Page 16 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

He stood hidden in the shadows, struck by the sight of her bare, soot-streaked arms. The bell cord hung just within reach, a golden, silky thread meant for a lady’s touch. His eyes flicked from the cord to her and back again, before finally settling on her.

A spark finally bit. He watched her lean in, her mouth curving to blow a low, steady breath into the tinder. The kindling took. She set the next log with both hands, balancing it for the best draft.

How could she possibly ken to do this?

The question sat like a stone in his gullet.

She shifted to reach the basket, her eyes catching his silhouette.

She was on her feet in a heartbeat, the log hitting the grate with a heavy crack. Her hands dropped to her sides, palms gray with ash, her breath coming in quick, shallow hitches.

“I apologize, me Laird,” Chloe said, her voice a frantic whisper. She glanced down at her filthy hands, then back to his face. “I didnae hear ye come in.”

Edward stepped into the room, the heavy thud of the door closing behind him echoing like a sentence. He did not move toward the table. He moved toward her.

“Does Lady O’Brien intend to handle the domestic chores of the household herself?” he asked, his voice a dry, low rumble.

He saw the apology die in her throat, instantly replaced by a spark of defiance. She looked him straight in the eyes.

“The fire had gone out,” she gestured toward the hearth.

“There is a bell.”

“I ken there is a bell.”

She knew, and she had chosen the labor instead. She stood there, ash-stained and disheveled, looking less like a lady and more like the maid of a great house.

“I have never seen a noble lady build her own fire. It is almost as if ye were nae one,” he remarked dryly, watching the way the firelight caught the silver scars on his own hands.

The hit landed. He watched her jaw tighten, her spine snapping straight as she faced him.

“There is nothin’ shameful in it,” she said, her voice dropping into a steady, resonant tone. “It is honest work. More honest than pretendin’ to be something I am nae.”

The air in the room suddenly felt too thick, too hot. Edward crossed the space between them, deliberately keeping his stride slow and predatory. He stopped so close he could catch the lingering smell of rosemary in her hair and the sharp scent of woodsmoke clinging to her skin. She had to tilt her chin to keep his gaze, her eyes wide and dark, reflecting the flames she’d just built. She did not step back.

“Ye’ll learn to behave as Lady O’Brien,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he crowded her space. “What is expected of ye in this house is for me to decide, nae for ye to handle yerself as one of the maids.”

“Ye daenae get to decide who I am,” she countered, her voice trembling but refusing to break. “That is nae in any contract.”

A silence followed, where he was trying to decide how to handle this lass her father had assured him would be as quiet and docile as a mouse.

Without conscious thought, he raised a hand toward her face.

The flinch came from her small frame, but it was clear in the way she locked her shoulders and braced for a blow. It stung his pride that she expected violence from him, but he did not pull away.

His hand reached her face as he had intended, but his fingers rested gently against her jaw. He brushed his thumb across her cheek, wiping away the smudge of ash.

The contact was a jolt. Her skin was startlingly soft beneath the grit.

Chloe went very still. “Are ye always this free with yer hands, or is it a special occasion?”

He did not move his thumb. “Ye had ash on yer face.”

“I am aware of that.”

“It was distractin’.”

“From what, exactly?”