Page 29 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

The silence that followed was profound. Ashford stared at him, then at Elinor, then back at him.

"Your wife," he repeated slowly.

"Aye."

"His Grace summoned you to discuss taking a wife."

"And I have one." David smiled, the expression not reaching his eyes. "Problem solved."

"That's not—" Ashford stopped himself, visibly collecting his composure. "His Grace will want to speak with you. Immediately."

"That's why we're here."

"Yes. Well." Ashford turned his horse sharply. "Follow me. And Laird MacDonald? I'd suggest you prepare a very good explanation."

They followed him through the gates and into the outer bailey. Servants scattered at their approach, and David could feel eyes on them from every direction.

Word would spread quickly, the Highland laird had arrived with an English bride. They were shown to a receiving room, a pointed insult, being made to wait like petitioners rather than honored guests. David paced the length of it while Tristan lounged against the wall and Elinor stood near the window, her spine rigid.

"Stop pacin'," Tristan said after the fifth circuit. "Ye're makin' me nervous."

"I'm thinkin'."

"Ye can think while standin' still."

David ignored him, running through the story again. Looking for holes. Places where the regent might poke and find weakness. They needed this to be airtight. Needed the regent to believe.

"David."

He turned. Elinor was looking at him, her expression unreadable but soft.

"What?"

"Come here." Her tone was gentle, but it wasn't a request.

He crossed to her, suddenly aware of how small she looked in this massive room. How pale. "What's wrong?"

"Your hair." She reached up, her fingers grazing his temple. "It's a mess. And your shirt's not properly laced." Her hands moved to his collar, adjusting the fabric with quick, efficient movements. "If we're supposedly a loving couple, you need to look like your wife cares for your appearance."

Her touch was impersonal. Professional. But David found himself very aware of how close she was. Close enough that he could smell the faint scent of lavender from her hair. Close enough to see the tiny freckles across her nose.

"There," she said, stepping back. "Better."

"Ye didnae have tae."

"Yes, I did." She smoothed her own skirts, checking that everything was in place. "Details matter. If the Duke of Albany thinks we're truly married, he'll expect certain... familiarities."

She was right. Of course she was right.

The door opened before he could respond. A different servant, this one older, with the kind of face that gave nothing away.

"His Grace will see you now."

David's hand found the small of Elinor's back as they followed the servant. A gesture of possession, of protection. She tensed slightly under his touch but didn't pull away.

Good lass. Play the part. Just a little longer.

The throne room was designed to intimidate. Vaulted ceilings, stone pillars, and at the far end, raised on a dais, two thrones.