Page 13 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

CHAPTER FOUR

"We leave. Now."

David's hand closed around her elbow before Elinor could fully process what was happening. One moment she'd been standing in that dim backroom, watching her father count his money with gleaming eyes. The next, she was being steered toward a side door, away from the manor, away from everything.

"Wait," She tried to plant her feet, but David's grip was firm. Not bruising, but unyielding. Just. Certain. "Where are we going?"

"Away from here." He didn't slow his pace.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one ye're gettin' right now."

They emerged into the cold afternoon air. The winter sun hung low and pale, casting long shadows across the frozen drive. Elinor could see two horses already saddled and waiting, one a massive grey stallion, the other a sturdy bay. The sandy-haired man, Tristan, stood beside them, checking the saddle straps with practiced efficiency.

"What about my things." Elinor started.

"What things?" David finally stopped, turning to face her. His dark eyes were unreadable in the fading light. "Did yer faither pack ye a trunk? Give ye time to gather yer belongings before draggin' ye here to be sold?"

The truth of it stung. She'd been allowed one small bag. A spare shift. A comb. Nothing else.

"No," she said quietly.

"Then ye've nothin' tae go back fer." He started walking again, pulling her along.

Something in Elinor snapped. She wrenched her arm free, stumbling back a step. "No."

David turned slowly. "Nay?"

"No." She straightened her spine, lifted her chin. Let him see that she would not be dragged about like livestock, even if he had just purchased her like she was. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me where we're going and why."

"Ye dinnae have a choice in this, lass."

"Don't I?" Her voice was sharper than she'd intended, edged with all the fury and fear of the past hours. "The last time someone told me to just go somewhere without explanation, I ended up on an auction block. Forgive me if I'm not eager to repeat the experience."

Tristan, who had been securing something to his saddle, let out a surprised bark of laughter. "She's got ye there, David."

David shot him a look that could have frozen fire. "Nae helpin', Tristan."

"I'm nay tryin' tae help." Tristan's grin was unrepentant. "I'm just sayin', the lass makes a fair point."

"A fair point," David repeated, his tone flat. He turned back to Elinor, and she saw something flicker across his face—frustration, perhaps, or grudging respect. "Fine. Ye want tae ken where we're goin'? We're ridin' tae Alnwick Castle. Tae meet the Regent, the Duke of Albany."

Elinor's breath caught. "The Regent? Why would we?"

"Because he summoned me." David's jaw was tight. "Ordered me tae take an English bride. And now I have one."

The words landed like stones in still water, rippling outward with implications Elinor couldn't fully grasp. "You bought me to satisfy a royal command?"

"I bought ye because…" He stopped himself, his hand moving to the back of his neck in what looked like frustration. "It's complicated."

"Then uncomplicate it."

"I cannae. Nae right now." He stepped closer, and Elinor had to resist the urge to step back.

That close, the fading light caught the sharp angles of his face. The high cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw shadowed with stubble, the slight crook in his nose that suggested it had been broken at least once.

His dark hair was pulled back, but a few strands had come loose, falling across his brow. He wasn't handsome in the soft, polished way of English courtiers. He was rougher. Harder. The kind of face that had been shaped by wind and battle rather than comfort.