Page 27 of The Laird's Masked Passion

“Neither did I,” Elspeth said softly.

Colin stood nearby, silent as judgment. Elspeth did not look at him.

Skye seemed to understand enough not to ask more before witnesses. She took Elspeth’s cold hands and led her inside, through halls smelling of smoke, rushes, iron, and unfamiliar stone. At last, they reached a chamber where a fire had been lit and water set out.

Only then did Elspeth speak. The words came badly at first, then all at once. She told her everything about the false wedding, her mother’s face, her father’s grip, Colin at the altar, the men in black and the flight through rain and road and wilderness.

Skye listened with both hands over her mouth. When Elspeth finished, silence settled between them like dust after a collapse.

“I… I am afraid of taenight,” Elspeth confessed. “I dinnae trust him. I dinnae trust anyone here, but ye, dear Skye.”

She took her maid’s hands into her own and squeezed them lovingly. She hesitated, but then had to ask, feeling her stomach turn cold.

“Tell me what I need tae ken.”

“I dinnae ken much meself.” Skye swallowed. “Some women say… it hurts. Some bite cloth tae keep from screaming.”

The fire snapped. Elspeth looked toward the great bed. It was too large, too solid and too plainly made for a husband and wife. Her mother’s voice returned, thin and frightened:Lie still. Dinnae cry.

Elspeth’s hands curled into fists in her ruined silk.

Skye touched her arm. “Maybe he willnae?—”

“He bought me,” Elspeth’s voice trembled. “Men dinnae buy things tae leave them untouched.”

Her own words terrified her, but she refused to let them tremble. Other women survived wedding nights. Her mother had. Countless wives endured what was required, then rose in the morning, dressed their hair, and carried on as if their bodies had not become countries conquered in the dark. Elspeth Fraser would do the same.

She lifted her chin.

“If he expects tears,” she said, “he shall be disappointed.”

Skye’s eyes filled again. “Lady Elspeth?—”

“Nay.” Elspeth turned from the bed and began pulling pins from her hair with fingers that shook only a little. “I have been sold, married, hunted, and dragged across half of Scotland. I shall nae finish the day by giving Colin MacKenzie the satisfaction of kenning I am afraid.”

But when Skye came behind her and quietly loosened the torn veil from her hair, Elspeth closed her eyes, just for a moment, just long enough to be frightened where no one could see it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Colin left Elspeth at the foot of the stair and did not look back. He had the sense that if he did, he would see her watching him with those fierce, wounded eyes, and the Council waiting below would receive a laird whose temper had already been placed too near an open flame.

She had arrived exhausted, half-frozen, and furious, with mud on her bridal gown and fear hidden so stubbornly beneath pride that only a fool would fail to see it. Colin was not a fool. He was, however, beginning to suspect he had been other things which were no better.

The council chamber was already filled when he entered. Men were standing near the long table, with their faces turned toward the door. Breac was nearest the hearth, broad-shouldered, quiet, and watchful in the manner of a man who wasted neither breath nor loyalty. Murdoch stood by the far wall with his arms crossed, harder about the mouth, his temper more readily sharpened. Both men had served him long enough to know when silence was wiser than greeting.

Colin took his place at the head of the table.

“The wedding was attacked before we cleared St. Andrews,” he announced.

Anger moved through the chamber at once. There was no surprise. That told him enough.

“How many?” Murdoch asked.

“Enough tae turn a cathedral intae a killing ground had they nae lost the advantage of surprise.”

“Whose men?”

Colin set both hands upon the table. The bandage Elspeth tied pulled tight across his knuckles.