Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Elspeth found the stillroom by accident while attempting to find anywhere that was not the garden. A maid stood inside, counting bundles of dried herbs.
The young woman looked up. “Me lady.”
Elspeth straightened. “I… I’m sorry. I was lost.”
The maid smiled. “It is quite all right tae be walking with nay destination in mind.”
Elspeth smiled back, then stepped farther inside. “Did ye ken the guard who was killed…”
The maid’s hands stilled over the herbs.
“Alasdair Macrae,” she said.
“Aye.” Elspeth touched the edge of the table. “Will there be a funeral?”
The young woman’s expression softened, though only slightly. “There will. The laird ordered it before he rode out this morning. Full honors.”
“Oh.” The word left Elspeth before she could make it more intelligent.
She looked down at the table, at the neat rows of bundled lavender and thyme.
Full honors.
Colin had ordered that at once. Not later, not after vengeance, not after all the more important matters men so often placed before grief… at once.
“And his family?” she asked. “His wife?”
“Taken care of.”
Elspeth looked up.
The maid nodded. “Coin from the laird’s own purse. Food sent already. Firewood is tae follow. Morag went herself tae tell the widow, so she wouldnae hear it from a careless tongue. The bairn will be provided for when it comes.”
The bairn.
Elspeth felt something tighten painfully beneath her ribs.
That morning, Colin had been cold in the corridor.
He had been rude at breakfast. He looked at her as if she had placed her hand upon some hidden wound and pressed.
Then, he had returned from the border full of anger sharp enough to cut anyone nearby.
Yet beneath it all, before even seeing the murdered man’s blood himself, he thought of a widow, a child not yet born, a funeral, firewood, and the cruelty of careless tongues.
It was very inconvenient. A cruel man was easy to hate. A man who frightened her, then confused her, kissed her senseless in gardens, and then quietly cared for the family of a dead guard was becoming much harder to arrange into any useful category.
“Me lady?” The maid’s voice came, sounding uncertain. “Are ye well?”
Elspeth realized she had been silent too long.
“Aye.” She turned. “Dae ye ken where the laird is?”
“The study, I believe.”
“Thank ye.”
“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?”
“Catriona.”
“Nay.”
She folded her arms. “How astonishingly predictable.”
“It isnae safe.”
“I didnae ask tae go alone.”
That stopped him.
She took advantage of the pause. “I am the lady of this castle, whether either of us finds that convenient. A man died protecting these lands. His wife shouldnae receive only coin and firewood. She should receive faces, words and grief that bothers tae stand at her door.”
Colin said nothing.
Elspeth’s courage wavered, but only for a breath. “I ken she daesnae ken me. I ken I am a stranger here. Perhaps she willnae want me. But I ask tae go… with ye.”
His gaze held hers. She expected refusal, argument, some cold remark about danger or obedience or how little she understood. Instead, Colin’s expression changed in a way so subtle she nearly missed it.
He liked the idea. She was certain it was because he could see the sense of it. Perhaps he already thought of it and set it aside amid blood and tracks and borders. Perhaps not. Either way, he looked at her now with an attention that warmed her more than approval should have done.
“Aye,” he said at last.
Elspeth blinked. “Aye?”
“Aye. We will go.”
“Oh.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Ye sound disappointed I didnae fight ye.”
She smirked. “I prepared several arguments.”
“I am bereaved tae miss them.”
“Ye may hear them later. I keep a fine supply.”
“I dinnae doubt it.”
For a moment, the dark weight between them eased.
Then Colin looked back at the map, and the shadow returned to his eyes. “We leave after I speak tae Murdoch. Tomorrow, if the roads are secure, but it willnae be a long visit.”
Elspeth nodded. “That is fine. Thank ye.”
His gaze returned to her. “Fer what?”
“Fer agreeing.”
He shrugged. “Ye were right.”
The words startled her more than his refusal would have done.
Elspeth looked at him, this man she thought a barbarian, this husband who bought her and frightened her and spared her and confused her beyond endurance.
He stood with danger spread across his writing table and grief hidden behind his eyes, and for the first time she wondered whether his coldness was not the absence of feeling, but the locked door built to contain too much of it.
“Colin,” she whispered softly.
His face stilled. She did not know what she had meant to say. So she said nothing. After a moment, she turned and left the study with Catriona’s name in her mind, and Colin’s quiet admission following after her.
Ye were right.
It should not have mattered… but, it did.
The path to the village was less a road than a long argument with the hillside.
It twisted between wet stones and stubborn roots, dipped sharply where rain had cut through the earth, then rose again with no apparent regard for horses, dignity, or newly married women who preferred to sit by themselves.
“Ye said we were riding tae the village,” she said, staring at the narrow descent ahead. “Ye didnae say we were attempting tae tumble intae it.”
Colin was seated behind her in the saddle, with one arm firm around her waist. “This is the easy path.”
“Then I pity the difficult one and all who have perished upon it.”
“Nay one has perished.”
“Yet.”
His breath warmed the side of her neck. “Hold still.”
“I would, if the ground would dae the same.”
The horse stepped carefully down the slope.
Elspeth’s body shifted back against Colin’s, and every inch of her became aware of him in a way that was most unfair.
A day had passed since the garden, since his mouth had turned her thoughts into a tangle and his voice spoke of things her body understood better than her mind.
She had avoided being alone with him since. Now the road, treacherous and evidently wicked, ruined all her good work.
His chest was hard behind her shoulders. His thighs bracketed hers. His hand rested at her middle, steadying rather than wandering, which should have made it easier to ignore. The restraint only made her more aware of what he did not do.
“Ye are stiff,” he murmured.
“I am on a cliff pretending to be a lady.”
“We arenae on a cliff.” His mouth brushed near her ear when he added. “Afraid?”
Elspeth turned her head just enough to glare at him. “Of the road, yes. Of ye, only when ye become pleased with yerself.”
“That must be often.”
“Constantly.”
She felt his laugh more than heard it, in a low movement against her back. The warmth of it slipped through her before she could resist. She hated that. She hated still more that she did not hate the ride as much as she ought to.
By the time the village appeared below them, Elspeth gathered herself into something like composure, though the effort had been considerable.
It was smaller than she expected, but not poor.
Stone cottages stood along a muddy lane, smoke curling from low chimneys.
Children ran near a well. Women paused at doorways with baskets on their hips.
Men turned from mending a fence, from stacking wood, from leading a mule laden with sacks.
And all of them stopped when they saw Colin. Elspeth had seen men fear him. She had seen servants obey him. She had seen his Council listen with the tense stillness of men who knew a word from him could become action before sunset.
This was different. An old man near the well removed his cap.
Two women dipped their heads, not low enough for terror, but with respect that seemed worn smooth by habit.
A boy of perhaps seven ran forward, then stopped suddenly, as if remembering himself.
His younger sister did not remember herself at all. She rushed straight toward the horse.
“Laird MacKenzie!”
Colin drew the horse to a halt. The little girl beamed up at him with the sort of adoration usually reserved for saints, dogs, and people who supplied sweets.
Elspeth looked over her shoulder at him.
Colin’s face remained stern. “Wee Lorna.”
The child’s grin widened. “Ye came!”
“Aye.”
The boy edged closer, with his eyes fixed on Colin with shining solemnity. “Is it true ye killed three men at St. Andrews?”
Colin’s expression darkened. “Who told ye that?”
The boy immediately pointed at an older youth by the fence. The youth discovered great interest in a wheelbarrow.
Colin looked back at the boy. “It is true that men attacked a church. It is also true that children shouldnae collect tales of killing like pretty stones.”
The boy lowered his head. “Aye, me laird.”
The rebuke should have made him shrink. Instead, the boy looked chastened but not frightened, as if Colin’s disapproval mattered because his approval did, too. Then Colin reached into the pouch at his belt and drew out a small wrapped sweet.
The boy’s eyes went wide.
“Share it with yer sister,” Colin urged.
“Aye, me laird!”
The children ran off with the treasure between them. Colin dismounted first, then reached for her.
“I can manage,” she told him.
“Nay doubt.” He set his hands at her waist anyway and lifted her down with infuriating ease.
She opened her mouth to answer, but the villagers were watching. There was no rudeness about it, just curiosity.
Colin offered his arm. Elspeth took it. The villagers greeted him as they passed, with reports and requests and quiet familiarity.
“Me Laird, the south fence held through the rain.”
“Good.”
“The mill wheel still catches.”
“I’ll send Dougal.”
“Me son’s cough is better.”
“Keep him from the damp another week.”
Each reply was brief, almost cold, but never careless. He remembered names. He knew whose roof leaked, whose child was ill, whose husband had gone to the northern pasture. Elspeth listened, with astonishment growing in spite of herself.
Colin MacKenzie did not smile. His people loved him anyway.
At the last cottage, the mood changed. A woman stood in the doorway, pale and slender, with one hand resting upon the slight swell beneath her apron. She could not have been much older than Elspeth. Her eyes were red, but dry now, as if tears had become too exhausting to continue.
Catriona.
Colin stopped several paces away, giving her the courtesy of distance.
“Catriona,” he greeted her quietly.
The widow’s mouth trembled. “Me laird.”
“I grieve for Alasdair.”
At that, her composure broke just enough for her hand to lift to her lips. An older woman behind her touched her shoulder. Colin bowed his head, not as a laird before a subject, but as a man before grief.
“He served with honor,” he said. “He didnae fail his post. He didnae fail his clan. His bairn will ken that.”
Catriona’s eyes filled. Elspeth felt her own throat tighten.
She’d feared this visit might seem ornamental, a lady’s gesture offered because sorrow looked well when observed by others.
But there was nothing ornamental in Colin now.
His coldness didn’t vanished, but it became a vessel.
It held the moment steady so Catriona did not have to.
Elspeth stepped forward.
“I am Lady Mackenzie,” she said, then wished at once she had thought of something less foolish.
Of course the woman knew who she was. Everyone knew that she was the reason danger had perhaps come nearer, though no one said so. Catriona looked at her.
Elspeth clasped her hands tightly before her. “I didnae ken yer husband. But I am very sorry fer yer loss. If there is anything ye need that hasnae already been given, I would ask ye tae tell me.”
The widow’s gaze flickered to Colin, then back to her.
“The laird has seen tae more than we asked,” Catriona whispered.
“I am glad,” Elspeth answered softly. “Still, grief shouldnae have tae ask properly before it is answered.”
Catriona nodded once. “Thank ye, me lady.”
Behind them, the villagers gathered at a respectful distance. Elspeth felt their attention, not pressing, but present. They watched Colin with trust so old it did not need to announce itself. They watched her with something newer, uncertain and waiting.
Colin’s hand came lightly to the small of her back. The touch lasted only a moment. Still, it steadied her.
They remained with Catriona a little longer. Colin spoke to the older women about firewood and the funeral. Elspeth listened, learning the names of those who would sit with the widow through the night, those who would bake, those who would mend the roof before colder weather came.
When they turned toward the small gathering of people, the little girl from earlier appeared again and offered Elspeth half of the sweet Colin had given her. Elspeth stared down at the sticky fragment in the child’s palm.
“Fer ye,” the girl said. “Because ye are the laird’s lady.”
The words struck more deeply than they should have done.
Elspeth crouched and accepted it as if it were a jewel. “Thank ye.”
The child smiled and ran off. She looked toward the children near the well, toward Catriona’s cottage and the people already quietly gathering around it.
Then she looked back at him. He was almost smiling.
And then, someone screamed.