Page 90 of The Laird's Masked Passion

“Nae yet.”

She stepped forward, lifted her arm, and threw. The dagger struck the outer ring. A cheer rose anyway, more from affection than accuracy. Elspeth turned as if the applause were exactly what she had expected, though color burned in her cheeks.

Colin leaned nearer as she passed him. “Grip lower.”

“I didnae ask fer instruction.”

“I ken. I gave it freely.”

“How generous.”

Her mouth betrayed the beginning of a smile before she banished it. His second throw landed nearer the center. A murmur of appreciation moved through the men. Colin heard the councilman behind him exhale with relief, as if honor itself had been preserved by a blade in wood.

Elspeth took her second dagger. This time, she adjusted her grip. Colin saw it. So did Breac, whose grin became unbearable.

She threw and the blade struck inside her first mark, not as near the center as Colin’s, but clean and straight. The women cheered louder. The little girl who had fallen asleep earlier woke enough to clap with solemn confusion.

Elspeth’s face lit. Colin felt it in his chest like impact.

“Better,” he said.

She did not look at him. “I ken.”

The final dagger lay between them. By rights, Colin could have ended it. There were few men in the Highlands who could beat him with a blade at that distance, fewer still who would try after seeing him in battle. He knew the weight of the dagger before he lifted it. He knew the line from shoulder to wrist to target as surely as he knew the path of a sword into flesh.

He also knew, with sudden clarity, what victory would give him.

A question… any question.

He could ask what she had wanted to do when her hands reached for him in the study. He could ask whether she had thought of him that morning in bed. He could ask whether the pulse fluttering at her throat now meant anger, desire, or some new and dangerous mixture of both.

He could force a truth from her. The thought should have pleased him.

Instead, he looked at the councilmen. The one who had spoken still wore the faint smirk of a man who believed himself safe because he had been quiet enough. Colin held his gaze for one long moment.

Then he turned back to the target and threw. The blade struck slightly wide. It was not poor enough to shame her victory, but wide enough.

A sound moved through the meadow, confusion first, then excitement. Elspeth stared at the board. Her final throw could win. She looked at him suspiciously.

Clever lass.

She took the last dagger. Her fingers flexed around the hilt. The sun lit the edge of her cheek. She looked not like a frightened bride bought at auction, but like herself: fierce, unbending, alive.

She threw and the dagger hit nearer the center than his. For one heartbeat, silence held, then the meadow erupted. Someone began chanting her name, and others took it up with rough, delighted enthusiasm. Breac clapped so hard Colin suspected his palms would bruise. Murdoch looked as if he wished not to smile and resented failing.

Elspeth stood astonished amid the noise. Then she turned to Colin. There was triumph in her face, but beneath it something softer, startled by being celebrated. She expected mockery, perhaps or indulgence, but not this roar of approval from people who had decided, in a single bright instant, that their laird’s wife had just done something worth remembering.

Colin bowed. It was formal, public, and entirely sincere.

The cheering grew louder. Elspeth’s eyes warmed, and for one perilous second, he forgot councilmen, enemies, prisoners, and every reason not to cross the small space between them. Then, the smirk returned at the edge of his sight.

Colin straightened.

“Breac,” he said quietly.

The laughter died from Breac’s face. He understood at once. “Aye.”

“Take Lady MacKenzie tae the singers. I will join her shortly.”