Page 21 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

"The favors won't endanger my life," she said slowly. "I agree to that. But I won't agree that they have to be 'reasonable' by your definition. That's too easy to dispute."

"What dae ye suggest?"

"The favors won't endanger me, won't require you to betray your clan, and won't involve anyone's death." She met his eyes steadily. "But beyond that, if I ask, you do it. No questions. No arguments. Agreed?"

David studied her. This woman who'd been sold by her father, nearly bought by a man she feared, was now sitting across from him negotiating like a seasoned merchant. There was steel in her spine. Intelligence in her eyes. She'd been caged her whole life, but she hadn't been broken.

He found himself respecting that. More than respecting it.

"Agreed," he said.

He held out his hand across the table. Elinor stared at it for a moment, then slowly reached out and placed her smaller hand in his.

Her palm was cold. Her fingers trembled slightly. But her grip was firm.

"Three favors," she said. "Your word on it."

"Me word on it." He squeezed her hand gently. "And in return, ye'll stand beside me at Alnwick and convince the Regent we're a love match?"

"I'll convince him we're legitimately married." Her smile was slight but genuine. "Love might be asking too much on such short acquaintance."

Despite himself, David felt his mouth curve. "Fair enough."

They sat like that for a moment, hands clasped across the table, sealing a bargain that felt more significant than a simple trade of favors for loyalty.

Then Tristan cleared his throat. Loudly.

When had he got there?

David pulled his hand back, suddenly aware that they'd been staring at each other.

"So," Tristan said, his tone carefully neutral but his eyes dancing with amusement. "Have ye two finished negotiatin'? Or should I go find another table?"

"We're done." David picked up his ale, needing something to do with his hands. "We've reached an understandin'."

"An understandin’." Tristan's grin was knowing. "Is that what we're callin' it?"

"What would ye call it?"

"A disaster in the makin'." But Tristan's tone was fond. "But at least it's a more peaceful disaster than it was when I left ye two."

Elinor surprised them both by laughing. It was a quiet sound, rusty from disuse, but genuine. "He's not wrong."

"He's rarely wrong," David admitted. "Annoyingly."

"Someone has tae keep ye honest." Tristan signaled the keeper for more ale. "So we're tellin' the regent ye've been betrothed. How long?"

"Long enough tae be believable." David looked at Elinor. "A year? Two?"

"Two is better," she said thoughtfully. "It explains why no one's heard of it. Secret betrothals aren't uncommon because families take lengthy periods to negotiate terms."

"We leave at first light. I want to reach Alnwick before the Duke of Albany hears any other version of events."

Tristan's voice drifted up. "This is goin' tae be interestin’."

David couldn't have agreed more.