Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
"That's a proper fortress," Tristan murmured as they approached the outer gates. "Makes Keppoch look like a summer cottage."
Alnwick Castle rose from the Northumberland landscape like the statement of power it was with grey stone walls thick enough to withstand siege, towers that scraped the winter sky, and banners snapping in the cold wind.
David had been there twice before, both times at the regent's summons. Neither visit had ended particularly well.
He didn't expect that visit to be any different.
"Keppoch's defensible," David said. "This is just fer show."
"Show that says 'dinnae cross me or I'll crush ye.'"
"Aye. That too."
Elinor sat very still in the saddle. She hadn't complained once during the journey, though he'd seen the way she had winced when she thought he wasn't looking. Unused to long rides, clearly.
"Ye alright, lass?" he asked quietly.
"Fine." Her voice was clipped. Professional. The same tone she'd used all morning, as though the previous night hadn't happened. As though he hadn't felt her tremble under his hand, heard her breath catch when he'd touched her.
"Ye're allowed tae be nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"Ye're clutchin' those reins like ye're about tae fall off."
She loosened her grip fractionally. "I'm perfectly composed, thank you."
"Of course ye are." David exchanged a glance with Tristan, who was trying very hard not to smile. "Just remember what we discussed. We've been betrothed fer—"
"Two years," Elinor interrupted. "Our families are old friends.
My father attempted to break the betrothal for financial reasons, which is why you came to that gathering.
We married quickly to prevent him from interfering further.
" She recited it like a lesson. "I'm not an idiot, David. I remember the story."
"Never said ye were an idiot."
"You’ve implied it by repeating the plan three times so far this morning."
"I was makin' sure."
"That I wouldn't ruin your carefully constructed lie?" She finally looked at him, her pale green eyes sharp. "Don't worry."
The bitterness in her voice made something twist in David's chest. The gates were opening, and a man in the king's livery was riding out to meet them.
"Showtime," Tristan muttered.
The envoy was a thin man with a pointed beard and calculating eyes. He looked them over with the practiced assessment of someone used to measuring worth and finding most people wanting.
"Laird MacDonald," he said, his English accent crisp. "His Grace has been expecting you."
"Lord Ashford." David inclined his head, respect, but not deference. "We came as soon as we could."
"Indeed." Ashford's gaze slid to Elinor, then back to David. "His Grace said you'd be traveling alone."
"Plans changed."
"So I see." Another look at Elinor, this one longer. Taking in her fine gown, wrinkled from travel but unmistakably of quality, her pale face, the nervous way her hands twisted in the reins. "And this is?"
"Lady Elinor MacDonald." David kept his voice level, though he saw Ashford's eyebrows rise at the surname. "Me wife."
The silence that followed was profound. Ashford stared at him, then at Elinor, then back at him.
"Your wife," he repeated slowly.
"Aye."
"His Grace summoned you to discuss taking a wife."
"And I have one." David smiled, the expression not reaching his eyes. "Problem solved."
"That's not—" Ashford stopped himself, visibly collecting his composure. "His Grace will want to speak with you. Immediately."
"That's why we're here."
"Yes. Well." Ashford turned his horse sharply. "Follow me. And Laird MacDonald? I'd suggest you prepare a very good explanation."
They followed him through the gates and into the outer bailey. Servants scattered at their approach, and David could feel eyes on them from every direction.
Word would spread quickly, the Highland laird had arrived with an English bride.
They were shown to a receiving room, a pointed insult, being made to wait like petitioners rather than honored guests.
David paced the length of it while Tristan lounged against the wall and Elinor stood near the window, her spine rigid.
"Stop pacin'," Tristan said after the fifth circuit. "Ye're makin' me nervous."
"I'm thinkin'."
"Ye can think while standin' still."
David ignored him, running through the story again. Looking for holes. Places where the regent might poke and find weakness. They needed this to be airtight. Needed the regent to believe.
"David."
He turned. Elinor was looking at him, her expression unreadable but soft.
"What?"
"Come here." Her tone was gentle, but it wasn't a request.
He crossed to her, suddenly aware of how small she looked in this massive room. How pale. "What's wrong?"
"Your hair." She reached up, her fingers grazing his temple. "It's a mess. And your shirt's not properly laced." Her hands moved to his collar, adjusting the fabric with quick, efficient movements. "If we're supposedly a loving couple, you need to look like your wife cares for your appearance."
Her touch was impersonal. Professional. But David found himself very aware of how close she was. Close enough that he could smell the faint scent of lavender from her hair. Close enough to see the tiny freckles across her nose.
"There," she said, stepping back. "Better."
"Ye didnae have tae."
"Yes, I did." She smoothed her own skirts, checking that everything was in place. "Details matter. If the Duke of Albany thinks we're truly married, he'll expect certain... familiarities."
She was right. Of course she was right.
The door opened before he could respond. A different servant, this one older, with the kind of face that gave nothing away.
"His Grace will see you now."
David's hand found the small of Elinor's back as they followed the servant. A gesture of possession, of protection. She tensed slightly under his touch but didn't pull away.
Good lass. Play the part. Just a little longer.
The throne room was designed to intimidate. Vaulted ceilings, stone pillars, and at the far end, raised on a dais, two thrones.
The smaller, more ornate throne sat empty—a reminder of the young King James V, still a child of barely five years. Beside it, in the regent's seat, sat John Stewart, second Duke of Albany, the man who wielded true power in Scotland during the king's minority.
Albany was in his forties, sharp-featured and calculating, with dark hair streaked with silver and eyes that assessed everything with cold precision. He wore the regalia of his office with the confidence of a man who had fought for his position and intended to keep it.
David stopped at the appropriate distance and bowed. Beside him, Elinor sank into a curtsy that would have done a duchess proud.
"Yer Grace," David said. "Thank ye fer receivin' us."
"Laird MacDonald." The Regent's voice was deceptively pleasant. "I must confess, when I summoned ye tae discuss taking an English bride, I didn't expect ye tae arrive with one already in tow."
"Circumstances changed, Yer Grace."
"Did they?" The Regent's gaze moved to Elinor. "And who might this be?"
"Lady Elinor MacDonald, Yer Grace." Elinor's voice was steady, clear. "Until recently, Lady Elinor Royse."
"Royse." The regent frowned slightly. "Lord Thomas Royse's daughter?"
"Aye, Yer Grace."
"I see." The Regent leaned back in his throne, studying them both. "Perhaps, Laird MacDonald, ye'd care tae explain when exactly ye acquired a wife? I seem tae recall me letter was quite clear about me expectations."
This was it. The moment where their story either held or fell apart.
"Yer letter was very clear, Yer Grace," David said carefully. "Which is why I was surprised tae receive it. Ye see, I've been betrothed tae Lady Elinor fer the better part of two years."
The Regent's eyebrows rose. "Betrothed."
"Aye. Our families are old friends. The arrangements were made quietly, as Lady Elinor's faither preferred discretion until the contracts were finalized."
"How convenient." The Regent's tone was dry. "And these contracts, I assume they're complete now?"
"In a manner of speakin'. The betrothal became a marriage some time ago."
The regent sat forward slightly. "How very... timely."
David felt Elinor tense beside him. This was the dangerous part. Where the regent could call them liars and have them both arrested for treason.
"If I may, Your Grace," Elinor said quietly.
The Regent's attention shifted to her. "Speak."
"My father attempted to break our betrothal. For financial reasons." Her voice was calm, but David could hear the thread of steel beneath it. "He tried to sell me to another man. Laird MacDonald came to prevent it, and we wed immediately to ensure my father couldn't interfere again."
"Sell you." The Regent's expression darkened. "Yer faither attempted tae sell ye?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And Laird MacDonald prevented this?"
"He did." Elinor met the regent's gaze steadily. "I'm aware this complicates matters with whatever arrangements you'd planned. But I can assure Your Grace that our marriage is legitimate. Legal. And"—she paused, and David saw the faint color rise in her cheeks—"consummated."
The blush was perfect. Embarrassed but honest. The kind of reaction any new bride might have when discussing such matters, even more so before a regent.
David had to resist the urge to kiss her right there in the throne room.
The regent studied them for a long moment. David could practically see him weighing the story, looking for flaws. Testing their reactions.
"Lord Ashford," the Regent said without looking away from them. "What dae ye ken of Lord Thomas Royse?"
The envoy, who'd been standing silently near the wall, stepped forward. "He's deeply in debt, Yer Grace. Has been fer years. There have been... rumors about his treatment of his family."
"What kind of rumors?"
"The unpleasant kind, Yer Grace."
The Regent's jaw tightened. "I see." He returned his attention to David. "When did you say this betrothal was arranged?"