Page 46 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Straighten yer shoulders, lass. Let them see their lady."

Elinor's hand tightened on David's arm as they approached the great hall. She could hear the noise already, voices raised in conversation, laughter, the clatter of dishes being set on tables. The sounds of a clan gathering for their evening meal.

"I am straight," she muttered.

"Aye. But ye're tense as a bowstring." His voice was low, meant only for her ears. "They can smell fear, ye ken."

"That's very reassuring."

"I'm nay tryin' tae reassure ye. I'm tellin' ye the truth." He paused at the entrance, turning to face her. "These are me people, Elinor. Most of them are good folk. But some will test ye. Question ye. Try tae see if ye're worthy of bein' their lady."

"And if they decide I'm not?"

"Then they'll learn tae live with disappointment." His tone was matter-of-fact. "Because ye're me wife. Lady of Keppoch. And that's nae changin', whether they like it or nae."

The certainty in his voice steadied her. She nodded once, sharply, and let him lead her into the hall.

The noise didn't stop when they entered, but it shifted. Conversations became quieter, more furtive. Heads turned. Eyes tracked their progress toward the high table at the far end of the room.

Elinor kept her chin lifted, her expression neutral. She'd learned years ago how to walk through hostile rooms. How to pretend she didn't notice the stares, the whispers, the judgment written on every face.

Some of the clansmen offered polite bows as they passed. A woman near the hearth curtsied, her smile genuine. But others purposefully looked away, busying themselves with their meals or their conversations, unwilling to acknowledge her.

An Englishwoman. In their hall. At their laird's side.

Elinor could almost hear the words. David led her to the high table, pulling out her chair before taking his own seat beside her. The gesture was automatic, practiced, the kind of courtesy a man showed his wife. But Elinor noticed the way his jaw was tight, the way his eyes swept the hall with sharp assessment.

He'd noticed the averted gazes too.

Servants brought trays of roasted meat, fresh bread, vegetables in rich gravy, and cheese that smelled divine.

Elinor's stomach clenched with hunger, but she forced herself to wait.

Take measured, ladylike portions. Eat slowly, carefully, the way you've been taught.

Around them, the hall gradually returned to its normal rhythm. Conversations resumed at full volume. Laughter rang out from the lower tables. But Elinor could feel the undercurrent of attention still focused on her. Watching. Judging.

"Me lady."

The voice came from her left. Elinor turned to find an older man standing a few paces away. He was perhaps sixty, with iron-grey hair and a face weathered by years of Highland winters. His expression was not hostile, exactly, but not welcoming either.

"Aye?" David's voice held a note of warning.

"I was just wonderin'," the man continued, his eyes fixed on Elinor, "about the new Lady MacDonald's lineage. We ken she's English, aye. But what family daes she come from? What alliances daes this marriage bring tae the clan?"

The hall went quiet. Not completely silent, but quiet enough that nearby conversations faltered. Quiet enough that people leaned in to hear the answer.

Elinor felt heat creep up her neck. She opened her mouth to respond—to explain about her father's estate, about the Royse family's history—but David spoke first.

"Her lineage," he said, his voice carrying across the suddenly attentive hall, "is MacDonald."

The man blinked.

"She's a MacDonald now." David's tone was pleasant, conversational, but there was steel beneath it "That's the only lineage that matters in this hall. The only name that matters. Dae ye understand me, or dae ye have other questions?"

The older man hesitated, clearly wanting to press the issue. But something in David's eyes made him think better of it.