposed.

“We should be gone before the sun clears the ridge,” he announced.

For a moment, the three of them stood in the damp dawn with all their unsaid things gathered among them: Robert Munro’s name, the Crown’s anger, Thomas Fraser’s bargain, Morven Fraser’s unknown fate, and the strange fact of a marriage none of them could undo before breakfast.

Then Elspeth moved toward the tent.

“What are ye daeing?” Colin asked.

“Breaking camp,” she shrugged. “Unless Highland wives are expected only tae faint decoratively while men tie ropes.”

Niall looked delighted. “Daes she ken how?”

“Nay,” Colin shook his head.

Elspeth seized the nearest peg with offended determination. “Then I shall learn in the next several moments, unless either of ye plans tae write a tragic ballad about me incompetence.”

Colin should have told her to stand aside. They needed speed, not pride. But there was something in the rigid set of her shoulders that stopped him. She had been carried, sold, commanded, hunted, and hidden. If pulling one stubborn peg from wet earth returned even a splinter of choice to her hands, he would lose the moments gladly.

He crouched beside her. “Twist it first.”