Page 24 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

She turned her head and looked at him fully then, and the smile she was fighting lost. It broke across her face, warm and entirely unguarded, the first real one he had seen from her that was not braced against something. He found he could not look away from it.

“Tell me somethin’ true,” she said quietly. “Somethin’ ye would nae say in yer study.”

He held her gaze. “Ye are nae what I expected.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I havenae decided yet.”

She studied his face for a moment, the smile fading into something softer and more uncertain. The sunlight caught the copper in her hair and the freckles across her nose in ways that were doing things to him she clearly had no idea about.

Something shifted in the air.

He felt it the same moment she did. He saw it in the way her breathing changed, the slight stillness that moved through her, the way her lips parted just enough that it registered.

He moved too fast to think about it. His hand closed around her wrist, and he turned toward her. Then she was beneath him, the grass at her back, and his weight braced above her. His mouth was on hers before the rational part of him had raised a single objection. He kissed her hungrily and without apology, his free hand sliding into her hair.

She gasped against his mouth, leaning into him.

He felt her hands come to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt, and took it for what it was. He pressed closer, his hand moving from her hair to the curve of her hip, then lower, finding the hem of her skirts and sliding beneath their fall, his palm against the softness of her thigh.

“Edward.” She tore her mouth from his. His name came out half breath, half whisper, her eyes wide and her face flushed dark. She looked at the courtyard around them. At the open windows above. At the door through which anyone could walk at any moment. “Here?”

He looked down at her. Her hair had come loose at one side, spread across the grass. Her lips were swollen, and her chest was rising and falling wildly. Raw desire flickered hot and dangerous in his chest, but he quickly shuttered it, terrified of how much of himself he would be giving away.

Duty is what this is. Only duty.

“Ye are me wife,” he muttered, his voice rough against her throat. “Is me duty. Yer duty.” His hand moved higher beneath her skirts. “Obey me wherever I tell ye.”

He pressed his lips to her neck while she remained perfectly still underneath him. He sensed it before consciously recognizing it: her stillness was not surrender. He then lifted his head.

Her face had changed.

Something flared behind her eyes, unrelated to what was there a moment ago. He saw her jaw tighten, her breath sharp and quick through her nose, then both her palms pressed against his chest as she pushed away.

He lifted himself off her and sat back.

She was upright immediately, one hand pressed to the grass to steady herself, the other smoothing her skirts down with short, controlled movements. Her breath was unsteady. Her eyes were not.

“If ye want me,” she said, her voice low and shaking, “then want me.” She held his gaze without blinking. “Do not speak as though I am some duty ye can summon, fulfill, and be done with.”

She stood. She smoothed her hair, then she walked away across the courtyard with her spine straight and her chin level without looking back.

Edward sat in the grass and watched her go and did not move until the door had closed behind her.

He needed a moment before he could decently stand up.

Damn this lass.

9

He heard her before he saw her.

The corridor was narrow enough that two people had to turn sideways to pass. He rounded the corner instinctively, and she was there, already stepping aside and misjudging the wall. Her balance gave out. His hands caught her at the waist before he had even decided to move.

He grabbed her. She sucked in a breath, one hand flying to his forearm to steady herself.

"Ye might try walking with yer eyes open," she said, breathless, already too aware of how close his hands still were to her waist.