Page 76 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

She woke before the light, staring into the dark of the bedchamber. The room was freezing.

She lay there for a moment, then pushed the furs back before she could second-guess herself. She’d spent the entire ride home turning yesterday’s meadow over in her mind—three broken sentences and a childhood shut tight faster than it had ever opened—and none of it had gotten better with a night’s sleep.

She rang for Melodie rather than dress alone in the dark. Better company than her own head, this morning.

Melodie arrived within minutes, already talking.

“Ye’re up early, me Lady. I heard William howlin’ from two floors down, cuttin’ a tooth, I’d wager. Isla’s nephew screamed for a fortnight straight when he came in.” She stopped at the sight of Chloe half into her stays. “Ye’ve started without me?”

“I have hands, Melodie.”

“Aye, but ye’ve also got a maid who’d like to keep her position.” Melodie moved in and took over the laces. “Ye look like ye slept in a snowbank. Bad night?”

“Fine night.”

“Mm.” Melodie did not sound convinced, but let it go and reached for the heavy wool dress instead. “There’s a rumor goin’ round the kitchens that the Laird was up at first light, askin’ Tyler about horses for a long ride. Nobody kens where.”

Chloe went still for half a second, then reached for a pin. “Is that so?”

“Aye. Isla thinks it’s Hendry’s lands again. I think it’s somethin’ else.” Melodie’s eyes found hers in the looking glass, entirely too knowing for the hour. “But I am nae one to gossip.”

“Ye are precisely one to gossip.”

“Well. Aye.” Melodie grinned and pinned the last of Chloe’s hair into place. “There. Ye’ll do.”

Chloe checked her reflection once and was out the door before Melodie could ask another question she did not have an answer for.

The castle was caught in that dead, silent space between the night watch and the morning fires. The air smelled of cold ash and old stone. She passed two servants carrying empty buckets down the lower gallery; they dipped their heads in silence, and she matched their quiet with her own. The stone floors felt like ice beneath the soles of her boots.

When she arrived at the nursery, the door was slightly ajar. A thin streak of warm candlelight spilled across the dark floor, accompanied by the small, rhythmic grunts of William, whom she suspected had been awake for a while and was deeply engrossed in his own frustration.

Chloe nudged the door open.

The nursemaid looked up from her stool near the hearth, her eyes shadowed. In his cradle, William was flat on his back, glaring at the timbered ceiling and making fussing sounds. The wool blanket had been kicked entirely to the floor, and one small knitted boot was missing, gone somewhere into the shadows of the corner.

“Go,” Chloe whispered, stepping into the warmth. “Sleep for an hour in the small room. I will come for ye if he gets the better of me.”

The woman did not hesitate, slipping out with a grateful murmur.

Chloe reached into the cradle and lifted William. The boy cut his complaint short mid-breath, his wide eyes fixing on her face. He stared at her as if deciding whether she was an enemy or an ally, then apparently deemed her acceptable, letting his small body go heavy as he buried his face into the curve of her neck.

She sat down in the low chair by the high window. She pulled his small blanket over them both, set the stray boot she’d found on the windowsill, and held him close against her ribs. There was a clean, uncomplicated relief in the solid warmth of him.

William let out a soft, exploratory sound, his tiny fingers reaching up to find the collar of her gown and twist into the wool with immense seriousness.

“I ken,” she murmured into his dark hair.

She was not entirely sure what she was agreeing to, but the weight in her chest felt less sharp with his heartbeat against her own.

Outside, the light was beginning to bleed into the edges of the ridge. It had always been her favorite hour. There was something steadying about it, a clean slate before the day could decide to go wrong.

Edward would be in his study by now. He was always there, sitting behind that massive oak desk with his tallies and his cold hearth, or out in the courtyard checking the horses.

He would move through his duties today, and tomorrow, and the day after that, revealing absolutely nothing. She would see him across the salt at supper; they would pass each other in these drafty corridors; he would occasionally stand in this very doorway to check on the boy when he thought she was not looking. That would be the boundary of their life.

She had known that when she agreed to the contract. She had accepted it when the marriage felt like a transaction she had simply lost.

The problem—the specific, dangerous problem—was that she had stopped being practical somewhere between the long gallery, the muddy courtyard, and that small, rain-slicked tavern room by the sea. She could not find the exact day she had let her guard down, only that it was gone, and watching him almost say something true yesterday had left her completely defenseless.