Page 26 of The Laird's Masked Passion

Heat flooded her face. “I didnae.”

“Nay?”

“Nay.”

The rustle of cloth told her he had reached his clothes. She kept her gaze fixed so firmly ahead that the pine tree began to blur.

“I saw ye,” he told her playfully.

“Then yer eyesight is poor.”

“Me eyesight is excellent.”

“Then yer manners are poor.”

“That I will grant.”

His amusement was unbearable. Worse, it did not feel cruel. It moved around her like warmth from a fire she refused to approach.

She heard him dress at last. Each ordinary sound seemed indecent merely because she understood too well that it followed linen over wet skin, belt drawn through leather, and boots pulled on with efficient force. When he came to stand beside the horse, she allowed herself to look at him again.

His hair was wet. His face had been washed clean of road dust and blood. A drop of water slid from his jaw into the open throat of his shirt.

She lifted her chin with all the dignity available to a woman who had just been defeated by a droplet. “Are ye quite finished with this display of Highland madness?”

“For now.”

“How reassuring.”

He stepped closer and found himself on the horse behind her once again. She breathed carefully, refusing to admit that some part of her found the morning less horrifying than it ought to have been.

Colin knew, of course. Men like him always knew the wrong things.

As he gathered the reins, Elspeth looked once more at the loch, glittering innocently beneath the sun.

A wild countryside, she thought resentfully.A wild husband.

She would have to be very careful indeed.

By the time Colin MacKenzie’s castle rose out of the dusk, Elspeth was too tired to admire it properly. It stood upon a dark shoulder of land above the water, all stone, shadow, and narrow windows catching the last dull fire of evening.

Elspeth had imagined many endings to her wedding day. None included arriving at a stranger’s fortress––a day late––in a ruined bridal gown, with her hair half-fallen, her body bruised from riding, and her pride held together by such thin thread that one more kindness might undo it entirely.

Colin dismounted first. She was preparing to refuse his hand when a cry sounded from the steps.

“Lady Elspeth!”

She turned. For one stunned heartbeat, she did not believe what she saw. Then, Skye was running toward her, with her skirts lifted and her face pale with fright and relief.

“Skye,” Elspeth breathed.

The next moment, her maid had her arms around her. Elspeth clung back before dignity could object. The familiar smell of lavender soap and wool nearly broke her.

“I thought ye were dead,” Skye whispered.

“I considered it briefly,” Elspeth said, though her voice shook. “But I was too angry.”

Skye pulled back, her eyes wet. “They sent me ahead. Yer faither said ye would come after the wedding. I didnae ken?—”