Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Colin discovered, over the course of one afternoon, that there were several kinds of torture a man might endure without bleeding.
There was the old kind, naturally. The kind done with ropes, hunger, questions, and men who believed cruelty was made lawful by purpose. Colin knew that kind well enough.
Then there was the newer kind. It wore a green gown, laughed at children, accepted honeyed berries from old women, and pretended with impressive dedication that he did not exist.
Elspeth had avoided him for most of the feast with the skill of a spy and the dignity of a queen.
If he moved toward the singers, she found a sudden interest in the baking table.
If he stood near the games, she drifted to the women plaiting ribbons into little girls’ hair.
If he approached too closely, she turned some unsuspecting clansman into a shield by asking him a question so sharp and clever that the poor man forgot his own name while answering.
It ought to have amused him. It did amuse him and that was the problem.
Colin stood at the edge of the meadow with a cup of ale untouched in his hand and watched his wife attempt not to watch him.
She was seated beneath a rowan tree with three children at her feet, each competing for her notice.
One held a carved horse. Another had a crust of bread in both hands and an expression of grave importance.
The smallest girl, who had followed Elspeth for half the afternoon, had fallen asleep against her skirts.
Elspeth looked down at the child, and something in her face softened.
Colin’s grip tightened on the cup.
He had seen her angry, frightened, proud, curious, fierce, embarrassed, and undone beneath his mouth in the moonlit hush of his study.
But this softness struck him with a different danger.
It did not stir only desire. This was the terrible impulse to go to her simply because she was there, to sit beside her and place his hand over the sleeping child’s head and imagine, with an idiocy unworthy of him, a future that contained such quiet things.
Then Elspeth rose. She brushed grass from her skirts, gave the sleeping child carefully to an older, waiting girl, and walked toward him with a directness that made conversation die before she reached him.
Colin watched her come. He knew that walk. It meant trouble had dressed itself in silk and found purpose.
She stopped before him. “Laird MacKenzie.”
The formality was a blade held by the tip.
“Lady MacKenzie.”
Her eyes narrowed at the title, which satisfied him more than it should have. “I find this feast lacks proper entertainment.”
Behind him, Breac cleared his throat. Colin looked past her toward the wrestling, dancing, singing, racing children, quarrelling bakers, and knife-throwing men.
“What would improve it?”
She lifted her chin toward the target. “A contest.”
“Ye wish tae throw daggers.”
“I wish tae throw them better than ye.”
Several people nearby heard. The words spread at once, quick as flame in dry straw. Heads turned. Men laughed. Women clapped. Someone shouted approval from the tables.
Colin studied her. Her eyes were too bright.
Beneath the challenge, he saw the restlessness that had been building between them since the study and sharpened during the dance.
She wanted a quarrel because a quarrel was safer than silence.
She wanted a blade in hand because wanting him was less manageable.
His mouth almost curved.
“And what shall the victor claim?” he asked.
Her brows lifted. “Ye assume there must be a prize?”
“There is always a prize when a Fraser risks dignity in public.”
“I am a MacKenzie now.”
The words struck him before she seemed to realize she had said them. For the smallest moment, both went still.
Colin’s voice lowered. “Aye. Ye are.”
Her gaze returned to his, wary now, and something heated passed between them more dangerous than any dagger.
She recovered first. “The victor may ask one question.”
“A question?”
“Any question. The loser must answer.”
Breac made a sound under his breath. Colin ignored him.
“Truthfully?” Colin asked.
Elspeth’s lips pressed together. “Truthfully.”
The meadow had grown attentive around them. The crowd sensed sport and scandal in equal measure. Even the older women abandoned the baking table’s disputes to watch.
Colin handed his cup to Breac. “Agreed.”
Elspeth blinked, perhaps surprised by how swiftly he accepted. Then satisfaction brightened her face.
They walked to the knife board together, and the crowd opened before them. The target was a rough circle painted in charcoal and chalk upon a slab of wood. Three daggers lay on a small table beside it, balanced but plain, used for practice rather than battle.
Murdoch stood nearby with two of the councilmen. Another few gathered behind them, men Colin had long tolerated because they were useful and old enough to mistake age for wisdom. One muttered something Colin did not catch.
Another answered. “Aye, well, let the lass have her amusement. Women like pretty games until steel proves heavier than ribbons.”
The first man gave a short laugh. “Best keep her behind the table where she cannae shame the laird. A bought bride should learn her place before she reaches for weapons.”
Colin’s hand closed around the first dagger.
The meadow continued around him. Breac heard it.
Colin knew by the way his friend’s posture changed, amusement draining out of him like water from a cracked cup.
Murdoch heard it, too, and for once the hard suspicion in his face turned not toward Elspeth but toward the men behind him.
Elspeth heard only the laughter, not the words. She was selecting her dagger with too much care, testing its weight in her palm, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looked proud, determined, and very young for half a heartbeat.
Something black and cold moved through Colin. He could have turned then. He could have taken the man by the throat before the whole clan and taught him that a tongue might be removed for less. But Elspeth had challenged him and he would not turn her victory into his anger.
Colin faced the board. He threw first. The dagger struck just outside the center, close enough to earn cheers, not close enough to end the matter. The crowd applauded. Elspeth looked at the blade, then at him.
“Is that yer best?”
“Nay.”
“At least ye are honest in defeat.”
“I havenae lost.”
“Nae yet.”
She stepped forward, lifted her arm, and threw. The dagger struck the outer ring. A cheer rose anyway, more from affection than accuracy. Elspeth turned as if the applause were exactly what she had expected, though color burned in her cheeks.
Colin leaned nearer as she passed him. “Grip lower.”
“I didnae ask fer instruction.”
“I ken. I gave it freely.”
“How generous.”
Her mouth betrayed the beginning of a smile before she banished it. His second throw landed nearer the center. A murmur of appreciation moved through the men. Colin heard the councilman behind him exhale with relief, as if honor itself had been preserved by a blade in wood.
Elspeth took her second dagger. This time, she adjusted her grip. Colin saw it. So did Breac, whose grin became unbearable.
She threw and the blade struck inside her first mark, not as near the center as Colin’s, but clean and straight. The women cheered louder. The little girl who had fallen asleep earlier woke enough to clap with solemn confusion.
Elspeth’s face lit. Colin felt it in his chest like impact.
“Better,” he said.
She did not look at him. “I ken.”
The final dagger lay between them. By rights, Colin could have ended it.
There were few men in the Highlands who could beat him with a blade at that distance, fewer still who would try after seeing him in battle.
He knew the weight of the dagger before he lifted it.
He knew the line from shoulder to wrist to target as surely as he knew the path of a sword into flesh.
He also knew, with sudden clarity, what victory would give him.
A question… any question.
He could ask what she had wanted to do when her hands reached for him in the study. He could ask whether she had thought of him that morning in bed. He could ask whether the pulse fluttering at her throat now meant anger, desire, or some new and dangerous mixture of both.
He could force a truth from her. The thought should have pleased him.
Instead, he looked at the councilmen. The one who had spoken still wore the faint smirk of a man who believed himself safe because he had been quiet enough. Colin held his gaze for one long moment.
Then he turned back to the target and threw. The blade struck slightly wide. It was not poor enough to shame her victory, but wide enough.
A sound moved through the meadow, confusion first, then excitement. Elspeth stared at the board. Her final throw could win. She looked at him suspiciously.
Clever lass.
She took the last dagger. Her fingers flexed around the hilt. The sun lit the edge of her cheek. She looked not like a frightened bride bought at auction, but like herself: fierce, unbending, alive.
She threw and the dagger hit nearer the center than his.
For one heartbeat, silence held, then the meadow erupted.
Someone began chanting her name, and others took it up with rough, delighted enthusiasm.
Breac clapped so hard Colin suspected his palms would bruise.
Murdoch looked as if he wished not to smile and resented failing.
Elspeth stood astonished amid the noise.
Then she turned to Colin. There was triumph in her face, but beneath it something softer, startled by being celebrated.
She expected mockery, perhaps or indulgence, but not this roar of approval from people who had decided, in a single bright instant, that their laird’s wife had just done something worth remembering.
Colin bowed. It was formal, public, and entirely sincere.
The cheering grew louder. Elspeth’s eyes warmed, and for one perilous second, he forgot councilmen, enemies, prisoners, and every reason not to cross the small space between them. Then, the smirk returned at the edge of his sight.
Colin straightened.
“Breac,” he said quietly.
The laughter died from Breac’s face. He understood at once. “Aye.”
“Take Lady MacKenzie tae the singers. I will join her shortly.”
Elspeth’s triumph faltered. “Why?”
Colin kept his eyes on the councilmen. “Because I have business.”
“With whom?”
He looked at her then, and softened his voice only enough for her to hear. “Nae with ye.”
Her gaze searched his. She knew something had changed, though not why. Before she could argue, Breac stepped forward with cheerful urgency.
“Come, me lady. There is a song ye must hear before old Tormod forgets the words and invents worse ones.”
Elspeth allowed herself to be led away, but she looked back twice. Colin waited until she was out of earshot. Then he turned. The councilmen had ceased smiling.
Good.
Colin walked toward them with no haste at all. Haste gave men hope that anger might pass quickly. He preferred them to see it coming and understand they had nowhere to go.
The man who had spoken swallowed. “Me laird—”
“Be silent.”
The words cut through the space so cleanly that nearby conversation faltered.
Colin stopped before them. “Did ye think I wouldnae hear?”
No one answered.
“Or did ye think,” he continued in a low voice, “that because she is a woman, because she came tae us through bargain and blood debt, because she is new tae this clan and too proud tae plead for kindness, that she stands here unprotected?”
The older councilman’s face had gone grey. “Nay insult was intended.”
Colin smiled. It made the man step back.
“Nay insult?” Colin said softly. “Ye called me wife a bought bride and spoke of her place.”
The meadow nearest them had grown quiet now. Breac, at a distance, positioned himself near Elspeth and was speaking loudly enough to keep her attention turned away. Murdoch stood a few paces off, with one hand resting near his belt, not to restrain Colin, but to make certain no fool interfered.
The councilman’s mouth opened, then closed. Colin stepped nearer.
“I will tell ye her place.”
The wind moved through the grass. Somewhere beyond them, a fiddle played on uncertainly, unaware the feast had found a colder music.
“Her place is beside me. Before this clan. Above every man here who forgets his respect. When she speaks, ye will listen. When she walks among ye, ye will bow if courtesy demands it and stand aside if safety does. If she challenges ye, ye may answer with honor or keep yer mouth shut.”
His gaze moved over each of them.
“And if I ever hear any one of ye speak of her with contempt again, I will take it as contempt for me.”
The first man found his courage too late. “Me laird, surely a few words—”
Colin seized him by the front of his tunic and dragged him close enough that only those nearest could hear the final promise.
“A few words can cost a tongue.”
The man went rigid.
Colin’s voice dropped to something almost gentle. “And if those words are against me wife, they may cost far more. Dinnae test which part of ye I am most willing tae lose on yer behalf.”
He released him. The man stumbled back.
Colin looked at all three. “If I ever hear it again, I will kill ye meself and consider the day improved by the labor.”
No one mistook him. No one laughed.
The councilmen bowed, stiff and pale. One murmured apology. Another stared at the grass as if salvation might be found among the roots.
Colin left them there. As he crossed the meadow, sound returned slowly behind him, like people remembering they had permission to breathe. The feast resumed in fragments: a laugh here, a cup set down there, the fiddle finding courage again.
Elspeth stood near the singers with Breac, though her attention was not on the song. It was on Colin. She had obviously seen enough to know he had done something, and now, her expression altered from suspicion to a strange, searching stillness.
He stopped before her.
“What did ye dae?” she asked.
“Council business.”
“I dislike when ye answer without answering.”
“I ken.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Did it concern me?”
He held her gaze. “Aye.”
The wind stirred the ribbons at her sleeve. The cheering from her victory still seemed to linger about her, bright and unbelieving. There was a flush in her cheeks from triumph.
His wife.
His impossible, sharp-tongued, brave little storm of a wife.