Page 91 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

"He cares about ye, me lady. Anyone can see that."

"Caring isn't enough." Elinor's voice was quiet. "Not if he won't let me in."

That night, David finally returned to their bedchamber.

Elinor was already in bed, pretending to be asleep. She heard the door open, heard his soft footsteps as he crossed to the washstand. Heard the rustle of fabric as he undressed.

She waited for him to climb into bed. To settle beside her like he had before.

But he didn't.

Through barely-open eyes, she watched him move to the chair by the fire. Watched him sit, still fully dressed in his shirt and trews. Watched him lean his head back and close his eyes.

He was going to sleep in the chair.

Rather than risk disturbing her. Rather than risk touching her. Rather than being close to her.

Elinor's throat tightened. She wanted to say something. Wanted to call out to him, demand he get into bed, force him to talk to her.

But she didn't.

Because she could see the exhaustion written on his face. The fear and guilt and responsibility weighing him down.

And she didn't know how to help him carry it.

So she lay in their bed, alone, and listened to her husband's breathing from across the room.

And tried very hard not to cry.

Because that—that distance, that silence, that careful avoidance—was worse than anything her father had ever done to her. Her father had controlled her through cruelty. Through deliberate abuse and neglect.

But David seemed to care about her and she cared about him, although they didn’t know how to reach other, and that hurt more.

David was overprotecting her with walls built so high she couldn't climb them.