Page 96 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

"I didnae mean fer things tae become this way." He pushed off the wall, his movements restless. "I was tryin' tae protect ye. Tryin' tae make sure naethin' like the attack could happen again. But I went too far. I ken that now."

"Do you?"

"Aye." He met her eyes. "Ye were right. About all of it. I was shuttin' ye out. Treatin' ye like property tae protect instead of a person. A partner." He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."

The apology sounded genuine. Painful, even, like each word cost him something.

But Elinor had heard apologies before. Her father had apologized too, on the rare occasions when his temper got the better of him. The words never meant anything.

"Sorry isn't enough," she said quietly.

"I ken that too." David took a breath. "Which is why I want tae show ye somethin'. If ye'll come with me?"

Elinor hesitated. Part of her wanted to refuse. To make him work harder. To punish him for the past week of isolation and silence.

But another part, the part that had fallen for him despite her best efforts, wanted to give him a chance.

"Alright," she said. "Show me."

Relief flickered across his face. He gestured down the corridor. "This way."

They walked in silence, the early morning quiet broken only by their footsteps. Elinor tried to figure out where they were going, but David led her down corridors she didn't recognize, deeper into the castle.

Finally, he stopped at a door she'd never noticed before. His hand rested on the latch, and she saw it trembling slightly.

"I had this prepared fer ye," he said. "Before everythin' went wrong. It was meant tae be a surprise."

He opened the door.

Elinor stepped inside and stopped breathing.

The room was beautiful. Larger than she'd expected, with windows that looked out over the gardens. A fire burned in the hearth, making everything warm and welcoming.

But it was what filled the room that made her throat tighten.

Canvases. Easels. Paints in every color imaginable, arranged on a long table. Brushes of different sizes in ceramic pots. Charcoal and chalk and everything an artist could want.

Books. Shelves and shelves of them. She moved closer, reading spines. Books on healing. On gardening. On music and art and philosophy. On history and poetry and dozens of other subjects.

A harp stood in one corner, its wood gleaming in the firelight.

A writing desk sat near the window, supplied with paper and ink and quills.

And in the center of the room, a comfortable settle with soft cushions and warm blankets.

"What is this?" she whispered.

"It's yers." David's voice came from behind her. "Ye told me once that ye wanted tae figure out what ye wanted tae dae. What interested ye. So I had this prepared. Supplies fer anythin' ye might want tae try. Space tae explore whatever calls tae ye."

Elinor turned to face him. "When did you do this?"

"I started right after our conversation. Had servants bringin' things in while ye were busy with the Cèilidh preparations." His smile was tentative. "I wanted tae surprise ye. Tae show ye that I meant what I said about givin' ye freedom. But then the attack happened and I forgot about it. Until yesterday."

"Until I told you I felt like a prisoner."

"Aye." He moved into the room, his hands in his pockets. "I ken this daesnae fix what I did wrong. Givin' ye things isnae the same as actually trustin' ye or includin' ye in decisions. But I wanted ye tae see—I wanted ye tae ken that I was tryin'. Even before yesterday. I was tryin' tae give ye what ye needed."

Elinor looked around the room again. At the care that had gone into selecting everything. At the thought behind each choice.