Page 19 of The Laird's Masked Passion

Colin did not lower the blade. “Niall.”

“In all me beauty and poor judgment.”

“Move wrong and I will still open yer throat.”

“Aye, that is the warmth I crossed half the kingdom fer.”

Colin held him another heartbeat, long enough to be certain no other movement answered from the dark. Then he drew the blade back. Niall MacLeod turned slowly, lifting both hands with insulting politeness. Even in the gloom, he looked too at ease for a man who had nearly been killed by his friend. His cloak was travel-stained, his fair hair damp from rain, and there was a shallow cut along his cheek that he had evidently decided was beneath his notice.

“How did ye find me?” Colin asked.

Niall glanced toward the hidden camp. “I kent ye wouldnae trust a road, an inn, or any man’s hospitality after such a pleasant wedding. And I remembered this place from the year Domhnall complained for three days because a frog found its way intae his boot.”

Despite himself, Colin remembered it. Four younger men, less burdened by land, Crown, wives, enemies, and the tiresome habit of surviving long enough to acquire consequences. Niall had laughed until he could not stand. Ruaridh had called them all children. Domhnall had had threatened the frog with trial by combat. Colin, even then the least amused, kept the fire alive and pretended he was not listening.

It all seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Ye came alone?” Colin asked.

“Aye.”

“Fool.”

“Friend,” Niall corrected. “The two are often confused.”

Colin looked past him into the trees. “The road?”

“Safe enough by dawn.” Niall’s voice sobered. “We lost the hooded men after they split beyond the east gate. They had horses waiting. Whoever planned it kent the streets, the hour, and the Crown’s guards well enough tae shame them.”

“Munro.”

“That is what we all think.”

Colin sheathed his blade slowly. The name sat in him all day like iron left in a wound. Robert Munro’s hatred was not the sort to dull with years. It sharpened in darkness. It fed on old grievance and called itself justice.

Colin glanced toward the tent. The canvas was motionless, but he knew Elspeth listened. Whether she could hear the words, he could not tell. He hoped not. She had been given enough terrorfor one day, though he suspected she would object to being spared anything, even misery.

Niall followed his glance.

“So,” he said more quietly, “the bride lives.”

Colin’s eyes cut back to him.

Niall’s expression did not change, but some private amusement retreated behind concern. “I meant nay insult.”

“Then speak carefully.”

“Ah,” Niall murmured. “Worse than expected, then.”

Colin said nothing. He did not know what to say. That Thomas Fraser delivered his daughter to the altar ignorant and trembling with fury? That Colin had believed a liar because the lie had been convenient? That his bride had tended his hand with more gentleness than he deserved and then told him she would never forgive him?

Niall studied him for a moment too long.

“Ruaridh left St. Andrews as soon as the street was cleared,” he revealed. “Isobel is with child, and he wouldnae risk being trapped away from her if this becomes wider trouble.”

“He was right tae go.”

“Aye. He cursed ye first, naturally, fer choosing a wedding day that lacked ordinary dullness.”