Page 6 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

CHAPTER THREE

David MacDonald had not intended to enter the manor.

He'd gone to Berwick to meet with a minor border lord about grain shipments—dull business that Tristan could have handled alone, but David had welcomed the excuse to be anywhere but Keppoch. Anywhere the king's summons couldn't find him quite so quickly.

Except it had found him anyway. Three days ago, a royal messenger had arrived with a letter bearing the king's seal. The words had been polite, the command beneath them anything but.

His Grace, the Duke of Albany, Regent of Scotland, requests the honor of yer presence at Alnwick Castle. A matter of alliance between Scotland and England requires yer attention.

It is time ye took an English bride tae strengthen ties between our kingdoms.

A bride. Commanded to marry. As though David were a prize stallion being matched to improve the bloodline.

He'd crumpled the parchment, then smoothed it out again. Thrown it in the fire, then fished it out before the flames took hold. Finally, he'd shoved it in his saddlebag and told Tristan to ready the horses.

"We're going to Alnwick?" Tristan had asked.

"Eventually." David had swung into his saddle, his jaw tight. "But, we're takin' the long way."

Which was how he'd ended up there, at that godforsaken manor, watching a lady's lip split open while two fools fought over her like she was a bone and they were starving dogs.

He should have walked away. Should have let the English handle their own brutality. Instead, he'd opened his mouth, and now he was following them all inside, Tristan at his shoulder radiating disapproval.

"What are ye daeing?" Tristan hissed as they crossed the threshold.

"Walkin’ through a door."

"Ye ken what I mean." Tristan caught his arm, pulling him to a stop in the entrance hall. Around them, English lords in fine wool milled about, a handful of Scots in plaids and leather, all drinking fine English wine and speaking in low voices. "This is an auction, David. It’s repellin’. Who sells a human fer coin? Ye should be on yer way tae fulfilling the command of the Duke of Albany tae take an English bride."

"Aye. I'm aware."

"So why are we here?"

David glanced toward the main hall, where the lady with the split lip had disappeared with her father. Her eyes had been the color of new leaves, pale green and wary. She'd met his gaze without flinching, even with blood on her chin and her father's fingers digging into her arm.

She'd looked at him like she was drowning and he was the only solid thing in reach.

"I dinnae ken," he said quietly. "But I'm nae walkin’ away."

Tristan studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Ye've gone mad."

"Perhaps."

"The Regent will have yer head if ye defy him."

"The Regent can join the queue." David started toward the hall. "I've been followin' orders me whole life, Tristan. The Covenant. The clan. And now a bloody regent wants tae pick me wife fer me like I'm a bairn who cannae choose fer meself. Well, perhaps it's time I stopped daeing what I'm told."

"Ye are stubborn, David. I willnae have ye put yerself in trouble because of some sudden epiphany!"

"I never told ye I was going tae dae anythin’, did I?" David's smile was sharp. "Now come on."

Without waiting, David entered the hall, sensing Tristan was behind him, just as a man in expensive robes stepped onto a raised platform at the far end. He clapped his hands twice, the sound sharp as a whip crack.

"Lairds and Gentlemen! If you would take your places."

Chairs scraped against stone. Conversations died to murmurs, then silence. Men arranged themselves in loose rows facing the platform. Some stood at the back, others settled into seats with the ease of men who'd done this before.

David found a spot near the rear wall, close enough to see the platform but shadowed enough to avoid notice. Tristan positioned himself beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight.