Page 152 of The Laird's Masked Passion

He unfolded the message.

MacKenzie,

Yer wife is alive.

His hands tightened.

Whether she remains so depends upon yer obedience.

Come tae the ruined chapel beyond the Blackwood before sunset. Come alone. Fer every man ye bring, she will suffer once before yer eyes.

If I see soldiers, she suffers.

If I see yer friends, she suffers.

If ye fail tae come, she dies without ye.

Robert Munro.

The parchment crumpled in Colin’s fist.

“Where?” Breac demanded.

Colin gave him the letter. Murdoch read over his shoulder. A curse left him, low and vicious. Niall stood nearby with one hand upon his sword. Domhnall had abandoned his preparations to leave, while Margaret remained upon the castle steps, pale but composed as servants hurried around her.

“The ruined chapel lies beyond MacKenzie land,” Murdoch said. “Near the southern edge of Blackwood.”

“Aye,” Colin answered.

Niall watched him. “Ye cannae ride intae that alone.”

“He will hurt her if I dinnae.”

“He will hurt her regardless,” Domhnall said grimly. “A man daesnae arrange this merely tae exchange threats.”

The truth stood between them, brutal and necessary. Robert did not mean to release Elspeth. He meant Colin to watch her die.The thought entered Colin like a blade driven carefully beneath the ribs.

He saw her in the loch, laughing through chattering teeth. He saw her standing before him, tears bright in her eyes as she said she loved him. He remembered his own hands cupping her face and the terror of finally speaking the same truth aloud. He had promised to protect her. Less than a day later, Robert had taken her from within his walls.

“I am going,” Colin said.

“Aye,” Breac replied. “But nae as he expects.”

Before Colin could answer, a horn sounded from the gate. Every man in the courtyard turned. A small company approached beneath the royal banner.

For one wild instant, Colin considered ordering the gates barred. He had no patience for a Crown official asking measured questions while Elspeth bled somewhere beyond the hills.

The representative entered surrounded by six soldiers. He was an older man in a dark blue coat, his grey hair bound at the nape. His expression held the careful authority of someone accustomed to arriving after bloodshed and speaking as though his presence had prevented it.

“Laird MacKenzie,” he called. “Sir Malcolm Douglas, appointed by the Crown tae oversee?—”

“Come inside,” Colin ordered.

Sir Malcolm stiffened. “I beg yer pardon?”

“Now.”

Something in Colin’s face persuaded him not to demand ceremony. Minutes later, they gathered in the council chamber. Colin placed Robert’s message upon the table. Sir Malcolm read it in silence.