Page 72 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

“I did nae.”

“Ye did. A happy one.”

His jaw worked, caught fair and square. “Isla,” he said, without adding any further comment to embarrass himself.

“Aye,” Chloe said, far too pleased with herself. “Aye.”

The progress was less crawling than a series of highly determined, erratic lurches, each violent push carrying him approximately six inches in an entirely unpredictable direction. Then his own wild enthusiasm, or a tangled sleeve, sent him collapsing sideways onto the blanket. He did not seem remotely discouraged by any of these failures. He simply reoriented his small body, picked a new target, and lurched again, his face a mask of complete and purposeful concentration.

“He’s headin’ left,” Chloe observed, tracking his movements.

“He always goes left,” Edward said. A fractional, quiet pause hung in the air. “He did the exact same thing in the nursery this past Tuesday. I put him down on the rug, and he veered left straight into a heavy chair leg.”

“Was he all right?” she asked, her voice softening.

“He cried for perhaps thirty seconds,” Edward replied, the corner of his eye twitching, “and then he immediately tried to put the oak chair leg in his mouth.”

“That does sound remarkably like him.”

“Aye.”

Together, they watched the bairn lurch left once more, targeting a particularly thick patch of green clover. Edward reached out his massive hand once to gently redirect him away from the rough edge of the blanket, his palm resting briefly against the baby’s warm middle. William accepted the physical course correction without complaint, pivoting onto his stomach and continuing his relentless progress.

At some point during the afternoon, she could not have named the exact hour it happened, the remaining food was packed away, and William fell fast asleep between them on the wool. He lay with one tiny fist tucked tightly beneath his soft cheek, his chest rising and falling in slow, deep rhythm. The wide meadow had gone incredibly quiet. The summer wind moved through the high grass in long, lazy, sweeping passes.

Edward suddenly lay back.

He shifted his weight onto his elbows, lowered his shoulders onto his back, and stared straight up at the blue sky. After a quiet moment, Chloe followed his lead, lowering herself down onto the grass. They lay stretched out on either side of the sleeping child, watching the heavy white clouds drift slowly overhead.

“That one,” she said softly, pointing a finger after a long while.

“Which one?”

“The large, heavy one. Just to the left of center.”

A brief pause settled over them. “It’s a cloud,” he muttered flatly.

“It’s a boot,” she corrected, her tone playful. “Look closely at the heel of it.”

He looked. She could feel him looking beside her, could track the exact silent second his mind mapped the shape she meant.

“It’s a hound,” he said.

“It is absolutely nae a hound.”

“The long part at the front is the snout.”

“The long part is the leather leg of the boot.”

“Boots daenae have legs.”

“This one does,” she insisted, turning her head slightly toward him. “It is a proper Highland boot, and they are always made very tall.”

The sound that rumbled out of his chest was low, brief, and completely unbidden, and it was a real, true laugh. She felt it more than she actually heard it, the slight, vibrating shake of it traveling through the fabric of the wool blanket between them. She kept her eyes locked firmly on the drifting cloud. She did not dare look at him. She was deeply afraid of what her own face might reveal if she turned to look at his smile.

“The next one?” he murmured after a quiet moment.

“A sheep,” she said instantly.