Page 103 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

And Edmund would have her.

He moved to the chest again, opening it to look at the gown he'd chosen. Blue, because she'd worn blue the first time he'd seen her. Silk, because she deserved fine things. Jewelry, because he wanted her to look like the lady she was meant to be.

His lady.

Not MacDonald's.

Never MacDonald's.

Edmund ran his fingers over the silk, imagining Elinor wearing it. Imagining her looking at him with gratitude and relief. Imagining her finally understanding that everything he'd done—all of it—was for her.

To save her from a marriage she didn't want. To bring her home. To give her the life she deserved.

With him.

"She'll thank me," he murmured to the empty tent. "Once she understands. Once she's away from that barbarian's influence. She'll see that I did this for her. That I never stopped fighting for her."

A knock at his tent post interrupted his thoughts. "My lord? It's time for the evening meal."

"I'm not hungry." Edmund closed the chest gently. "But tell the men to eat well. We'll need our strength for when we carry out our plans."

"Yes, my lord."

Edmund waited until the footsteps faded, then returned to his map one final time. His finger traced the route they'd take once they had Elinor. South, toward the border. Then east, to his holdings in Sussex, where MacDonald couldn't follow without starting an international incident.

There, he'd have time. Time to convince Elinor that this was right, that they belonged together. That the marriage to MacDonald was a mistake that could be undone.

Time to make her see that he loved her. That he'd always loved her. Since the moment he'd first seen her.

She'd smiled at him then. A polite, practiced smile that had nonetheless made his heart race. He'd known in that moment that he would have her. That she was meant to be his.

And nothing—not her father's greed, not MacDonald's gold, not even Elinor's own misguided loyalty—would keep them apart.

"Soon," he said to the map. To the mark indicating Keppoch. To the small notation showing where Elinor's chambers were located. "Soon, I'm coming for you. And this time, nothing will stop me."

He rolled up the map and secured it. Then he began preparing for battle, his movements methodical and sure.

Elinor would be his. The marriage to MacDonald would be over. And Edmund would finally have what he'd been denied at that cursed auction.

His bride. His prize. His Elinor.

And if anyone tried to stop him—if MacDonald came after them, if the Regent himself intervened—Edmund would fight them all.

Because some things were worth fighting for. Some things were worth dying for. And Elinor was worth everything.

He checked his sword, making sure it was sharp. Checked his armor, making sure every strap was secure. And as the sun began to set outside his tent, Edmund Langley prepared for war.

Not for land. Not for glory. Not for honor or politics or any of the usual reasons men fought.

For love. Or what he called love, anyway.

For possession. For pride. For the desperate need to claim what he believed was rightfully his.

And God help anyone who stood in his way.