Page 106 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

"And if they dinnae talk?"

"Make them talk." David's voice was cold. "I need tae ken what we're facin'. How many men he has. Where they're camped. When he's plannin' tae move."

The council members exchanged glances but nodded. They knew the stakes as well as David did.

After the meeting ended, David sat alone in his study for a few minutes, processing. The wound on his side throbbed with each breath—a constant reminder of how close things had come that day.

If that blade had gone an inch deeper. If the ambush had involved more men.

Dwelling on what-ifs was pointless.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming. Something bigger than patrol skirmishes and captured scouts.

Langley was planning something. David could feel it.

He just didn't know what.

David found Elinor in the great hall.

Or rather, he found chaos that Elinor appeared to be at the center of.

A dozen children—clansmen's children, ranging in age from perhaps five to twelve—were scattered around the hall with canvases and paints.

Or at least, that seemed to be the intention. In practice, most of them were using the paints on each other rather than on the canvases.

And Elinor, his dignified English wife, was in the middle of it all, laughing as a small girl painted a blue streak across her cheek.

"Nay, Meggie, like this—" Elinor demonstrated on her own canvas, then turned to find another child had painted her arm green. "Tavish! The canvas, not me!"

The boy—Tavish—grinned unrepentantly and ran off, trailing green paint behind him.

David leaned against the doorframe, watching. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Elinor laugh like that. Free and genuine, without any trace of the wariness that usually shadowed her.

She looked happy.

"Are ye goin' tae stand there grinnin' like a fool?" Tristan's voice came from behind him. "Or are ye goin' tae help yer wife?"

"I'm enjoyin' the show."

"Aye. I can see that." Tristan moved to stand beside him. "She's good with them. The bairns."

"Aye." David watched Elinor crouch down to help a struggling child, her patience evident even as paint got everywhere. "She is."

"Ye should go help."

"I dinnae ken the first thing about paintin'."

"Neither dae they, clearly." Tristan clapped him on the shoulder. "Go on. Yer wife wants ye tae join. I can see it in the way she keeps glancin' at the door."

David pushed off the doorframe and crossed the hall. Elinor looked up as he approached, her face lighting up in a way that made his chest tight.

"David! You're back." Then her expression shifted to concern. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Just a scratch." He gestured to the chaos around them. "What's all this?"

"Painting lessons. Or—" She laughed as another child squealed, dodging a paint-covered brush. "What was supposed to be painting lessons. It's turned into more of a paint war."

"I can see that." David picked up a canvas, examining the wild splashes of color.