Page 77 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

Against her chest, William’s small fingers tightened in her collar as his breathing slowed, his weight shifting into the deep density of sleep.

She was still watching the gray light on the hills when she heard footsteps. She turned her head.

Edward stood in the doorway. He was dressed for the road. His heavy riding boots were buckled to the knee, his dark plaid pinned tight, and his heavy wool cloak was already fastened across his broad shoulders.

The biting chill of the courtyard clung to him; she could feel the scent of cold wind and damp earth seeping off his clothes from across the room. He was looking at her, his gaze drifting to the sleeping boy, then to the frosty window, before settling back on her face.

Chloe did not move. She held his eyes, her fingers tightening slightly against William’s back, while her heart gave a sudden, violent thud against her ribs.

He did not linger by the frame; he walked straight into the nursery, his huge frame making the small, low-ceilinged room feel suddenly claustrophobic. He stopped directly in front of her, filling her entire field of view with the sheer, controlled mass of him.

He looked down at William.

“Ye’re up early,” he said, his eyes still on William.

“So are ye.”

He did not answer that. He reached down instead, both hands open, and took the child from her lap. The boy stirred, groaning low in his throat, but settled easily against Edward’s shoulder, his little hand instinctively clutching at the dark wool of his Uncle’s cloak.

For a second, she could not move. She could only look up at him from the low chair, the child tucked against his massive chest, his profile cut sharp by the gray dawn light, the silver at his temple catching the first pale gleam of morning.

Then his eyes came back to hers.

“We leave within the hour,” he said. “Get yer cloak.”

She stared up at him, the breath catching in her throat.

“I told ye I would take ye to the sea,” he said, his gaze locking onto hers. “I am takin’ ye today.”

The air left her lungs completely. Chloe gripped the wooden arms of the chair, her knuckles turning white. She did not trust her legs to hold her if she stood too fast; her body had parsed the meaning behind his words long before her mind could construct a polite response.

“I will need me ridin’ boots,” she said, her voice remarkably clear.

“Aye,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers. “Ye will.”

“And I will get the nursemaid.” She stood up.

She stepped past him toward the door, her sleeve brushing the cold, damp wool of his cloak as she went. She kept her shoulders straight, and her face turned firmly toward the corridor, refusing to let him see the sheer, wild havoc his two sentences had just made of her composure.

But she was already smiling as she left the nursery.

22

The wind found them a mile before the crest of the final ridge. It came slicing through the throat of the glen, heavy with brine and cold water.

This was not the gentle breeze that had coaxed the wildflowers in the meadow yesterday. It pushed hard against the horses’ chests and snapped Edward’s cloak against his stirrups.

Beside him, Chloe rode with her chin tucked low against her collar, eyes narrowed against the grit. She had not spoken since they’d cleared the castle gates.

Then the horses cleared the rise, and the land dropped away.

The sea spread out below them, a vast sheet of slate-gray and iron-blue, stretching to a horizon so wide it made the sky look small. The waves did not lap at the shore so much as march at it, slamming into the black cliffs with a boom that carried up through the ground.

Chloe reined her mare to a sudden halt. Her hands went slack on the leather.

“Edward…” Barely a whisper, stolen instantly by the wind, but he saw the shape of it on her mouth.

Then she laughed, and before he could tighten his own grip on the reins, she was out of the saddle and down into the dune grass without waiting for him.