Page 3 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

CHAPTER TWO

"No."

The single word was spoken quietly, but it stopped her father mid-step. Edmund moved to block their path, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

Elinor's pulse quickened. Men and their pride. Men and their swords. And she would likely be caught between them.

"You will not take her inside," Edmund said.

"I will do as I please with my own daughter."

"She should be mine." Edmund's composure cracked, and something wild showed through. Something possessive that made Elinor's skin crawl. "I made my intentions clear. You had no right."

"I have every right!" Her father's grip tightened until she could feel each individual finger pressing into her arm. "She is mine to give or sell as I see fit. You had your chance, Langley, and your purse was not heavy enough. Now move."

He yanked her forward. She stumbled, catching herself against his arm.

"No!" Edmund lunged forward, his hand reaching for her other arm. "You'll not⁠—"

Her father jerked her back. Edmund's fingers caught her wrist, closing around it like a manacle.

And suddenly she was trapped between them, pulled in opposite directions.

"Let her go!" Edmund snarled.

"Release her, you fool!" her father countered.

They were speaking in loud voices now, their faces inches apart, and neither seemed to notice or care that they were tearing her apart between them. Her father's nails dug crescents into her skin. Edmund's grip was iron around her wrist. She tried to pull away from both, tried to wrench herself free, but they were too strong, too focused on each other to acknowledge her struggle.

"She is not a prize to be auctioned!" Edmund's voice was righteous, as though he were her savior rather than another man trying to possess her.

"She is whatever I say she is!"

"Stop it. You’re hurting me!"

But her father responded by yanking hard. She pitched forward, her feet slipping on the frozen ground. Edmund pulled back, refusing to release her. Her head snapped to the side.

And then her father's fist landed hard across her face.

The blow was not meant for her. She knew that in the split second before pain exploded across her mouth. He had been reaching for Edmund, trying to shove him away, but she had been between them. His ring, the heavy gold signet he wore on his right hand, caught her lip, tearing the delicate skin.

She tasted blood at the exact moment the world went very quiet. Not silent. She could still hear Edmund's ragged breathing, her father's muttered curse. But distant, as though she were underwater.

Both men froze, their hands still locked around her arms. Warmth trickled down her chin. She raised her free hand to her mouth, her gloved fingers coming away dark and wet.

"Elinor..." her father began, his voice taking on that false note of concern he used when servants were watching.

She looked at him. Not at his mouth forming empty apologies, but at his eyes. At the calculation already returning to them, sharp and cold as winter. He was not sorry. He was assessing. Wondering if the split lip would lower her value. Wondering if he should take her inside now or wait for the bleeding to stop.

A wave of hatred so pure it nearly stole her breath rolled through her chest. She was about to tell him what she thought of his actions, when the sharp voice sounded from behind them.

"Unhand her."

Deep, steady, and utterly calm in the midst of this chaos.

All three of them turned.

The man stood only five paces away. Tall and lean, with dark hair tied back and a face that might have been handsome if it were not so carefully expressionless. He wore dark clothing, practical rather than ornamental, and though she could see no crest or colors, everything about him spoke of authority. From the set of his shoulders to the way his hand rested near his sword. His eyes, black as a winter sky, moved from her father to Edmund to the blood on her chin.