Page 133 of The Laird's Masked Passion

Elspeth narrowed her eyes. “I am beginning tae regret allowing ye inside.”

Margaret looked between them, then smiled at Elspeth with immediate warmth.

“Ye must be Lady Elspeth.”

“Only when Colin wishes tae command me in public.”

“So constantly, then.”

Elspeth’s expression changed. It was a small thing, the easing of her shoulders, the surprise of finding another woman who understood the particular burden of marrying a Highland laird. Margaret took her hands as though they were already acquainted.

“I am Margaret,” she introduced herself. “And I assure ye, they become only marginally more sensible after marriage.”

“Margaret,” Domhnall warned.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Am I wrong?”

Domhnall considered the gathering of men.

“Nay. But loyalty requires me tae resent the accuracy.”

Elspeth laughed. The sound moved across the courtyard, light and unexpected among armed men, closed gates, and guardsalong the walls. Colin looked away before anyone saw what it did to him.

Ruaridh’s message arrived with Domhnall. Colin opened it about an hour later in the study while the others stood around the map table. The letter was brief, written in Ruaridh’s hard, narrow hand.

He found out that Isobel was well but remained with child. With attacks spreading and roads uncertain, neither of them would risk travelling. Ruaridh had doubled his border patrols and placed fifty men under orders to ride the moment Colin called for them.

The final line read:

Dinnae mistake absence fer hesitation. Send one word, and I come.

Colin folded the parchment.

“He is ready?” Niall asked.

“Aye.”

Domhnall nodded. “As are we.”

Colin looked at the men gathered around him. Niall leaned against the table with rain still dampening his fair hair. Domhnall stood opposite, broader and more solemn, though the old irritation of being near Niall had already returned to his face. Breac and Murdoch waited nearer the hearth.

These men had ridden without being summoned. Friendship was a word Colin distrusted because it invited expectation, and expectation gave loss somewhere to strike. Yet as Niall reachedacross the table to steal the cup of whisky Domhnall had poured for himself, Colin felt the old shape of them settle into the room.

“Ye have yer own cup,” Domhnall objected.

“Yers was nearer.”

“It was in me hand.”

“Closer still.”

Domhnall looked at Colin. “Why did we keep him?”

“We were young,” Colin shrugged playfully.

“And charitable,” Niall added.

“Nay,” Colin corrected. “Only young.”