Page 59 of The Laird's Masked Passion

It should not have mattered… but, it did.

The path to the village was less a road than a long argument with the hillside. It twisted between wet stones and stubborn roots, dipped sharply where rain had cut through the earth, then rose again with no apparent regard for horses, dignity, or newly married women who preferred to sit by themselves.

“Ye said we were riding tae the village,” she said, staring at the narrow descent ahead. “Ye didnae say we were attempting tae tumble intae it.”

Colin was seated behind her in the saddle, with one arm firm around her waist. “This is the easy path.”

“Then I pity the difficult one and all who have perished upon it.”

“Nay one has perished.”

“Yet.”

His breath warmed the side of her neck. “Hold still.”

“I would, if the ground would dae the same.”

The horse stepped carefully down the slope. Elspeth’s body shifted back against Colin’s, and every inch of her became aware of him in a way that was most unfair. A day had passed since the garden, since his mouth had turned her thoughts into a tangle and his voice spoke of things her body understood better than her mind.

She had avoided being alone with him since. Now the road, treacherous and evidently wicked, ruined all her good work.

His chest was hard behind her shoulders. His thighs bracketed hers. His hand rested at her middle, steadying rather than wandering, which should have made it easier to ignore. The restraint only made her more aware of what he did not do.

“Ye are stiff,” he murmured.

“I am on a cliff pretending to be a lady.”

“We arenae on a cliff.” His mouth brushed near her ear when he added. “Afraid?”

Elspeth turned her head just enough to glare at him. “Of the road, yes. Of ye, only when ye become pleased with yerself.”

“That must be often.”

“Constantly.”

She felt his laugh more than heard it, in a low movement against her back. The warmth of it slipped through her before she could resist. She hated that. She hated still more that she did not hate the ride as much as she ought to.

By the time the village appeared below them, Elspeth gathered herself into something like composure, though the effort had been considerable. It was smaller than she expected, but not poor. Stone cottages stood along a muddy lane, smoke curling from low chimneys. Children ran near a well. Women paused at doorways with baskets on their hips. Men turned from mending a fence, from stacking wood, from leading a mule laden with sacks.

And all of them stopped when they saw Colin. Elspeth had seen men fear him. She had seen servants obey him. She had seen his Council listen with the tense stillness of men who knew a word from him could become action before sunset.

This was different. An old man near the well removed his cap. Two women dipped their heads, not low enough for terror, but with respect that seemed worn smooth by habit. A boy of perhaps seven ran forward, then stopped suddenly, as if remembering himself. His younger sister did not remember herself at all. She rushed straight toward the horse.

“Laird MacKenzie!”

Colin drew the horse to a halt. The little girl beamed up at him with the sort of adoration usually reserved for saints, dogs, and people who supplied sweets.

Elspeth looked over her shoulder at him.

Colin’s face remained stern. “Wee Lorna.”

The child’s grin widened. “Ye came!”

“Aye.”

The boy edged closer, with his eyes fixed on Colin with shining solemnity. “Is it true ye killed three men at St. Andrews?”

Colin’s expression darkened. “Who told ye that?”