Page 49 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

Despite herself, Elinor laughed. "I make no promises."

"Fair enough."

Elinor felt something warm bloom in her chest. Gratitude.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For standing up for me at dinner. For—" She gestured vaguely. "For all of this."

"Ye're me wife. It's what I should dae."

"Most husbands wouldn't."

"Then most husbands are fools."

He's a good man. Complicated. Guarded. But good.

And that realization terrified her almost as much as it comforted her.

Because falling for a good man would be so much more dangerous than falling for the cold, calculating purchaser she'd expected.

"David?"

"Aye?"

"Why didn't you tell them? At dinner. About where I came from. My father's debts. The auction." She kept her voice low. "You could have explained. Made them understand why you married me."

David was quiet for a moment. "Because it's nae their business. And because—" He stopped, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Because ye're more than the worst things that happened tae ye. Ye're more than yer faither's failures or his cruelty. And I'll nay reduce ye tae that story just tae make them comfortable."

Elinor's breath caught. "That's so thoughtful of you”

"It's the truth." He glanced down at her, his yes unreadable in the torchlight. "Ye're Lady MacDonald now. That's all they need tae ken. The rest is between us."

Between us. As though they were truly a partnership. As though her past and her pain were things he wanted to protect, not exploit.

"I don't know what to say to that," she admitted.

"Then dinnae say anythin'."

The autumn evening had turned properly cold, and her shawl wasn't quite enough.

David shrugged out of his cloak and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest. It was warm from his body heat, and it smelled like him—leather and pine and something else she couldn't quite name.