Chapter 14
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.
She had to leave, right away, before the dangerous line of thinking went any further.
Elinor turned sharply, meaning to flee back to the safety of the gardens, and walked directly into a rack of practice swords leaning against the wall.
The wooden blades clattered to the ground with a noise like thunder, scattering across the stones. Several men looked up. Tristan paused mid-strike. And David—
David's head snapped toward the sound, his eyes finding her immediately.
No. No, no, no.
Elinor froze like a deer caught in lantern light, heat flooding her face as every man in the training yard turned to stare at her. She should say something. Apologize for the disruption. Make some excuse about checking the gardens.
But her tongue had apparently stopped working.
David handed his practice sword to one of the young warriors and started toward her, moving with that same fluid grace she'd been admiring moments before.
Only he was moving toward her, and she was acutely aware that he was still shirtless, that his skin was gleaming with sweat, that she could see every line and curve of muscle as he approached.
She was staring. She was definitely staring.
Stop staring. Look literally anywhere else.
Her eyes remained fixed on his chest.
"Elinor." His voice was closer now. Right in front of her. "Are ye alright?"
She jerked her gaze up to his face and found him watching her with concern. And something else. Something that made her skin feel too tight.
"I'm fine." The words came out higher than intended. "I just, I was checking the gardens and I… the swords fell."
"I can see that." Was that amusement in his voice? "Did ye need somethin'?"
"No. I mean yes. I mean—" She took a breath, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. "I was just passing through. I didn't mean to disturb your training."
"Ye're nae disturbin' anythin'." He took another step closer, close enough that she could see the faint scars crossing his shoulder, the sheen of sweat on his skin. "Ye look flustered."
"I'm not flustered."
"Yer cheeks are pink."
"It's warm."
"It's autumn. There's snow on the mountains." His hand came up, and she felt his fingers brush her cheek with devastating gentleness. "I've been wonderin' what ye look like when ye're flustered. Every other time it's been dark, and I couldnae see ye properly."
Elinor's breath stopped. His thumb traced along her cheekbone, and she felt that touch everywhere—down her spine, in her stomach, lower.
"I should go," she managed. "There's much to do before tonight."
She turned, but his hand caught her elbow. Not hard. Just enough to stop her.
"If ye want tae stay, ye can." His voice had gone lower, rougher. "Ye shouldnae be ashamed of it."
"I'm not ashamed." The protest came out too quickly. "I just have responsibilities."
"So dae I. Still, I spent half of yesterday mornin’ watchin' ye taste desserts in the kitchen when I should have been reviewin' grain shipments."
The admission made her turn back to face him. "You were watching me?"
"Aye." No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just simple honesty. "Couldnae help meself. Ye looked so happy."
"I was happy. I am happy." She was acutely aware of his hand still on her elbow, warm through the fabric of her sleeve. "The preparations are going well. Everything should be ready for tonight."
"That's good." But he wasn't looking at the gardens or thinking about the Cèilidh. He was looking at her like she was something he wanted to study. To understand. "Ye work hard."
"I want the clan to accept me. To see that I'm—" She stopped. "That I'm worthy of being here."
"Ye're already worthy." His hand slid down from her elbow to her wrist, his fingers circling it loosely.
She should have pulled away. Should have maintain the distance she'd insisted on. Should have remembered the rules she'd demanded—no touching, no kissing, no intimacy unless absolutely necessary.
But she didn't pull away.
"I should really check on the final preparations," she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
"Ye've checked everythin' three times already. I've been watchin' ye circle the gardens fer the past hour." He tilted his head slightly. "Ye're just avoidin' somethin'."
"I'm not avoiding anything."
"Nay?" His smile widened. "Then what were ye daein' watchin' me train from behind the garden wall?"
Heat flooded her face again. "I wasn't—I didn't do that."
"Ye were. And ye can if ye want." He released her wrist, stepping back to give her space. "And if ye're done with yer preparations, and ye clearly are, then ye have tae come with me."
"Come with you where?"
"Ye'll see."
"David, the Cèilidh is tonight. I need to—"
"Ye need tae trust me." He held out his hand. "Please."
There was something in his voice that made her hesitate. Not command. Not manipulation. Just a simple request, honest and vulnerable.
Against her better judgment, she placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers, warm and calloused and sure. "Thank ye."
"I haven't agreed to anything yet. I don't even know where we're going."
"That's why it's called trust." He started walking, tugging her gently along. "Come on. We dinnae have much time afore ye need tae start gettin' ready."
"David."
"Just trust me, lass. Can ye dae that?"
Could she? Elinor looked at their joined hands, at the easy way he led her away from the training grounds.
She thought about the room he'd promised her, windows facing east. The books he'd offered her free access to.
The way he'd stood up for her at dinner, declaring her lineage didn't matter because she was a MacDonald.
The way he'd looked at her the day before, like she'd hung the moon and stars, just for tasting desserts.
"All right," she heard herself say. "But if this is some elaborate scheme…"
"It's nae a scheme. I promise." He glanced back at her, and the warmth in his eyes made her stomach flip.
He squeezed her hand. "Trust me. Everythin' will be perfect. Ye've made sure of it."
They walked through the castle grounds, David still shirtless and drawing looks from every servant and guard they passed. Elinor tried not to notice the way his shoulders moved, the way the autumn sunlight caught on his skin.
She failed spectacularly.
"Ye're starin' again," he said without looking at her.
"I am not."
"Ye are. It's alright. I dinnae mind." She could hear the smile in his voice. "Stare all ye want, lass. Fair's fair, considerin' how much time I spend starin' at ye."
The casual admission made her trip over her own feet. David caught her easily, his free hand steadying her waist.
"Careful."
"You can't just—" She gestured helplessly. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why nae? It's true." He released her waist but kept hold of her hand. "Dae ye want me tae lie?"
"No, but—" She struggled to articulate what she meant. "There are rules. We agreed."
"We did. Nay touchin' in private. Nay kissin' either." His eyes found hers. "But we're nae in private right now. And I'm nae touchin' ye anywhere inappropriate. Just holdin' yer hand."
"That feels like a technicality."
"That's because it is a technicality." His smile turned wicked. "I'm very good at findin' loopholes, lass. Comes with bein' a laird. Ye learn tae work within restrictions."
Despite herself, Elinor laughed. "You're impossible."
"Ye keep sayin' that like ye mean it as an insult."
"I do mean it as an insult."
"But ye're smilin' when ye say it. So I'm choosin' tae take it as a compliment."
They'd reached the stables. Her heart sank.
"David, I really don't have time for a ride. The Cèilidh—"
"––starts at sunset. It's barely past noon." He led her toward the larger of two horses, a grey stallion she recognized as his favorite. "Ye have plenty of time. And ye need a break afore taenight."
"I don't need a break. I need to make sure everything is ok."
"Elinor." He turned to face her fully, and the gentleness in his expression stopped her protests. "When was the last time ye did somethin' just because ye wanted tae? Nae because it was required or expected or necessary, but just because it brought ye joy?"
The question hit harder than it should have. Elinor tried to think back—to her time in her father's house, to the endless days of duty and fear and walking on eggshells. When had she last done anything for the simple pleasure of it?
She couldn't remember.
"That's what I thought." David's hand squeezed hers gently. "So ye're comin' with me. Nae because ye have tae. Nae because it's required. But because I'm askin'. And because maybe, just maybe, ye want tae."
Elinor looked at the horse, then at David, then at their joined hands. She thought about the Cèilidh preparations, all finalized and perfect. About the hours stretching before her with nothing to do but worry and second-guess.
About David standing there, putting his shirt back on, earnest, asking her to trust him.
"Where are we going?" she asked quietly.
His smile could have lit the entire castle. "Somewhere ye'll love. I promise."
"And we'll be back in time for me to get ready?"
"Aye. Plenty of time." He moved to the horse's side, then looked back at her expectantly. "Well? Are ye comin'?"
Elinor took a breath. Made a decision that felt both terrifying and exhilarating.
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, I'm coming." She moved to stand beside him. "But if we're late getting back, and I don't have time to dress properly…"
"We won't be late." He lifted her easily onto the horse, his hands strong and sure on her waist. "I promise."
He swung up behind her, his chest warm against her back, his arms coming around her to take the reins. And despite the rules, despite the careful distance she'd tried to maintain, Elinor found herself leaning back into him.
Just a little.
"Comfortable?" His breath stirred the hair at her temple.
"No," she lied.
She felt rather than heard his laugh. "Liar."
Then they were moving, leaving the castle grounds behind, and Elinor decided that maybe David was right.
Maybe she did need a break.
And maybe, possibly, she wanted to spend the afternoon with her husband more than she wanted to check on torch placement for the fourth time.
Though she'd never admit that out loud.