Page 85 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

That was worse. That was so much worse than disgust would have been that he had to look away from it, down at his own hands on the copper, and find them shaking.

If she was not afraid of him, that meant something. It meant she might stay exactly where she was, looking at him just like that. He had no idea what a man was supposed to do with a woman who stared at the worst thing he’d ever say about himself and did not blink.

He did not know how to survive that. He only knew how to survive fear.

“Ye shouldnae be here,” he said, and his voice had gone hard again, hard and flat and nothing like the voice that had just told her about the stairs. “This house isnae a place for yer curiosity, Chloe. Ye go pokin’ at things ye daenae understand; ye’ll get hurt by them. I will see to that meself, if naught else does.”

“Edward.”

“Ye havenae earned the right to ask me these things.” He heard the words leave him and could not stop them, could not slow them. “Ye think a fortnight of near-kisses and one afternoon at the sea makes ye me wife in truth. It doesnae. Ye’re a woman I married for a debt, and ye’ll do well to remember the shape of that, instead of walkin’ around this castle behavin’ as though ye belong in the middle of it.”

He saw her retreat, and watching it felt like something being taken out of his own chest with a blunt hand.

“I see,” Chloe said. Her voice had gone very even, very careful. “Forgive me. I forgot me place.”

“That’s nae what I meant.”

“I think it’s exactly what ye meant.” She set the whisky down on the shelf beside his, untouched, the cup’s rim precisely aligned with the edge of the wood, as though even now she could not quite let herself be careless with something of his. “Ye’ve made yerself plain enough. I willnae trouble ye with any more curiosity.”

She turned for the door.

He watched her go and told himself this was the correct outcome. This was what he had wanted, was not it? The door shut, the subject closed, the danger of her sent back where it belonged, on the other side of a distance he knew how to hold.

He’d spent thirteen years building exactly this kind of quiet, and here it was, arriving right on schedule, and it did not feel like the relief it was supposed to.

She had her hand on the door just when he caught the tear in her lower lash before she blinked it away, quick, like she thought he had not seen. She did not make a sound. She did not turn back around to let him see the rest of it. She just stood there for one half of one second with her hand on the door and her spine very straight, and then she pulled it open.

Call her back.

The thought arrived whole and unbidden, and for one moment his mouth was already shaping the first word of it—her name, just her name, nothing more, enough to make her stop with her hand still on the wood.

He could tell her the truth: it wasn't anger causing this, despite her beliefs. He stood there, watching her not flinch from his worst, unsure what to do but to hide the rest before she discovered it.

He could say all of that. It would take him four words to start it.

Instead, he watched his own jaw lock itself shut, felt the old, familiar weight settle back down over his chest, and said nothing at all.

25

The great hall was colder than usual, though the fire burned the same as it always did.

Edward took his seat at the head of the table, and Chloe took hers at his right, and between one heartbeat and the next, she’d folded her hands in her lap. She sat straight-backed, chin level, eyes on her trencher, answering when spoken to and offering nothing beyond it.

“Bread, Me Laird?”

He looked at the basket she was holding toward him. Three days ago, she’d have tossed it down the table at him and told him to fetch it himself if he wanted it so badly.

“Aye.” He took a piece. “Thank ye.”

“Of course.” She set the basket down, folded her hands again, and returned her attention to her plate.

Tyler, across the table, watched the whole exchange. He reached for the bread himself, tore off a piece, and made a show of chewing it slowly while his eyes moved between the two of them.

“Fine venison tonight,” Duncan offered, from further down. Nobody answered him either.

Mrs. Donnan came round with the whisky jug, and before she could reach Edward’s cup, Chloe had already lifted the jug from her hands.

“Allow me.” Chloe filled his cup without spilling a drop, set the jug down at his elbow with precision, and folded her hands again. “Me Laird would like more whisky?”