Page 54 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

She was hyper-aware of his massive frame; she did not need to look at him to map his precise coordinates. The mattress was so narrow that the distance separating their bodies was less than the width of her palm. The radiant, brutal heat of his flesh crossed that tiny vacuum without an ounce of difficulty, scorching her side.

She forced her eyes open in the dark, staring at the invisible rafters, thinking of the wild shore. She wondered what the open ocean would look like in the brilliant light of dawn.

She thought of his rough vow.

‘Ye are more important.’

She was stuck in the maze of those four words when Edward let out a quick, low exhale through his teeth. Suddenly, his large arm swung across the mattress.

Chloe’s breath locked in her throat, and she went entirely stone-still.

Edward wrapped his heavy forearm around her waist and pulled her backward against his chest. He pressed her close to his warmth, securing her spine against the curve of his broad torso, then locked his arm around her ribs and went completely silent.

Chloe lay trapped in his iron embrace. She did not move a muscle, nor did she breathe for three solid heartbeats, terrified that any movement might break the spell and cause him to retreat back to his cold wall.

His heart was a strong, sluggish thump against her left shoulder blade. His forearm was a heavy, warm mass of muscle holding her tightly to him.

Outside, the great northern sea continued its eternal, primal pull and crash against the rocks, and gradually, without her intentionally deciding to surrender, Chloe let her shoulders relax. She drew his scent into her lungs.

She was asleep before she could even catalog the victory.

16

Chloe looked up as the ancestral fortress of the O’Briens gradually returned to claim them in slow, exhausting stages.

First came the heavy outer perimeter. The familiar groan of iron-studded oak swinging inward at the Laird’s approaching silhouette, the sentinels on the ramparts snapping to rigid attention.

“Do ye think he has missed us?” Chloe asked, her eyes on the gates.

Edward’s chest shifted against her back. “Who?”

“William.” She paused. “He has never gone a full day without one of us in the nursery.”

A beat of silence. Beira’s hooves found the cobblestones, the soft give of the glen track replaced by hard, unforgiving stone beneath them.

“He has Mrs. Donnan,” Edward said.

“Mrs. Donnan is nae us.”

He said nothing to that. But his arms tightened fractionally around the reins, drawing her incrementally closer against his chest.

Then came the inner courtyard. The sharp rhythmic clatter of iron shoes on muddy cobblestones, the claustrophobic symphony of Castle O’Brien folding around them once more. The distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, the slam of a timber door, the overlapping chatter of scullery maids from the kitchens.

Within seconds, the crisp, liberating scent of coastal salt was utterly choked out by the heavy tang of peat smoke.

Chloe felt the freedom of the fishing village recede into the mountain mist behind her and said nothing, her throat tightening.

Edward dismounted first, his boots thudding into the mud. Before she could even attempt to swing her leg over the saddle, his massive, calloused hands clamped around her waist. He lifted her down without requesting permission, and for the first time in her life, Chloe allowed herself to be handled.

Her left ankle had stiffened into a rigid column of agony overnight despite the tavern mistress’s tight linen bindings; the alternative was hopping like a wounded crow across the courtyard under the scrutiny of his clan. He lowered her to the flagstones but kept his iron grip locked onto her elbow until he was thoroughly satisfied her good leg had found its balance. Only then did he release her.

“The stairs,” he growled low, eye-leveling the steep stone steps leading to the keep. “Ye need help with them.”

“I am perfectly capable of navigatin’ stairs, Edward.”

He leveled a look at her, a flat, unyielding glare that made her feel about three feet tall.

She managed the climb, but only because his massive palm stayed pressed against her elbow. She endured the support, stubbornly refusing to comment on the humiliating truth of how much easier his brute strength made the whole task.