Page 136 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

"You're in no position to make threats, MacDonald." The knife pressed harder, and David saw a thin line of blood appear on Elinor's throat. "Sir Edmund wants her back. And I'm taking her to him. You can't stop me."

"Can't I?" David's eyes tracked every detail—the man's position, his grip on Elinor, the angle of the knife. Looking for an opening. Any opening.

"The rope goes down to the courtyard. My men are waiting. By the time you raise the alarm, we'll be gone." The infiltrator started backing toward the railing, dragging Elinor with him. "And there's nothing you can do about it."

But the man made a mistake. A small one, but enough.

He glanced back at the rope, checking its position. Just for a second. Just long enough for his attention to shift away from David.

So David moved.

He was across the balcony in three strides, his sword sweeping up to knock the knife away from Elinor's throat. The infiltrator tried to adjust, tried to bring the blade back around, but David was faster.

His hand closed around the man's wrist, twisting violently. Bones cracked. The knife clattered to the stone floor.

Elinor wrenched herself free, stumbling away from both of them.

The infiltrator threw a desperate punch, catching David in his wounded shoulder. Pain exploded through him, but he used it, channeled it into a brutal headbutt that sent the man staggering backward.

Toward the railing.

Toward the edge.

The infiltrator's back hit the stone balustrade. His arms windmilled, trying to catch his balance. For a moment, he teetered on the edge.

Then he fell.

His scream cut off abruptly when he hit the courtyard below.

David stood at the railing, breathing hard, his shoulder on fire. Below, he could see chaos—Langley's men at the base of the rope, realizing their plan had failed. His own guards converging on them.

"David."

He turned to find Elinor standing there, trembling, her hand pressed to the cut on her throat. Without thinking, he crossed to her and pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly she gasped.

"I'm sorry," he breathed into her hair. "I'm so sorry. I should have—I should have known they'd try somethin' like this. Should have protected ye better."

"You're here now." Her voice was muffled against his chest. "That's what matters. You came."

"Always, lass. Always." He pulled back just enough to examine her face, her throat. The bruises were already forming—dark marks where someone had tried to choke her. Rage, hot and vicious, flooded through him. "Who did this? Who hurt ye?"

"He's dead. Malcolm killed him in the corridor." She touched his face, her fingers gentle despite their trembling. "And you're wounded. Your shoulder…"

"It's naethin'."

"It's not nothing. You're bleeding."

"Elinor."

A commotion from outside made them both turn. Shouts. The clash of steel. And then, rising above it all, a voice David recognized.

"MacDonald! Show yourself!"

Langley.

David moved to the balcony railing, Elinor beside him. Below, in the courtyard, chaos reigned. Langley sat on his horse, surrounded by his personal guard, looking up at them with fury written across his face.

"It's over, Langley!" David called down. "Yer infiltrators are dead or captured. Yer attack on the walls has failed. Go home."