Page 64 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

“Two,” Chloe said instantly.

Beathag glared at her through the lenses.

“I have been restin’ for nearly a week,” Chloe said, her voice level and entirely without apology. “The swellin’ is gone. I walked the full length of this stone corridor this mornin’ without any difficulty.”

“I am aware of what ye did this mornin’, yer maid told me,” Beathag replied. “Ye also gripped the wall with both hands the entire way down.”

“Out of habit,” Chloe said, shrugging her shoulders.

“Out of necessity.” Beathag looked at her.

"Out of caution," Chloe said, a small smile taking the edge off it. "Which isnae quite the same thing."

A heavy, suffocating silence filled the space between them. Beathag studied her for a long, measuring moment. Then, her head snapped around, and she looked directly at Edward.

He said nothing. His jaw remained locked. He was not going to insert himself into a battle of wills between two stubborn women.

“Two days,” Beathag finally barked. “Then I will examine the bone again if Mrs. Donnan agrees. We’ll have to ask her.”

“I am here,” Mrs. Donnan said from the open doorway.

Edward had not heard the heavy scrape of her boots arrive. He was fairly certain Beathag had not either, though the old healer gave no outward indication of surprise.

Mrs. Donnan stepped into the chamber, her dark skirts swishing against the floorboards. She looked down at Chloe’s bound ankle, flicked her gaze to Beathag, then to Edward. “Two more days of rest,” she decreed, her posture rigid as iron. “Then we will see.”

“That is what I said,” Beathag agreed smoothly.

“Good.” Mrs. Donnan turned to Chloe. “Then we are agreed.”

Beathag began rewinding the long strip of white linen. Edward uncrossed his heavy arms, his muscles pulling tight. He forced his eyes back to the stone wall, but he was aware of Chloe sitting perfectly still on the very edge of the mattress. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, her lips pressed shut, saying absolutely nothing.

She had been doing that ever since he stepped through the door. She remained quiet. It made the air between them thick, carrying a faint scent of the lavender water on her skin and the dry peat smoke from the hearth.

“Two days,” Edward said, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Beathag glanced up at him, her hands frozen on the cloth. “That is what has been decided.”

“And then she can ride?” He directed the words straight to Beathag, which was perhaps slightly less honest than saying them directly to Chloe, but considerably easier on his chest. “If ye both agree she’s fit.”

A heavy pause hung in the room. Beathag pulled one of the knots tight, tying off the linen wrap. “If the joint is sound, aye.”

Edward gave a single, sharp nod and moved toward the door. His boots thudded heavily on the floor, and his shoulder was almost through the threshold when Chloe spoke, her voice quiet and low.

“Thank ye.”

He came to a sudden halt, his hand clutching the rough oak frame. She avoided his eyes, her gaze staying on her folded fingers in her lap, her pale face calm. The weak morning light from the high window caught the bright copper strands in her dark hair and illuminated the small splash of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

Suddenly, a brief, vivid memory slammed into his chest. The sight of her standing against a small tavern window, those same freckles stark against her skin. The memory brought with it the sudden, phantom heat of her skin against his palms.

He did not move. His hand stayed locked on the door frame.

“For comin’,” she said, still not lifting her eyes from her hands. “Ye didnae need to.”

“Aye, I did.”

That got her eyes up. “Because ye’re me husband?”

“Because Beathag tells ye what ye want to hear when it suits her, and ye tell her the same right back. Between the two of ye I’d never get a straight answer otherwise.”