Page 22 of The Laird’s Wrong Wife

“Do ye usually breakfast with yer faither?” Ceana asked.

“When his duties allow it,” Paisley replied. “He trains with the men most mornings, and few people choose to spend time with us.”

The words returned Ceana to the formal greeting in the entrance hall. Paisley had made herself quiet enough to require little attention. Tommy stirred up trouble whenever adults looked the other way. Oscar supplied teachers, guards, governesses and every material comfort a laird’s children could need, then allowed his work to consume the hours they might have asked from him.

Ceana had agreed to help manage his household. She would not stand beside him at public gatherings while his children competed with clan business for whatever part of him remained.

If she were to become the lady of the castle, she wouldn’t stand for that. The children came first.

They must always come first.

“Where are the trainin’ grounds?” she asked.

Paisley’s eyes lifted quickly. “Beyond the western courtyard.”

“Faither doesnae like interruptions while he trains,” Tommy piped up.

“Then he shouldnae have announced our impendin’ nuptials before breakfast was finished.”

Ceana rose and smoothed her gown, ignoring the cautious looks Paisley and Tommy exchanged while she crossed toward the door. She stepped out into the corridor and made her way to the western courtyard.

She followed the clash of steel through the western courtyard and past the stables. Each strike grew louder as she approached the training grounds, joined by shouted corrections and boots scraping across the damp earth. The sight of men drilling in pairs inside marked rings appeared before her as she drew even closer, while younger warriors waited beside racks of blunted weapons.

Soon, several faces turned toward her. Their attention lasted only until a sharper clash drew every eye toward the largest ring.

Oscar fought inside it without a shirt. He caught his opponent’s blade near the guard and twisted. The movement tightened the muscles across his shoulders before he drove the other man backward. Pale scars crossed his back, with darker marks along his ribs and upper arms. Several warriors nearby bore fewer signs of battle than he did.

He shifted his weight and avoided the next strike. His abdomen rippled as he turned, and his thighs bulged beneath fitted trousers. Sweat covered his chest and followed the firm planes of his stomach, while fine dark hair spread across part of his chest, narrowed below his navel, and disappeared beneath his waistband.

Ceana’s steps slowed.

The separate lives Oscar had promised seemed sensible while he stood fully dressed across a contract. Looking at his bare body made that agreement more difficult to contemplate with the same calm. Her mouth had gone dry, and warmth gathered low in her belly before anger restored her ability to move.

Oscar disarmed his opponent with a clean twist of his wrist. The blunted blade stopped near the warrior’s throat without touching him.

“Yer weight moved too early,” he noted. “Anyone watchin’ yer feet would have ken where the strike was comin’ from.”

The warrior adjusted his stance.

Oscar demonstrated the movement once, his control making the correction appear simple. Then his gaze found Ceana at the edge of the yard. She was still looking below his face.

Heat rose into her cheeks when their eyes met. Oscar made no move toward his discarded shirt. He returned his attention to the warrior and completed the instruction while Ceana stood waiting before half the training yard.

The delay sharpened her purpose.

“Me Laird, I need a word.”

The group of warriors nearby glanced toward Oscar. He collected the practice sword from his opponent and tested his grip before turning to Ceana.

“What’s it about?”

“‘Tis about the children.”

The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth disappeared. “Is either of them hurt?”

“Nay.”

“Are they in danger?”