Page 11 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

He walked ahead of her, keeping the pace steady.

The corridors were quiet, most of the household long since cleared from the main passages. A torch burned at each turn. He knew this route without thinking about it and did not slow, but he listened for her footsteps behind him to confirm she was keeping up.

“The great hall is below the west stair,” he said. “Meals are taken there. Breakfast at first light, supper before dark.” He turned at the second corridor without breaking stride. “The household runs on a set order. Ye’ll learn it quickly enough.”

He stopped before the door and pushed it open, then stood aside.

He watched her face turn even whiter, if that was possible, and her step falter, but she stepped past him into the room. He let his gaze move over her once, the road-dirty hem, the travel-stiff set of her shoulders, the cloak they had given her that was two sizes too large. Then he crossed to the far side of the room and pulled the cord for the household bell.

“Ye’ll have a bath drawn,” he said, his back still to her. “Hot water. As much as they can carry.” He turned then, unhurried, and looked at her directly. “I want to see what color yer skin is beneath all that grime.”

She went very still. Then crimson flooded her neck.

There it is.

The stillness revealed everything her face was trying not to show. He could see it now—she had been braced for this since the kirk. The fine trembling she was working hard to hide, the deliberate hold on her composure—it was not comfort.

He moved to the chest along the wall and opened it. Inside, the clothes she prepared before her arrival, folded carefully, were arranged. He lifted the top garment and placed it on the bed without ceremony. Cream linen, soft, edged at the collar with a narrow band of lace.

“Wear that one tonight,” he said. “I like me women soft.”

“Then ye should have married a different woman,” she said. “I’ve been scrubbin’ floors since I was old enough to hold a brush. There isnae a soft thing left about me.”

Something shifted in his expression. Not displeasure exactly. Something closer to reassessment.

“We’ll see,” he said.

She held his gaze without flinching. “Aye. We will.”

He crossed the room and stood before her, close enough that she watched him register that she had not stepped back. He let the silence sit for a moment before he spoke.

“Ye were brought here to be me wife, lass,” he said. “In every sense. That must be understood.” He kept his voice level, the same tone he used at the head of a council table.

“Ye are here to be Lady O’Brien. To run this household with quiet efficiency.” He paused. “And to be me wife. All of it. Nae one part of it.”

She was looking at him now the way she had in the kirk.

Good.

He stepped back and moved toward the door.

“I will return after yer bath,” he said.

He did not need to look back to know she had begun to tremble again. He pulled the door closed behind him.

She watched the door close, hating her emotions for being so obvious.

Chloe realized she was still standing in the same spot where he had left her, with her nails biting into her skin.

Her finger ran over the fabric. Cream linen. Soft, just as he had described it. The lace at the collar was delicate, the kind crafted with patience and care. She had laundered garments like this for other women her whole life, but she had never worn one.

I like me women soft.

She pressed her hands together and waited for the servants.

At that moment. There was a soft knock on the door before it was pushed open. They came quickly, four of them with curtsies, nods, and curious glances, carrying the water between them in practiced silence. They filled the tub near the fire and set out a cloth. One of them poured something from a small jar, filling the room with the subtle scent of rosemary.

They left without a word. She was grateful for that. She did not know how she would have responded to them.