Page 12 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

She undressed and stepped in.

The water was hot. She felt it move up against her skin and had to hold herself back from sinking into it, from letting her eyes close. She resisted the urge to let her shoulders drop, and her mind go quiet, as it always did in warmth. She did not allow it. She sat upright, reached for the cloth, and began washing with the same efficiency she always did, working from the top down. Practical, purposeful, not lingering.

He said he would return. He must nae meet me without clothes on.

She washed her hair quickly, working the rosemary through it until her scalp tingled. The smell lingered on her fingers afterward, clean and sharp. She inhaled deeply, focusing on that scent and nothing else. Not on the sleeping gown. Not on the bed. Not on what he had said to her.

She got out of the tub, dried quickly, crossed to the bed, and picked up the gown with two fingers, uncertain what to do with the luxury of it, or the implication of wearing it.

She put it on. It felt soft against her skin, and she hated how good it felt after a week on the road. She found the shawl folded on the chair, pulled it around her shoulders, and held it there with both hands crossed at her chest.

Then she sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

She heard him while he was still on the other side of the door—the quiet shift of the latch, the confident weight of his steps on the floorboards. He entered without hurrying and closed the door behind him. He looked at her. She pressed the shawl closer and noticed the tightening of his jaw.

“We share this room,” he said. “From tonight.” He stated it as a fact, delivered it, and filed it. He moved toward the other side of the bed, and she watched him, every muscle in her body wound tight to the point of aching.

She nodded. She was not sure she had done it until she saw him register it and turn away.

Breathe.

She moved to her side of the bed and lay down on top of the covers, hands folded at her stomach. She stared at the ceiling and kept her breathing slow. Now at the edge of the mattress, she listened to the heavy sound of his boots hitting the floor, one after the other, followed by the shift of his weight settling onto the bed beside her.

She closed her eyes and waited.

The fire popped once in the grate. Nothing happened; he did not touch her. She opened her eyes.

He had turned away from her. His back was to her, broad and still, and his breathing was already settling into the long, even rhythm of a man who had decided to sleep. As though there were nothing else to decide. As though she were not lying two feet away with every nerve in her body braced for something that was not coming.

She let out a breath so carefully it made no sound.

He is nae goin’ to. Nae now at least. Dear God, thank ye.

Relief flooded her so completely, she almost wept. But a moment later, she realized she was not sure what it meant. Would he come later in the night? Would he give her time? Or was this some kind of game to make her even more anxious before striking?

After a long moment, she pulled the covers up and lay very still.

The room was still. The fire burned lower. Next to her, he breathed slowly, unaware of the turmoil inside her.

Every small shift of the mattress felt enormous. Every thought arrived louder than the last. She was lying beside a man whose name she had learned three hours ago, in a castle she did not know, carrying the weight of a child she had not known existed until tonight.

Sleep did not come for a long time.

When it finally did, it came quietly, without warning, and the last thing she was aware of was the steady sound of his breathing and the smell of rosemary still caught in her hair.

Chloe woke to gray light and silence.

For one disoriented moment, she had no recollection of where she was. Then everything came into focus in one maddening rush. The unfamiliar stone, the dark beams crossing above her, her father, the wedding… the laird. The weight of it settled back into place.

She was at Castle O’Brien, in her husband’s bed.

Slowly, she turned her head.

The other side of the bed was empty. The covers were pulled back neatly, the pillow undisturbed, as if he had never been there at all. He had gotten up and gone without waking her. The relief that washed through her was so sharp it was almost painful.

He didnae even look at me, she thought. Nae once he had made his point.

She was not sure what she had expected, but it was not that. She was conflicted about whether to feel grateful or hurt.