Page 12 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

"Five hundred pounds," Tristan said finally.

"Aye."

"Fer a woman ye saw once fer two minutes, less than an hour ago."

"Aye."

"Whose name ye barely ken."

"I ken her name." David's jaw tightened. "Elinor."

The door opened again. She stood in the threshold, her father's hand on her elbow, her face pale but composed. Her eyes found David's, and he saw the question there. The fear. The desperate need to understand what she'd just been traded into.

"Lady Elinor." David kept his voice steady, formal. "I'm David MacDonald, Laird of Keppoch." He let that sink in—a name, a title, proof he wasn't just some stranger who'd bought her on a whim.

David's gaze shifted to her father, cold and flat. "Lord Royse. Our business is concluded. Ye have yer coin. I have what I paid fer. We're done here."

Royse's expression flickered, something like relief mixed with dismissal. "Of course. Elinor, you will do your duty to⁠—"

"She'll do nothin' for ye ever again," David interrupted.

He moved toward the door, toward Elinor, keeping his movements deliberate and non-threatening. "Come, lass. We're leavin'."

Elinor glanced once at her father. David saw something pass between them, years of pain and control and fear, all condensed into a single look.