Page 11 of The Laird's Masked Passion

CHAPTER FOUR

Colin did not stop until St. Andrews was far enough behind them that even memory seemed to arrive breathless.

The place he chose lay beyond the road, hidden where a narrow burn cut through a fold of dark trees and slipped over stones with a restless silver sound. No smoke could be seen from the track. If men rode the main road in search of him, they would pass within half a mile and never know. It was a good place.

Colin swung down first and reached for her. She looked at his hand as if it were an insult offered in public.

“I can dismount without assistance.”

“Aye,” he said. “And break yer neck in that gown.”

Rain loosened her hair from its pins and made dark strands cling to her cheek. Her bridal silk was torn near the hem, muddied at the side, and still she managed to look less ruined than offended by the world’s poor manners.

“I have survived a forced wedding, an attack, and several hours pressed against ye on that beast. I assure ye, Laird MacKenzie, a short distance tae the ground willnae finish me.”

The horse shifted. Elspeth’s proud expression wavered for half a heartbeat. Colin hid whatever amusement might have betrayed him and set his hands at her waist before she could object again. She went rigid at once. He lifted her down as carefully as he might have carried a blade by its edge, aware of her warmth beneath his hands and the strange lightness of her. The moment her feet touched earth she stepped back.

Her slipper sank into the wet moss, and she caught his sleeve before she fell. Neither of them moved.

Her fingers were clenched in his shirt. His hand had closed, without thought, around her elbow. Between them the burn hurried over stones, filling the silence with a sound too soft for the violence of the day.

Elspeth released him as though he had burned her.

“It is a treacherous bit of earth.”

“It has likely been waiting years for yer arrival.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Dinnae be amusing. I havenae given ye leave.”

Colin turned away before his mouth betrayed him. There was danger in finding her sharpness pleasing. There was danger in the way she stood in the wilderness as if it had offended her personally and would be writing a letter about its conduct.

He expected fear. He expected tears, perhaps hysteria, certainly hatred. He wasn’t expecting this difficult, furious composurethat made every insult sound like proof she had not been conquered.

He led the horse deeper beneath the trees and tied it where leaves would hide the pale mark of its flank. Elspeth remained where he had left her, looking about at the woods with increasing displeasure.

The evening air smelled of wet pine, peat, cold water, and the bruised green scent of trampled fern. Above them, branches caught the last of the rain and released it drop by drop. Somewhere in the thicket a bird gave a shrill call. Elspeth turned toward it sharply.

“What was that?”

“A bird.”

“I am aware it wasnae a harp.”

“A jay, then.” He bent to unstrap the rolled canvas from behind the saddle. “We’ll camp here until I ken the road is safe.”

Her outrage returned at once, which he preferred to the flash of unease he had seen.

“We are sleeping here?”

“Aye.”

“Among trees?”

“That is generally where the woods keep them.”

“Are ye daeing this on purpose tae provoke me?”

“I wouldnae dare.”