Page 35 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked around the large chamber. Her mind ran over all she had seen since they arrived at the castle.

This is your home now. This castle. These people. This life.

It felt surreal. Four days ago, she'd been in her father's crumbling manor, dreading whatever fate he'd planned for her. Now she was Lady MacDonald, wife to a Highland laird, soaking in a tub in a castle that looked like something from a folklore tale.

She thought of that moment in the courtyard, when she'd kissed his cheek. The way he'd gone still, surprised. As if small gestures of affection were foreign to him.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. "Me lady? I've brought food."

"Come in."

Ainsley entered with a tray laden with bread, cheese, cold meat, and something that smelled divine. She set it on a small table near the fire.

"I didnae ken what ye'd like, so I brought a bit of everythin'. That amazin’ smell is her pie. She has a secret recipe, ye see." She hesitated. "Will ye be needin' anythin' else?"

"Actually," Elinor sat up in the tub, suddenly aware this might be her best chance to learn about her new husband. "Could you stay? Just for a moments. I have questions."

Ainsley's eyes went wide. "Questions? About what?"

"About the laird. About Keppoch. About…" She gestured vaguely. "Everything, really. I know so little about my husband."

Ainsley seemed torn between propriety and a desire to gossip.

"Tell me about him," Elinor pushed on. "What kind of laird is he?"

"A good one." Ainsley's answer came without hesitation. "Fair. Stern when he needs tae be, but never cruel. He cares about the clan. Really cares, ye ken. Nay just as numbers or resources, but as people."

"And before he was laird?"

"I was just a bairn then, so I dinnae remember much. But me Ma says he was different. Lighter, maybe. Before his uncle…" She stopped abruptly. "I shouldnae speak of it."

"His uncle?" Elinor pressed. "What about his uncle?"

"It's nae me story tae tell, me lady. Truly. The laird would have me head if I went gossipin' about family matters."

Which meant it was bad. Elinor filed that away. A piece of the puzzle that was David MacDonald.

"Does he have friends?" she asked instead. "Family?"

"The Covenant brothers," Ainsley said immediately. "Euan MacLeod, Calum MacKinnon, Archibald MacRae, and Lachlann MacNeil. They grew up taegether, trained together. Thick as thieves, the lot of them."

"And family?"

Ainsley's expression grew sad. "His maither's gone. His faither died when the laird was young. There's nay siblings. It's just him now."

Just him. Alone in that castle, carrying the weight of an entire clan on his shoulders. But he'd seemed so relieved to be home.

"Thank ye, Ainsley. That's helpful."

She stood, bobbing a curtsy. "I'll leave ye tae yer bath. Ring if ye need anythin'."

She left, and Elinor was alone again with her thoughts.

Meanwhile David closed the door behind him and found five men already seated around the table in the council chamber. His Council—men who'd served his father before him, who'd guided him through the early years of his leadership. Men he trusted, even when they drove him to distraction.

"Well," exclaimed Hamish, the oldest among them, before David had even taken his seat. "That was unexpected."

"What was?" David moved to the head of the table, accepting the dram someone pushed toward him.