Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
"Ineed to ride out today."
David watched Elinor's face carefully as he said it, looking for signs of the anger that had flared between them before. But she simply nodded, setting down her morning tea.
"Where?" she asked.
"North border. We've had reports of more of Langley's men in the area." He reached across the table, taking her hand. "I wanted ye tae ken. Nae leave without tellin' ye where I was goin'."
Something softened in her expression. "Thank you. For telling me."
"I promised I'd try tae include ye instead of shuttin' ye out." He squeezed her hand.
"I know. And I appreciate it." She paused. "How long will you be gone?"
"Most of the day, probably. Maybe into the evenin' if we find somethin’." He stood, moving around the table to kiss her forehead. "I've left instructions with the guards. Ye can go anywhere in the castle or grounds. Just stay within the walls, aye?"
"I will." She tilted her head back to look at him. "Be careful."
"Always am." He kissed her properly this time, tasting tea and honey on her lips. "I'll be back before ye ken it."
The patrol started uneventfully. David rode out with twenty men, all veterans he trusted. They swept north toward the border, checking the usual spots where Langley's scouts had been seen.
For the first few hours, they found nothing. Just empty hills and cold wind.
Then Tristan, riding point, raised his hand in warning.
David urged his horse forward. "What is it?"
"Tracks. Fresh." Tristan pointed to the muddy ground. "At least five horses. Maybe more."
"How fresh?"
"This mornin'. Maybe an hour ago."
David's jaw tightened. "Fan out. Stay alert."
They followed the tracks into a narrow valley. David didn't like it—too many places for an ambush, too little room to maneuver. But turning back meant letting Langley's men operate freely on MacDonald lands.
That wasn't acceptable.
"David." Tristan's voice was low, urgent. "I dinnae like this."
"Neither dae I. But—"
An arrow whistled past David's head, close enough that he felt the wind of its passage.
"Ambush!" someone shouted.
Men poured out from behind rocks and trees. Not many—David counted six, maybe seven. But they'd chosen their position well, the high ground and surprise on their side.
"Form up!" David drew his sword, his horse dancing beneath him. "Protect yer flanks!"
Steel rang as David blocked the blow from the man coming at him, the impact shuddering up his arm. He grit his teeth—it wasn’t some frightened boy or drunken fool. That man knew how to fight.
Another figure moved at the edge of David’s vision. Too close. Too coordinated.
With a surge of force, he drove forward, knocking the first attacker off balance, then pivoted and slammed his elbow into the second man’s jaw. Bone crunched. The man went down.
The fight was brutal but brief. Langley's men were good, well-trained, well-armed. But David's men were better and they fought with the fury of clansmen protecting their own lands.
David cut down another man, parried another's strike. Something burned across his ribs, a blade slipping past his guard. But he ignored it, focused on the fight.
That time, David fought dirty. He feinted left, then drove his knee into another man’s stomach, followed with a brutal shove that sent him crashing to the ground.
Within minutes, it was over. Three of Langley's men dead, two captured, the rest fleeing.
"After them!" someone shouted.
"Let them go," David countermanded. "We have what we need."
He swung down from his horse, immediately regretting it as pain flared in his side. He pressed a hand to his ribs, felt wetness seeping through his shirt.
"Ye're hurt." Tristan was beside him instantly. "How badly?"
"Nae bad. Just a scratch."
"Let me see."
David lifted his shirt enough for Tristan to inspect the wound. It was shallow, a slice across his ribs that bled more than it hurt. Nothing serious.
"Ye need that cleaned and bandaged," Tristan said.
"I'll have the healer look at it when we get back." David turned to where his men were securing the prisoners. "What dae we have?"
"Two of Langley's, like ye said. One of them's talkin' already."
"Good. Bring them back tae Keppoch. I want tae ken exactly what Langley's plannin'."
The ride back was slower, more cautious. David kept one hand pressed to his ribs, trying to stem the bleeding. It wasn't serious, he'd had far worse, but it was annoying.
And it was a reminder that Langley was still out there. Still sending men. Still trying.
By the time they reached Keppoch, the sun was starting to sink toward the horizon. David went straight to the healer's quarters, ignoring Tristan's suggestion that he should rest first.
"It's just a scratch," he insisted. "Won't take long to clean and bandage."
The healer—an older woman named Moira—took one look at him and shook her head. "Sit. And take off that shirt before ye bleed all over me clean floor."
David obeyed, too tired to argue. Moira cleaned the wound with practiced efficiency, her touch gentle despite her gruff manner.
"It's shallow," she confirmed. "Clean cut. Should heal fine as long as ye keep it clean and dinnae dae anythin' stupid."
"Define stupid."
"Anythin' that involves swordplay, heavy liftin', or vigorously tumblin' yer wife." She gave him a pointed look. "Give it at least a few days."
David felt heat creep up his neck. "Aye. Fine."
She bandaged the wound and sent him on his way with instructions to return if it showed any signs of infection. David thanked her and headed for his study, where his Council was waiting for news.
The meeting was tense. David recounted the ambush, the captured men, what little information they'd gotten from them before leaving the valley.
"Langley's gettin' bolder," Malcolm said. "That's the third patrol he's hit this month."
"He's testin' us," Hamish added. "Seein' how we respond. Lookin' fer weaknesses."
"Then we need to make sure he daesnae find any." David leaned forward. "Double the patrols. I want men on every border, every approach. And I want the prisoners questioned properly. Find out what Langley's plannin'."
"And if they dinnae talk?"
"Make them talk." David's voice was cold. "I need tae ken what we're facin'. How many men he has. Where they're camped. When he's plannin' tae move."
The council members exchanged glances but nodded. They knew the stakes as well as David did.
After the meeting ended, David sat alone in his study for a few minutes, processing. The wound on his side throbbed with each breath—a constant reminder of how close things had come that day.
If that blade had gone an inch deeper. If the ambush had involved more men.
Dwelling on what-ifs was pointless.
But he couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming. Something bigger than patrol skirmishes and captured scouts.
Langley was planning something. David could feel it.
He just didn't know what.
David found Elinor in the great hall.
Or rather, he found chaos that Elinor appeared to be at the center of.
A dozen children—clansmen's children, ranging in age from perhaps five to twelve—were scattered around the hall with canvases and paints.
Or at least, that seemed to be the intention. In practice, most of them were using the paints on each other rather than on the canvases.
And Elinor, his dignified English wife, was in the middle of it all, laughing as a small girl painted a blue streak across her cheek.
"Nay, Meggie, like this—" Elinor demonstrated on her own canvas, then turned to find another child had painted her arm green. "Tavish! The canvas, not me!"
The boy—Tavish—grinned unrepentantly and ran off, trailing green paint behind him.
David leaned against the doorframe, watching. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Elinor laugh like that. Free and genuine, without any trace of the wariness that usually shadowed her.
She looked happy.
"Are ye goin' tae stand there grinnin' like a fool?" Tristan's voice came from behind him. "Or are ye goin' tae help yer wife?"
"I'm enjoyin' the show."
"Aye. I can see that." Tristan moved to stand beside him. "She's good with them. The bairns."
"Aye." David watched Elinor crouch down to help a struggling child, her patience evident even as paint got everywhere. "She is."
"Ye should go help."
"I dinnae ken the first thing about paintin'."
"Neither dae they, clearly." Tristan clapped him on the shoulder. "Go on. Yer wife wants ye tae join. I can see it in the way she keeps glancin' at the door."
David pushed off the doorframe and crossed the hall. Elinor looked up as he approached, her face lighting up in a way that made his chest tight.
"David! You're back." Then her expression shifted to concern. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Just a scratch." He gestured to the chaos around them. "What's all this?"
"Painting lessons. Or—" She laughed as another child squealed, dodging a paint-covered brush. "What was supposed to be painting lessons. It's turned into more of a paint war."
"I can see that." David picked up a canvas, examining the wild splashes of color.
She moved closer, lowering her voice. "Join us? Please? The children would love it."
"I dinnae ken how tae paint."
"Neither do I. That's not the point." Her eyes were warm, pleading. "Please?"
How could he refuse that?
"Alright. But dinnae blame me when I make a mess."
"You couldn't possibly make more of a mess than they already have."
David found an empty canvas and picked up a piece of charcoal. Painting seemed too complicated. But sketching—that he could do. It had been years since he'd tried, but the skill was still there, buried under layers of duty and responsibility.
He started to sketch Elinor. The curve of her cheek. The line of her jaw. The way her hair caught the light.
"What are you drawing?" She appeared at his elbow, trying to peek.
"Ye." He angled the canvas away. "Nay lookin' until I'm done."
"That's not fair."
"Life's nae fair, lass. Ye told me that yerself."
She swatted his arm, laughing. "Fine. Keep your secrets."
David worked quietly, only half-aware of the chaos continuing around him. The children's laughter. Elinor's patient voice as she tried to teach them technique. The occasional splash of paint hitting something it shouldn't.
He was so focused on his sketch that he didn't notice Meggie approaching until she painted a bright red streak across his canvas.
"Meggie!" Elinor's voice was horrified. "That was the laird's—"
But David was already laughing. "It's alright. I think it needed more color anyway."
Meggie beamed at him. Then, emboldened, she flicked her brush at him, spattering red paint across his shirt.
The hall went silent. Every child froze, clearly expecting the laird to be angry.
Instead, David dipped his fingers in the paint and flicked it back at her.
Chaos erupted.
Paint flew everywhere. Children shrieked with laughter. Elinor tried to restore order, but David saw her bite back a smile as Tavish got her with a spectacular blue splatter.
"Oh, that's it." Elinor grabbed her own brush. "You're all in trouble now."
What followed was the most undignified ten minutes of David's life as laird. He and Elinor ducked behind pillars, formed temporary alliances with children, betrayed said alliances, and generally made absolute fools of themselves.
By the end, they were both breathless and covered in paint. Elinor's hair had green streaks. David had blue handprints on his shirt. And every child in the hall was grinning like they'd just had the best day of their lives.
"Alright, that's enough!" Elinor called out, laughing. "Everyone go get cleaned up before your mothers see what a mess we've made of you!"
The children scattered, still giggling. David and Elinor stood in the middle of the hall, surveying the damage.
"Well," Elinor said. "That got out of hand."
"Aye. It did." David looked down at his paint-covered clothes. "Moira's goin' tae kill me. She just bandaged me wound and told me nae tae dae anythin' stupid."
"Your wound?" Elinor's amusement vanished. "David, you're hurt? Why didn't you say so?"
"I said it's just a scratch. Really." He caught her hands. "But we should probably get cleaned up before anyone sees us like this."
"We look ridiculous."
"Aye. We dae." He pulled her closer, not caring about the paint.
They made their way back to their bedchamber. David could hear servants muttering about the mess, but he didn't care.
For the first time in weeks, he felt—light. Like he could breathe properly again.
Inside their chamber, Elinor immediately started trying to wipe paint off her arms. "This is going to take forever to get out."
"We need a bath." David moved to the washstand, wetting a cloth. "Here. Let me help."
He began wiping paint from her face, his touch gentle. Elinor closed her eyes, leaning into his hand.
"That feels nice," she murmured.
"Aye." His voice had gone rough. "Ye've got paint in yer hair too."
"As do you."
They helped each other clean up, the task somehow becoming more intimate than it should have been. David's hands lingering on her neck. Elinor's fingers trailing across his jaw.
"We're making a mess," she whispered as water dripped on the floor.
"Dinnae care." He pulled her closer, ignoring the protest from his wounded side. "Ye're beautiful. Even covered in paint."
"You sketched me." Her hands moved to his shirt, starting to unlace it. "I saw it. Before Meggie added her contribution."
"Aye. Couldnae help meself." He caught her hands. "Elinor, I should tell ye—the healer said I need tae take it easy fer a few days. The wound—"
"I'll be gentle." Her smile was wicked. "I promise."
And she was. Careful of his wound. Gentle with her touches. But no less passionate for it.
"I could get used to this," Elinor murmured against his chest.
"Aye. Me too."
Outside, the sun was setting. But inside their chamber, everything was warm and safe and right.
For the time being.