Page 65 of The Laird's Masked Passion

Colin said nothing. The quiet pressed at her until the words she had been avoiding forced themselves free.

“It happened because of me.”

His face changed at once. “Nay.”

“Ye cannae ken that.”

“I can.”

“Before the wedding?—”

“Before the wedding, Robert Munro hated me family. Before the wedding, me faither made enemies whose poison still sits in the ground. Before the wedding, I bought a bride at a Crown-sanctioned auction and made meself a target in a church full of witnesses.” His voice hardened. “If blame belongs tae anyone in this room, it belongs tae me.”

Elspeth looked at him then. He did not say it gently. Colin rarely did anything gently unless he had forgotten to guard himself. But the words struck her with more force because he seemed to have dragged them from somewhere deep and unwilling.

“Ye werenae the reason men chose murder,” she heard him say.

Elspeth wanted to believe him. That was the trouble. Belief was not always a matter of being convinced. Sometimes it was a door one stood before, afraid of what might happen if it opened.

Colin stepped closer. “Listen tae me. Men like Munro dinnae need reasons. If it hadnae been the wedding, it would have been land. If nae land, blood. If nae blood, pride. Ye didnae create his hatred by standing at an altar.”

She drew in a slow breath.

“Then let me dae this.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “The feast?”

“Aye. Let me help give them something else tae speak of. Music, food, games fer the children and competitions fer the men, if men cannae experience joy without trying tae defeat one another.”

“Careful,” he said. “Some women enjoy victory, too.”

Elspeth lifted her chin. “Some women are rarely given a fair opportunity.”

The small exchange loosened something in her chest. Colin turned away, but not in refusal. He looked toward the door, already thinking. She could see it in the shift of his face, as grief became order, and order became action.

“A small feast could help,” he said at last. “If it is done soon.”

Elspeth blinked. “Ye agree?”

“Aye.”

“Ye are becoming alarmingly reasonable.”

“Dinnae grow accustomed tae it.”

She almost smiled.

He continued. “Food from the castle stores, but carefully. Naething wasteful while we replace what burned. Music if we can spare the men. Games fer the bairns. Archery, wrestling, footraces, a hammer throw, perhaps.”

“Of course. Naething soothes the spirit like large men hurling objects.”

“It works surprisingly often.”

“And dancing,” she added.

His gaze returned to her. “Dancing?”

“Aye. People forget grief fer the length of a song if the song is good enough.”