Page 97 of The Laird's Masked Passion

Her brows drew together faintly. “How fond ye are of impossible commands.”

She was speaking. She was aware enough to argue. The cut could not be mortal if she had breath for insolence.

He told himself this. He did not believe it.

The return to the castle passed in fragments of pain and fury. Colin refused the horse at first and carried her himself from the meadow toward the road, because some savage part of him believed that if he set her down, the world would take another piece of her. It was only when Elspeth’s hand found the shaft in his shoulder and he nearly dropped to one knee from the white burst of agony that Breac stepped close enough to risk death.

“Give her tae me fer one breath, or ye will fall with her.”

“I willnae.”

“Ye are bleeding down yer sleeve like a slaughtered stag.”

“I said?—”

“Colin.” Elspeth’s voice came soft against him.

That stopped him more surely than Breac’s sense. She looked up, her eyes clearer now, though pain tightened her mouth.

“Dinnae be foolish with me in yer arms. It gives me a poor view of the ground I am about tae meet.”

He hated her for making him smile internally. He hated the tremor that went through him harder.

He let Breac help her onto the horse before him, and then he mounted behind her because nothing living would have persuaded him to put distance between them. The arrow shaft shifted with the movement. Pain struck deep, hot and blinding. For one second, the castle, meadow, and sky vanished beneath it.

Elspeth felt him go rigid.

“Colin?”

“I am well.”

“That is a lie of such size it requires its own field.”

Her head leaned back against him before she could stop herself. That frightened him more than the blood. Elspeth did not yield, not to weakness, not to fear, and least of all to him. If she leaned against his chest, it was because her body had chosen what pride could not afford.

He held the reins with one hand and kept his other arm around her waist, careful of her side, careless of his shoulder. The road blurred beneath them. Men rode before and behind. The wounded were carried in carts and across saddles. Women walked quickly, clutching children. The feast had become a procession of torn cloth, ash, and silence broken only by weeping.

By the time the castle gates opened, half the courtyard had gathered. The healer met them at the inner door with a bag clutched to his chest and two younger women behind him carrying linen and basins. He was an older man named Fionn, with narrow eyes, steady hands, and the deeply unfortunate habit of speaking sense to lairds who did not want it.

“Me lady first,” Colin said before Fionn could open his mouth.

The healer’s gaze flicked to the arrow. “Me laird?—”

“Me lady first.”

Fionn looked at Elspeth, then at Colin’s shoulder. Blood soaked the sleeve and begun to darken the leather near his chest.

“The arrow must come out.”

“It will come out after ye see tae her.”

Elspeth, who was being helped down by Breac, turned sharply enough to wince. “Dinnae be absurd.”

Colin dismounted and nearly staggered. He disguised it as a step toward her. She did not miss it.

“Colin.”

He put his good hand beneath her elbow. “Inside.”