Page 98 of The Laird's Masked Passion

“I have a scratch.”

“Inside.”

“There is an arrow in yer shoulder.”

“And yet I remain charmingly upright.”

“Charming isnae the word I would have chosen.”

“Then save yer strength until ye find one.”

Her eyes flashed, and for one brief, blessed instant she looked like herself again. Then the pain at her side caught her, and the flash dimmed. Colin’s heart struck hard enough to make the arrow tremble. He swept her into his arms again.

She gasped. “Put me down.”

“Nay.”

“I can walk.”

“Aye. And I can carry ye.”

“Ye are injured.”

“Then stop making yerself heavier with complaint.”

A few of the men near the door looked away with the doomed expressions of those trying not to smile. Colin ignored them. Elspeth did not.

“If any of ye laugh,” she announced weakly over his shoulder, “I shall remember it when I have access tae knives again.”

The smiles vanished. Colin carried her into the nearest chamber suitable for tending the wounded, a lower room off the hall where the light was good and the table broad. Someone had already laid blankets there. He set her down with more care than he had ever given anything in his life.

She tried to sit straight at once. He pressed a hand to her shoulder.

“Stay.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If ye speak tae me as if I were a hound, I shall bite ye.”

“Later.”

The word escaped before caution could stop it. Color rose in her cheeks, quick and betraying. Even wounded, even surrounded by blood, servants, and armed men, she remembered the same darkness he did.

The memory struck through him hotter than pain. Then Fionn stepped forward and ruined the moment by being useful.

“Let me see the cut.”

Elspeth’s hand tightened over her ribs. “It is hardly worth so much attention.”

“Then it will be quickly proven,” the healer replied gently.

Skye came to her other side, already glaring at anyone who breathed too near. “Move yer hand, Ellie.”

Colin stood at the table’s edge, looking down at the red stain spreading along Elspeth’s gown. His own wound pounded in time with it. Men crowded the doorway behind him: Breac, Murdoch, two guards, a messenger waiting for orders, another man with blood on his jaw. They followed because danger made men gather near command.

Fionn reached for the fabric at Elspeth’s side.

“It is caught,” he muttered, then gripped the torn green cloth and ripped it upward with one firm pull.

White linen appeared beneath. Then pale skin. Then the long, shallow slice running along her ribs. Colin’s blood went cold. Not because the wound was deep, because it was not. Even he could see that. It bled too freely for comfort, but it had not opened her dangerously. It would hurt, scar perhaps, but it would not take her from him.