Page 49 of The Laird's Masked Passion

Colin stared at her. She did not look away. It unsettled him, the way she sometimes saw too much while knowing too little. She had no understanding of Robert Munro, of his father, of the blood-soaked path beneath Colin’s name. Yet she could look at him after one sharp exchange and find the hidden bruise beneath the armor.

It made him want to step closer. It made him want to send her back inside and lock every door between them. He chose anger because it was simpler.

“Where did ye learn to fight?”

Elspeth’s mouth pressed together. He took one step toward her. She took one step back, but not from fear, rather from readiness.

Interesting.

“Who taught ye?”

For once, her answer came without jest. “A soldier in me faither’s household. His name was Malcolm.”

“A lover?”

Her eyes flashed. “Nay.”

The sharpness of his own reaction annoyed him before the word had even finished leaving his mouth.

Elspeth folded her arms. “He was older than me. Like a brither, if I had possessed one worth keeping. I was curious, and he was foolish enough tae indulge me. I hid from me faither and learned when I could.”

“Did Fraser ken?”

“If he had, Malcolm would have been dismissed… or worse.”

“Then Malcolm was a fool.”

“He was kind.”

The word had weight when she said it. Colin understood then that kindness, in Thomas Fraser’s house, had been its own form of rebellion.

He looked at her hands, fine-boned, pale, made for embroidery perhaps, or writing letters, or slapping men who deserved it. Yetshe had held the dirk well. Not perfectly, but well enough to surprise him.

“Show me,” he said. “What he taught ye.”

“Why?”

“So I ken whether ye are dangerous or merely theatrical.”

Her smile returned slowly. “I can be both.”

He tossed the dirk back to her, hilt first. She caught it. The movement pleased him more than it ought.

Elspeth looked from the blade to him. “Are ye certain ye wish to place another weapon in me hand so soon?”

“Nay.”

“Yet ye did.”

“I am kent fer courage.”

“I thought it was barbarism.”

“There is an overlap.”

She laughed before she could stop herself. It was quick, bright, and gone almost at once. But Colin heard it, and something in his chest, still tight from death and anger, loosened by a dangerous fraction.

He drew his own blade, shorter than his sword, longer than hers.