Page 4 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

When his gaze met hers, she saw something flicker there. Recognition, perhaps. Or anger on her behalf, though that seemed unlikely from a stranger.

"I said unhand her." His accent marked him as Scottish. One of the men her father had been so eager to attract.

"This is none of your concern," her father snapped, though his voice lacked its earlier certainty. Even he could sense danger when it stood before him.

The stranger's gaze did not waver. "A lady is bleeding. That makes it me concern."

"She is my daughter."

"And that excuses ye striking her, daes it?" The words were soft, but they cut like winter wind through wool.

Edmund finally released her wrist, though whether from shame or strategy, Elinor could not tell. Her father's grip loosened but did not let go entirely, his fingers still pressing into her elbow as though she might flee if given the chance.

I might. If I had anywhere to run.

"I did not mean it. It was an accident." Her father's explanation sounded hollow even to her own ears.

"Aye. I'm certain it was." The stranger took a step closer, his movements deliberate and controlled. His eyes found hers again, and this time she saw something unexpected in them. Not pity. She could not have borne pity. But a question… and oddly a flash of concern. "Are ye hurt, me lady?"

The simple courtesy of it nearly undid her.

When had anyone ever asked her that? Not her father, who had caused it. Not Edmund, who claimed to want to protect her. Not her mother, who was too afraid of her husband to show any type of alliance to Elinor.

Not once in all the years she had lived beneath her father's roof had anyone asked if she was hurt, as though her pain mattered, as though she were a person whose suffering deserved acknowledgment.

Her throat was too tight to answer. She pressed her handkerchief to her lip, tasting linen mixed with copper, and tried to gather the scattered pieces of her composure.

"Who the devil are you?" Edmund demanded, apparently recovering himself enough to remember his pride.

The stranger's attention shifted to him, slow and deliberate as a drawn blade. "Someone who daesnae like seein' a lady bleed."

His gaze returned to her father, and Elinor saw Edmund stiffen at the quiet authority in his voice.

"This is none of your concern."

"It is now." The stranger's voice remained level, almost pleasant, but there was steel beneath it.

"Release her."

"I will not be ordered about by some Highland savage."

A second man appeared at the Scotsman’s shoulder. Sandy-haired, younger, with a soldier's build and an expression that suggested he had seen his laird do inadvisable things before and expected to see him do so again.

"David," he said, very quietly. "What are ye daeing?"

"Preventing a lady from being mauled in the street, Tristan." His tone was cool, the type that accompanied a man who was capable of anything.

"The auction is about tae start."

"Aye. I'm aware."

Tristan looked between them all and sighed like a man whose worst suspicions had been confirmed. "This is madness."

"Perhaps." David’s eyes––for that it seemed was his name––never left her father. "But I'll not walk past a woman bleeding while two men fight over her like dogs over a bone."

"How dare you." Edmund started forward, his hand moving to his sword.

The Scotsman's hand moved to his own blade. He did not draw it. He did not need to. The message was clear enough, written in the set of his shoulders and the steadiness of his gaze.