Page 80 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

He looked at Chloe now. At the clear, honest light in her eyes, the gentle way her fingers rested against his chest, the absolute trust she had given him when she let him lift her from the sand. He knew, with a sickening, absolute certainty, that he could never bear the thought of those eyes looking at him differently. If she knew what lay beneath the surface, the warmth at the edge of his world would vanish, replaced by the same cold horror he sees every time he looks too closely into his own mirror.

He stepped back, his hands dropping from her waist, his fingers curling into tight, bloodless fists at his sides.

“The wind is risin’,” he said, his voice level, flat, and completely devoid of the heat that had just burned through him. “The horses will be gettin’ restless on the ridge.”

Chloe looked at his hands, then back to his face, her expression quiet and unhurried. She did not look hurt this time.

“Aye,” she said softly, pulling her cloak tighter around her throat. The wind caught a loose strand of her hair and dragged it across her mouth.

Edward reached up before he’d decided to. He tucked the strand back behind her ear, his knuckles grazing her cold cheek, and did not immediately take his hand away.

She went still under it. His fingers found the loosened clasp at her throat instead—her cloak had come half undone in the fall—and he did up the button himself, slow and deliberate, his eyes on his own hands rather than her face.

“There,” he said, low.

Neither of them moved. The wind tore at both of them, and neither one minded it.

Then she came up on her toes, and he met her the rest of the way. The kiss was unhurried, nothing like the near-thing in the meadow, nothing stolen or interrupted. A choice, made slowly, by both of them, the sea roaring past, and neither one in any hurry to stop it.

He was the one who finally drew back, his forehead resting briefly against hers, his breath uneven.

“We should nae keep them waitin’,” he said.

She almost laughed. “Ye said that already.”

“Aye.” He did not move. “I am workin’ up to meanin’ it.”

23

The sky broke over the ridge just as they reached the lower ledge of the basalt cliffs. The wind tore through the rock fissures so hard it staggered her, throwing spray that stung where it hit.

Edward gripped Chloe’s elbow, his fingers cutting deep into the heavy wool of her sleeve as the air nearly lifted her off her feet. He did not ask for permission. He simply hauled her sideways, his boots sliding on the wet pebbles as he steered her into a narrow, vertical split between two massive, sea-blackened boulders.

“In here!” he ordered, his voice cutting through the tempest. “Watch yer step.”

The shelter was small—a jagged stone throat barely big enough for two. As soon as they slipped inside, the roaring world outside became silent, replaced by the hollow, echoing boom of the surf hitting the rock face just three feet away. To fit in the crevice, Edward had to press his chest flat against her shoulder, his thighs pinning her heavy, wet skirts against the cold stone behind her.

The surf continued pounding just beyond the opening. The wind kept blowing spray over the rock’s lip. Neither of them moved to put more distance between them than the crevice had already forced.

Chloe was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow jerks against his ribs. The cold sea-spray had soaked the front of her hair, causing the dark, heavy strands to plaster themselves flat across her forehead and her cheek.

“Edward,” she gasped, her voice small and trembling as she looked up at him, her chest heaving against his leather doublet. “The horses, will they be all right?”

“They will be fine,” he interrupted, his own breath coming fast, his gaze fixed entirely on her face. “They are secure. Look at me.”

Edward looked down at her. He could feel the hard, unyielding edge of the basalt digging into his shoulder blades, but his front was entirely enveloped in her warmth. Every vow he had spent the morning reinforcing, every line of his survival architecture, was liquefying in the heat of her skin.

He reached up and used the side of his thumb to brush a thick, wet strand of hair away from her eye, tucking it behind her ear with a slow, heavy pressure. His knuckles grazed the curve of her cheekbone. Her skin was freezing from the salt wind, but beneath the surface, it was burning.

Chloe did not pull back from his touch. She did not blink.

She looked up at him, her chin tilted back against the dark rock, and for the first time since she had arrived at the keep, the careful, guarded watchfulness was entirely gone from her eyes. There was no fear there. Not of the storm, not of the dark stone, and not of the huge, ruined man holding her against the cliff. The warmth in her gaze was steady, an open, unhedged invitation that defied the wild wilderness around them.

“Ye’re freezin’,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to his lips before rising back to his eyes, her touch tentative as she rested her hand against his chest.

“I am nae,” he growled low in his throat, the sound raw and desperate.

The pale, gray light filtering into the crevice caught the bridge of her nose, illuminating the faint, sunlit freckles that dusted her damp skin—small, golden marks that felt entirely too delicate for a place as brutal as this coast.