Page 28 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

CHAPTER SEVEN

"That's a proper fortress," Tristan murmured as they approached the outer gates. "Makes Keppoch look like a summer cottage."

Alnwick Castle rose from the Northumberland landscape like the statement of power it was with grey stone walls thick enough to withstand siege, towers that scraped the winter sky, and banners snapping in the cold wind.

David had been there twice before, both times at the regent's summons. Neither visit had ended particularly well.

He didn't expect that visit to be any different.

"Keppoch's defensible," David said. "This is just fer show."

"Show that says 'dinnae cross me or I'll crush ye.'"

"Aye. That too."

Elinor sat very still in the saddle. She hadn't complained once during the journey, though he'd seen the way she had winced when she thought he wasn't looking. Unused to long rides, clearly.

"Ye alright, lass?" he asked quietly.

"Fine." Her voice was clipped. Professional. The same tone she'd used all morning, as though the previous night hadn't happened. As though he hadn't felt her tremble under his hand, heard her breath catch when he'd touched her.

"Ye're allowed tae be nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"Ye're clutchin' those reins like ye're about tae fall off."

She loosened her grip fractionally. "I'm perfectly composed, thank you."

"Of course ye are." David exchanged a glance with Tristan, who was trying very hard not to smile. "Just remember what we discussed. We've been betrothed fer⁠—"

"Two years," Elinor interrupted. "Our families are old friends. My father attempted to break the betrothal for financial reasons, which is why you came to that gathering. We married quickly to prevent him from interfering further." She recited it like a lesson. "I'm not an idiot, David. I remember the story."

"Never said ye were an idiot."

"You’ve implied it by repeating the plan three times so far this morning."

"I was makin' sure."

"That I wouldn't ruin your carefully constructed lie?" She finally looked at him, her pale green eyes sharp. "Don't worry."

The bitterness in her voice made something twist in David's chest. The gates were opening, and a man in the king's livery was riding out to meet them.

"Showtime," Tristan muttered.

The envoy was a thin man with a pointed beard and calculating eyes. He looked them over with the practiced assessment of someone used to measuring worth and finding most people wanting.

"Laird MacDonald," he said, his English accent crisp. "His Grace has been expecting you."

"Lord Ashford." David inclined his head, respect, but not deference. "We came as soon as we could."

"Indeed." Ashford's gaze slid to Elinor, then back to David. "His Grace said you'd be traveling alone."

"Plans changed."

"So I see." Another look at Elinor, this one longer. Taking in her fine gown, wrinkled from travel but unmistakably of quality, her pale face, the nervous way her hands twisted in the reins. "And this is?"

"Lady Elinor MacDonald." David kept his voice level, though he saw Ashford's eyebrows rise at the surname. "Me wife."