Page 60 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“The gardens need torches.”

Elinor stood at the edge of the stone path, surveying the space that would host part of night's celebration. She'd already arranged for tables to be set up near the fountain, for lanterns to be strung between the trees, for the musicians to have a proper platform. But something was missing.

Torches. They needed torches along the pathways so guests wouldn't stumble in the dark.

She made a mental note to speak with Malcolm, then continued her inspection, checking each detail against the list she'd memorized.

The flowers, what few autumn blooms remained, had been arranged in clay pots. The benches had been cleaned and positioned for conversation. Even the fountain had been scrubbed until it gleamed.

It was perfect. Or it would be, once she sorted the torch situation.

She was so focused on her mental calculations—how many torches, where to place them, whether they had enough oil—that she didn't notice how close she'd wandered to the training grounds until she heard it.

The sharp crack of wood striking wood. Men's voices calling out encouragement and correction. And beneath it all, a single voice giving instructions, patient and clear.

David's voice.

Elinor paused at the garden's edge, where a low stone wall separated cultivated beauty from martial practicality. She should have turned back. Returned to her preparations. She had dozens of things to finalize.

But curiosity drew her forward. Just a quick look. Just to see what kind of training the Highland warriors did.

She peered over the wall, and her breath caught.

The training yard was full of men, perhaps twenty of them, working in pairs or small groups. But her eyes went immediately to the center, where David stood with three younger warriors who couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen.

He was shirtless.

Elinor had seen glimpses of his bare chest before—that mortifying incident with the bath, quick flashes while dressing. But this was different. This was David in full daylight, his skin bronzed by the sun, every muscle defined as he moved through a series of strikes and parries.

She should look away. She absolutely should look away.

She didn't look away.

"Nay, ye're droppin' yer shoulder before ye strike," David was saying to one of the younger men. "See? Right there. It tells yer opponent exactly what ye're goin' tae dae afore ye dae it."

He demonstrated, moving with a fluid grace that shouldn't have been possible for someone his size. "Keep yer shoulders level. Let the strike come from yer core, nae just yer arms. Like this."

The young warrior tried again, and that time his form was better. David nodded approvingly, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Better. Much better. Now dae it another fifty times until it's habit."

The boy groaned good-naturedly, but there was pride in his eyes. Pride that his laird had noticed his improvement.

Elinor watched as David moved to the next young warrior, correcting his stance with the same patient attention. There was no impatience in his voice, no frustration when they made mistakes. Just steady encouragement and clear instruction.

He'd be a good father. Patient. Kind. Teaching his children not just skills but confidence.

The image bloomed unbidden in her mind—David in this same yard, years from now, showing a child how to hold a practice sword. Laughing when they got it wrong. Beaming with pride when they got it right.

Their children.

His and hers.

The thought hit her with such unexpected force that she actually swayed slightly, gripping the stone wall for balance.

What was she thinking? They barely knew each other. Their marriage was a convenience, a protection, a transaction that happened to involve vows and a shared bed.