Page 134 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

Unless someone had unlocked it from the outside.

Elinor's hand went to her throat as a figure stepped through. Male. Dressed in MacDonald colors but with the wrong build, the wrong bearing.

Another infiltrator.

"Hello, my lady." The man's smile was cold. "Sir Edmund is waiting for you."

Elinor looked around desperately for a weapon. The candlestick was gone, left in the corridor. There was nothing within reach but⁠—

The fire poker.

She dove for it, her fingers closing around the iron shaft just as the man lunged. She swung wildly, catching him across the face. He staggered back, blood streaming from his nose.

"How dare you!" He came at her again, faster.

Elinor swung again but he caught the poker, wrenching it from her grip. His other hand closed around her throat.

"Should've made this easy," he snarled, squeezing. "But no. You had to fight."

Black spots danced across Elinor's vision. She clawed at his hand, trying to break his grip, but he was too strong. Her lungs burned. Her head spun.

She was going to die here. In her own bedchamber. And David would come back to find nothing.

This couldn't be how it ended.

She remembered something Malcolm had done––the knife throw, quick and precise. Her hand fumbled at the man's belt, feeling for anything, any weapon. Her fingers found the hilt of a dagger.

With the last of her strength, she yanked it free and drove it upward into his side.

The man roared, his grip loosening just enough for her to wrench free. She stumbled backward, gasping for air, her vision clearing slowly.

But he wasn't finished. Wounded and enraged, he pulled the dagger from his side and advanced on her, backing her toward the balcony.

"You'll pay for that," he growled, blood seeping through his tunic. "Even if I have to drag your corpse to Langley."

Elinor's back hit the stone wall. She glanced behind her, realizing there was nothing else she could do about the situation. There was no escape that way.

The infiltrator lunged, the dagger flashing.

Elinor ducked and twisted, but her foot caught in her skirts. She stumbled, her hand reaching for the curtains to steady herself.

He got a hold of her and started dragging her backward, toward the balcony. Toward the open door where she could see⁠—

A rope. Hanging from above. Leading down to the courtyard below, where the chaos of battle would provide perfect cover for an escape.

"Sir Edmund's waiting for you," the man grunted, still squeezing her throat. "Been planning this for weeks. Every detail. And now you're finally coming home where you belong."

Elinor's foot caught on the threshold of the balcony door. She stumbled, and for a terrifying moment she felt herself falling backward.

The stone balustrade hit her legs, and suddenly she was bent over it, the ground far below spinning in her vision.

She was going to fall. Or he was going to throw her over, let her die, and tell Langley it was an accident.

But then his grip shifted, from her throat to her arm, and he hauled her back onto the balcony proper. Not mercy. Just repositioning her for the climb down the rope.

"Stop fighting," he hissed, pulling her toward the rope. "You'll only make this harder on yourself."