Page 18 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

They talked about food for a while. Angela told her which dishes were worth eating, which to avoid, and why, while Chloe listened, asked questions, and shared small stories, like what Jenny’s cook made on cold mornings or a particular way of preparing oats she had always liked. She shared these carefully, watching Angela’s face for any sign that she had said too much or revealed too much of her past life.

The shift did not come.

Angela listened, appearing genuinely interested.

“Do ye ken anyone here?” Angela asked after a while. “Outside the castle, I mean. Anyone at all in this part of the country.”

“Nay,” Chloe said.

“Anyone ye could write to? From before? I ken yer father brought ye for the weddin’.”

Chloe thought of Jenny. She would have to try to send a letter, hoping it would arrive safely.

“Perhaps,” she said.

Angela looked at her for a moment with a steadiness that reminded her, briefly and uncomfortably, of her brother.

“Well,” she said, and her voice was easy again. “Ye ken me now. That is somethin’ at least.”

Chloe nodded, her mind going back to Isla’s words that she would like the laird’s sister. She found that she did.

“Have ye met William yet?”

Chloe stared at her. “Who is William?”

Angela's mouth opened on an answer, then stopped halfway to it. "The bairn." A careful beat. "Edward's raising him as his own. That's as much as I can tell ye, the rest isnae mine to say."

Chloe said nothing. The library was very quiet.

Angela set both feet on the floor and sat forward. “He did nae tell ye.”

It was not a question.

“Come,” Angela said, already standing. “I will take ye to the nursery. Ye should meet him now than find out any other way.”

“Are ye sure? Will it nae be better if the Laird…?”

“Me brother?” She gave a small smile. “He probably doesnae remember that he has nae told ye about the bairn. Come, then.”

Chloe followed her up two flights of stairs and through a narrow corridor that smelled of warm milk and beeswax. The nursery door was ajar. Angela pushed it open and stepped aside.

The room was neither big nor small. It was softly lit with the usual nursery items arranged neatly throughout. A cradle sat near the window, with a child inside.

Eight months old at most. Round-faced and impossibly small, one fist slowly moving through the air above him as if testing whether it was solid. He turned his head at the sound of their entering, and his eyes moved, unfocused, searching.

Chloe’s feet carried her closer before she realized what she was doing.

She looked down at him. His hand opened and closed at nothing. His face scrunched with the effort of trying to find something to hold onto.

Chloe stared down at the baby, unable to look away.

He stretched a small fist toward nothing, searching, and the sight of it stirred something in her chest she had not expected to feel. He was so tiny. So completely unaware of the contracts, the kirks, and the men who had arranged the world around him without asking anyone.

The anger, when it came, was not for him.

Nobody asked if I wanted a husband.

Nobody asked me if I wanted a bairn.