Page 57 of The Laird's Masked Passion
“Me lady,” the maid called out as Elspeth turned to leave.
Elspeth paused.
The maid’s gaze was steady. “Alasdair’s wife is called Catriona.”
Elspeth nodded once. “Catriona.”
She carried the name with her through the corridors. By the time she reached Colin’s study, her earlier embarrassment cooled into something steadier, though not calmer. Nothing about Colin made her calm.
She knocked once and entered before he could command her away.
He stood behind his writing table, speaking with Breac over a spread of rough maps. Both men looked up.
Colin’s gaze sharpened. “Elspeth.”
It was only her name, but after the garden it felt entirely too intimate.
She ignored that. “I wish tae speak with ye.”
Breac, proving himself far wiser than he looked, gathered two papers from the desk. “I… suddenly remember a matter elsewhere.”
Colin did not look away from her. “Convenient.”
“Very,” Breac grinned, and left.
The door closed and silence settled. Colin’s eyes moved over her face, and she had the deeply irritating sense that he was remembering the garden, too.
“What is it?” he asked.
Elspeth lifted her chin. “Alasdair Macrae’s wife… Catriona.”
His expression changed. “What of her?”
“I heard ye arranged the funeral.”
“Aye.”
“And that his family is tae be cared fer.”
“Aye.”
She swallowed. “That was well done.”
Colin stared at her as if she produced a dagger and laid it politely upon his desk.
“I didnae dae it fer praise.”
“I didnae offer it because ye wanted it.”
His mouth almost moved. “Then why?”
“Because it was true.”
For one brief moment, something passed over his face that she could not name. Colin MacKenzie received gratitude as if it were a weapon he had not yet identified.
Elspeth stepped closer. “I want tae visit her.”
His brows drew together. “Who?”
