Page 8 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

“Then we’re both disappointed.”

Something moved at the corner of his mouth, gone before she could decide if it had been there at all. Behind her, her father said, “Chloe.”

Laird O’Brien’s gaze went past her shoulder to him, then came back.

“We’ll speak after the ceremony,” he said.

He stepped back from the door, clearing the width of it for her, the first breathing space anyone had given her all week.

She went in ahead of him. She did not thank him for it.

The kirk was small inside and candlelit. The warmth hit her first, turning her stomach. She pressed her hand against her father’s arm, not out of willingness but because she needed something solid to hold on to.

A priest stood at the front with his hands folded, maintaining a practiced and neutral expression. Two witnesses she did not recognize stood off to the side. At the altar, with his back turned to her, was her husband-to-be.

Please, God, stop this. Please, daenae let me marry like this.

He turned as she reached the altar. She knew that face already, in pieces — a voice cutting out of a shadowed doorway, eyes that had gone the length of her once, unhurried. But this was different. Full-lit by candles, front-on, with a priest waiting between them instead of a kirk door, he was harder to hold steady against.

Scars ran along the left side of his jaw and down his neck. Old ones, silver against his skin in the candlelight. She had planned not to look at all, but now she could not take her eyes off him.

This stranger was tall, really tall, and broader than her father with dark hair. He was dressed plainly for a man about to be married.

Then their eyes locked.

They were pale and still, watching her come toward him the way you watched weather moving in across open ground, just steady. Taking her in without offering anything back.

She could not look away. Some part of her refused to be the first one to look at the floor. She would not make it to the altar without her knees giving way. Her father had said he was feared. Standing here with those eyes on her, she understood it as something more than reputation.

Her father brought her to a stop in front of him, and the priest began speaking.

“We are gathered in the sight of God,” the old man said, his voice steady and unhurried, worn smooth by years of saying these same words in rooms very like this one. “To join this man and this woman in the bonds of holy matrimony. A covenant nae entered into lightly, nor abandoned without cost.”

There was a sound like rushing water in her ears. She felt like she might faint. She refused to faint. She locked her knees, breathed through her nose, focused on the distance, and took another breath.

“Edward Mason.” The priest’s eyes moved to him. “Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsakin’ all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“Aye.” One word. Flat and certain.

She was only vaguely aware of the candles, the smell of tallow, and cold stone.

“And thou, Chloe.” The priest turned to her. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to love him, comfort him, honor and obey him, in sickness and in health, and forsakin’ all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

The word “obey” sat in her chest like a stone dropping into still water.

She suddenly and sharply became aware of the man beside her—the steadiness of him.

“Aye,” she said quietly.

Then her father took her hand and placed it into the man’s.

She flinched. She could not help it. A small movement, barely noticeable, but she felt it ripple through her entire body. His eyes flicked to her, surprise shining in them before he quickly masked his feelings. His hand was large, warm, and he grasped hers with a steady, impersonal grip—like holding something that was now his and needed nothing more. She felt a slight squeeze from him, but before she could interpret it, her father leaned in close to the man’s ear.

“The debt is fully settled,” he stated.

The man said nothing. A sound came from deep in his chest, barely a grunt, the smallest acknowledgment possible. His eyes stayed fixed on the priest.

Chloe felt the heat climb up from her chest to her face.