Page 39 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

“But me Lady, ye cannae mean to carry it yerself.”

“Melodie. I have two arms, and they work perfectly well. Take the other end.”

“The housekeeper will have me head.”

“The housekeeper will have nothin’ to say about it. Come on, then. Left foot first.”

A pause. Then the muffled sound of Melodie’s reluctant shuffling, followed by Chloe’s quiet laugh, brief and unguarded, entirely free of the tension that usually choked these corridors.

The sound hit Edward directly between his shoulder blades.

Tyler turned. Edward watched the man-at-arms out of the corner of his eye. He watched the rogue’s smirk soften into something entirely different, something appreciative.

She wore a heavy woolen gown the color of deep summer moss, a garment that accented the striking, vibrant red of her hair. The thick locks were pinned back, but a few stubborn strands had already broken free, curling damply against her freckled temple.

Sensing their presence, Chloe paused.

“Tyler, me Laird.” She nodded her head toward them. A brief, dignified acknowledgment, before turning toward the spiral stairs without breaking her stride. The moss-green hem of her skirts hissed against the stone until the sound vanished around the curve.

Tyler let out a low, slow whistle through his teeth. “Well,” he muttered. “The Lady certainly brings a bit of life to these old ruins.”

“Daenae finish that thought,” Edward warned, his tone dangerous.

“I wasnae goin’ to say a single word, me Laird.”

“Ye were about to say several, and every one of them would have earned ye a split lip.”

Tyler turned back to him, completely unbothered by the threat. He had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Edward in deep mud, surrounded by the screams of dying men. He possessed an absolute immunity to his laird’s black moods. “Only that it occurs to me, me Laird, it may nae be the bairn’s porridge habits that have ye lingerin’ in this wing before the sun has even cleared the trees.”

The look Edward leveled at him was venomous enough to drop a charging bull. Tyler received it with absolute equanimity.

“She is me wife,” Edward said, the words flat, cold, and final.

“Of course,” Tyler agreed, a tiny smirk dancing in his eyes. “And she is, if I am permitted to speak plainly, a remarkably beautiful lady.”

“Ye are nae permitted.”

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the corridor.

Edward looked down at Duncan. He was fifteen, all sharp angles, clumsy limbs, and fierce determination. “Show me that strike ye were talking about,” Edward said flatly.

Duncan blinked, his bravado instantly evaporating. “Now, me Laird?”

“Nay. Tomorrow at first light. Ye’ll spar with Tyler in the center of the yard while I watch from the wall.” Edward kept his face a mask of unreadability. “If yer footwork matches the arrogance of yer tongue, we will discuss the steel.”

The boy’s face split into a wide, uncontrolled grin before he caught himself. He cleared his throat, nodding with immense, comical gravity. “Aye, me Laird. First light.”

Tyler shot Edward a sour, sideways look that clearly said, Thank ye for the extra work. Edward ignored him entirely and strode toward his study.

As he closed the heavy oak door of his sanctuary, sealing himself in with the smell of old parchment and ink, he told himself he was not thinking about her laughter. He told himself he could not care less about the way her moss-green skirts had brushed the stone, or the heat that had flared in his blood when her brown eyes met his.

He sat at his desk, picked up a ledger, and forced himself into the cold arithmetic of his clan. He did his best not to think about her for the rest of the morning because he did not allow it, but he failed.

The great hall felt entirely too large at suppertime when there was only one soul occupying it.

That thought was one Chloe had never expected to cross her mind. She was no stranger to eating alone. For ten years as a servant, she had eaten her bread standing over greasy iron kettles, huddled in cold scullery corners, or sitting on the back steps of Lady Jenny’s estate while the autumn rain turned her porridge to mush. She knew how to eat without the comfort of others. Solitude had been her oldest companion.

But tonight, the massive high-backed chair at the head of the long oak table was not just empty. It was violently and conspicuously vacant. The pewter goblet resting beside the carved armrest was full to the brim with dark red wine, untouched and taunting. At the opposite end of the trestle table sat Chloe, her single place setting looking utterly out of place against the vast stretch of dark, polished wood.