Page 21 of The Laird's Masked Passion

“Aye,” he said quietly. “She is.”

Niall stepped back into shadow. “Go tell her I am nae a murderer, before she decides tae come out and prove herself one.”

Colin almost smiled.

He turned toward the tent, then paused. “Niall.”

“Aye?”

“If any man comes near this camp?—”

“I will kill him before he finishes the thought.” Niall’s voice lost all amusement. “Go.”

Colin nodded once and moved back through the dark.

Inside the tent waited a woman who hated him, feared him, and had still taken his wounded hand in hers. Outside stood one of the few men in Scotland he trusted. Beyond them both, somewhere in the night, Robert Munro’s hatred had begun moving again.

Colin ducked beneath the canvas, carrying that certainty with him like a blade kept ready in the dark.

By the time the sky began to pale, Colin had slept less than an hour.

It was enough. He had trained himself long ago to take rest where it could be stolen and wake before danger found him. The fire outside had fallen to ash, the tent walls were silvered with the weak light before dawn, and beside the far canvas Elspeth lay curled in her ruined bridal gown with one hand still near the dirk.

Her hair had loosened entirely in the night, spilling dark across the blanket and one cheek. Sleep had not made her gentle. Even unconscious, she looked faintly offended, as if dreams themselves failed to behave. The sight should not have touched him. A man could not afford tenderness toward a woman who had every reason to hate him.

He moved to the tent flap.

“Elspeth.”

She woke at once. Her hand closed around the dirk, and her eyes opened with clear alarm before pride rushed in to cover it.

“It is only me,” he said.

“How fortunate. I had nearly mistaken ye fer a pleasant awakening.”

His mouth almost moved. “Niall is outside.”

The dirk did not lower. “The man from last night?”

“Aye.”

“The one ye claim is a friend?”

He stepped aside and lifted the flap. “Aye. Come meet him.”

She rose stiffly, gathering what dignity she could from a gown that had suffered mud, rain, horses, and marriage all in one day. Exhaustion had left faint shadows beneath her eyes, and the cold had drawn color from her cheeks. Still, when she stepped out into the dawn, she did so as if entering a hall full of enemies and determined to be the most troublesome person there.

Niall stood near the dead fire with his cloak drawn close and one boot upon a stone. He turned at once and bowed with exaggerated grace.

“Lady MacKenzie.”

Elspeth stopped. Colin felt the name strike her.

“Lady Elspeth will dae until I decide whether the other name deserves survival,” she told them.

Niall’s brows lifted. Then delight, quick and unwise, brightened his expression.

“Colin,” he said, without taking his eyes from her, “ye neglected tae mention she was magnificent.”