Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Absolutely not."
Elinor crossed her arms, watching as the five men stripped off their doublets and tossed them aside with the enthusiasm of boys half their age. The celebration had moved to the outer courtyard, where someone had set up what appeared to be a competition area.
"Come on, me lady!" Lachlann called, his grin infectious. "It's just a wee bit of fun."
"A wee bit of fun that involves throwing logs that weigh more than I do." Elinor gestured at the massive timber lying in the center of the ring. "I think I'll observe from a safe distance, thank you."
"Wise woman," Tristan said, appearing at her elbow with two cups of ale. He offered her one. "Those idiots have been competin' at Highland games since they were lads. It always ends in someone gettin' hurt."
"Usually Lachlann," Calum called out cheerfully. "Remember the time ye tried to throw the caber and it came back down on yer foot?"
"That was one time!"
"Ye couldn't walk properly fer a month."
"I could walk fine!"
"Ye hobbled like an old man."
Elinor hid her smile behind her cup as the men continued their good-natured bickering. David caught her eye from across the ring and shook his head, but she could see the affection in his expression as he looked at his brothers.
"They're always like this?" she asked Tristan.
"Always. Wait until they really get goin'. That's when the bettin' starts." He took a long drink. "Last time they gathered, Euan wagered his favorite sword that he could out-throw Calum. Lost spectacularly. Moyra made him sleep in the stables fer a week."
"His wife made him sleep in the stables?"
"Aye. Moyra daesnae tolerate foolishness." Tristan's expression turned fond. "She's good fer him. Keeps him grounded."
Before Elinor could respond, Archibald's voice boomed across the courtyard. "Right then! Standard rules. Three attempts each. Longest throw wins. And since we're celebratin' David's marriage, the winner gets tae kiss the bride!"
"Ye absolutely will nae!" David's protest was immediate and sharp.
"What's the matter, David?" Calum's grin was wicked. "Afraid one of us might actually win?"
"Afraid ye'll all make fools of yerselves and embarrass me in front of me wife."
"Too late fer that," Euan said dryly. "We've already told her about the time ye fell in the loch tryin' tae impress that merchant's daughter."
"I was fourteen!"
"And spectacularly unsuccessful."
The crowd that had gathered laughed, and Elinor found herself joining in. There was something wonderful about seeing David like that—not the serious laird or the careful strategist, but just a man among his closest friends, comfortable enough to be teased.
"Me lady!" Lachlann bowed with exaggerated formality. "Would ye dae us the honor of startin' the competition?"
"How do I do that?"
"Just say 'begin' or drop yer scarf or somethin' dramatic." He winked. "Whatever feels appropriately ceremonial."
Elinor looked at David, who nodded his permission, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. She stepped forward, pulling the ribbon from her hair with deliberate slowness.
"Gentlemen," she said, pitching her voice to carry. "May the best man win."
She dropped the ribbon.
Chaos erupted immediately.
Calum went first, grabbing the massive log with both hands. He hefted it upright, muscles straining, then launched it forward with a grunt of effort. The caber flipped end over end before landing with a thunderous crash.
"Twelve o'clock!" someone in the crowd called. "Perfect throw!"
"Lucky," Archibald muttered, stepping up next. His throw was powerful but less controlled—the caber landed at an angle, earning groans from the spectators.
"Ye're losin' yer touch, Archie!" Calum crowed.
"I'm just warmin' up!"
Lachlann went next, his throw wild and enthusiastic and completely lacking in technique. The caber wobbled mid-flight and landed at barely nine o'clock.
"Pathetic," Euan called. "Me grandmaither could throw better than that."
"Yer grandmaither's dead!"
"Aye, and she'd still beat ye!"
The crowd roared with laughter. Elinor found herself grinning, caught up in the infectious energy of it all.
Euan's throw was controlled, precise, landing at a respectable eleven-thirty. Then it was David's turn.
He approached the caber with the same focus he brought to everything, positioning his hands carefully, testing the weight. Elinor watched the muscles of his back shift beneath his shirt as he lifted the massive log.
She stared.
David launched the caber with perfect form, the log flipping cleanly through the air before landing at exactly twelve o'clock. The crowd erupted in cheers.
"Show-off," Calum grumbled, but he was grinning.
"Just because ye went first daesnae mean ye'll win," David replied. "We've got two more rounds."
They continued through the second and third rounds, each throw accompanied by increasingly outrageous insults and boasts.
Calum tried to distract Archibald by asking about his mother's health mid-throw.
Lachlann attempted some kind of spinning technique that nearly brained a spectator.
Euan remained stoically focused, though his throws were consistently solid.
David, infuriatingly, was perfect every time.
"He's goin' tae win, isn't he?" Elinor asked Tristan.
"Probably. He usually daes." Tristan shook his head. "Bastard's good at everythin'."
By the final round, it was clear David had won. The other four men grudgingly acknowledged defeat, though not without demanding a rematch using different rules.
"We'll dae hammer throw next time," Calum declared. "I'm much better at hammer throw."
"Ye're terrible at hammer throw," Lachlann said.
"I'm marginally less terrible than I am at caber toss."
"That's nae the endorsement ye think it is."
Elinor was laughing at their bickering when she felt something shift in the air. A change in the energy of the crowd. People were looking toward the castle walls, pointing at something.
She turned, following their gaze, and saw—
Everything happened at once.
An arrow struck the ground three feet from where she stood, its shaft still quivering with the force of impact.
David's head snapped toward her, his expression transforming from amusement to lethal focus in the space of a heartbeat.
"Elinor!"
She heard him shout, saw him start moving toward her, but the crowd was too thick, people were panicking, scattering in all directions—
A hand closed around her arm. Hard. Bruising.
"Got ye."
The voice was unfamiliar, rough with triumph. Before Elinor could scream, before she could even process what was happening, she felt cold steel press against her throat.
A dagger. There was a dagger at her throat.
"Nobody move!" Her captor's voice rang out across the suddenly silent courtyard. "Or the lady dies!"
Terror locked Elinor's muscles. She could feel the blade's edge against her skin, could feel the man's breath hot and foul against her ear. He was pulling her backward, toward the garden entrance, using her body as a shield.
"Let her go." David's voice cut through the chaos, cold and deadly. He stood ten paces away, his hand on his dirk. Around him, his brothers had drawn their own weapons, forming a loose semi-circle. "Let her go, and I might let ye live."
"I don't think so." The man's grip tightened, and Elinor felt the dagger press harder. Not enough to break skin. Yet. "I've got orders. The lady comes with me."
"What orders?" David took a step forward. "Who sent ye?"
"Wouldn't ye like to know?" The man laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Back away. All of you. Or I open her throat right here."
Elinor's heart hammered against her ribs. She could see David's face, could see the carefully controlled fury there. Could see him calculating angles, distances, possibilities.
"David." Her voice came out thin, reedy. "Don't."
"Quiet!" The dagger pressed harder, and she felt a sting—the blade had broken skin. Warm blood trickled down her neck. "I said don't move!"
But David was already moving.
He moved with a speed that shouldn't have been possible, crossing the distance between them in three long strides. His hand closed around the man's wrist—the one holding the dagger—and twisted violently. Elinor heard bone crack.
The man screamed. The dagger fell.
David yanked Elinor away from her attacker, shoving her toward Tristan in one smooth motion. Then he was on the man, driving him to the ground with brutal efficiency.
Chaos erupted again. Elinor saw more figures emerging from the crowd—at least three, maybe four—all drawing weapons.
The Covenant brothers moved as one, intercepting the attackers with the kind of coordinated violence that spoke of years fighting together.
Calum's fist connected with someone's jaw. Archibald grabbed another attacker, slamming him against the garden wall. Lachlann and Euan worked in tandem, disarming a third man with practiced ease.
The entire fight lasted less than a minute.
When it ended, five men lay on the ground—two unconscious, three restrained by MacDonald guards who'd appeared from seemingly nowhere. David stood over the man who'd grabbed Elinor, his boot on his chest, his dirk pressed to the man's throat.
"Who sent ye?" David's voice was barely above a whisper, but everyone heard it.
The man spat blood. "Go to hell."
David pressed the dirk harder. "Wrong answer."
"David." Euan's voice held warning. "We need him alive. Tae question properly."
"I'm questionin' him now."
"Aye, but if ye kill him, we'll nae get answers." Euan crouched beside them. "Let me."
David hesitated, then stepped back, though his hand remained on his dirk. Euan took his place, studying the man with cold assessment.
"Ye're nay clan," Euan said. "Yer accent's English. And yer weapon—" He picked up the fallen dagger, examining it. "—is quality. Too good fer a common brigand." He looked at David. "This was planned."
"Who sent ye?" David repeated. "And dinnae lie. I'm nae as patient as me friend here."
The man glared up at them, defiant despite his broken wrist and the dirk still hovering near his throat. "Sir Edmund Langley sends his regards. Says to tell you the lady was his first, and he means to have her back."
Silence fell like a stone.
David went very, very still. "Langley."
"Yes. Says ye stole what was rightfully his." The man grinned through bloody teeth. "Says he'll burn this whole castle to get her back if he has to."
Elinor's legs gave out. Tristan caught her, easing her down to sit on a nearby bench. Her hand went to her neck, came away red.
Not much blood. Just a shallow cut. But the sight of it made everything suddenly, terrifyingly real.
“Elinor,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “Look at me.”
She did, her pulse still racing, the noise of the celebration replaced by ringing in her ears. Only then did she realize how close he was standing, how his body had subtly angled itself between her and the rest of the crowd.
“Where are ye hurt?” he asked. His fingers hovered near her throat but didn’t touch—not yet—his restraint visible.
“My neck,” she managed, lifting her hand. “It’s just a cut.”
David caught her wrist gently and lowered it, his jaw tightening as he saw the thin line of blood against her skin. His thumb brushed the edge of the wound with aching care, and his breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale.
“That was nae ‘just’ anything,” he said, his voice edged with something dangerous. “Ye could have been taken. Or worse.”
She saw it then, not just anger, but fear. Bare and unguarded, flickering in his eyes before he forced it down.
“Ye’re safe now,” he added, softer. “I’ve got ye.”
Langley had sent men to take her. To drag her back to whatever he'd planned for her.
"Who's Langley?" Lachlann asked, confusion clear in his voice.
"A man who wanted to marry me. Before David." Elinor stopped, catching David's warning look.
"Enough."
Euan stared at her for a long moment, then looked at David.
“I’ll explain everything later. Now I have tae take care of me wife,” David said quietly.
"He'll try again," Archibald said quietly. "Men like that dinnae give up easily."
"Let him try." David's expression was cold. "Next time, I willnae show mercy."
Tristan appeared at David's elbow. "The guards have secured the other attackers. They're all sayin' the same thing, Langley hired them tae take Lady Elinor. Offered a substantial reward fer her safe return."
"Her return?" David's voice dripped acid. "She wasnae his tae begin with."
"Aye, but he seems to think otherwise." Tristan glanced at Elinor, concern clear on his face. "Me lady, ye're bleedin'. David is right. We should get that wound looked at."
Elinor touched her neck again. "It's fine. Truly. Just a scratch."
"It's nae fine." David was beside her in two strides, his anger transforming to worry. "Christ, Elinor. He could have killed ye."
"But he didn't."
"Because I stopped him." His hand went up to her face, tilting her head to examine the wound.
The realization of how close she'd come made Elinor's knees weak again. David caught her, steadying her with hands that trembled slightly.
"We need tae talk," Euan said behind them. "All of us. About the auction. About Langley. About what happens next."
"Later." David didn't look away from Elinor. "Right now, I'm takin' care of me wife." The command in his voice silenced further protest. "Lock those bastards in the cells. Question them if ye want. But I'm takin' Elinor inside. We'll talk when she's been tended tae and is restin'."
He swept her up into his arms before she could protest, carrying her toward the castle entrance.
She closed her eyes, pressing her face against David's chest, and tried not to think about the explanations that would have to come.
About how close she'd come to losing everything she was just beginning to want.