Page 28 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

He was at her back. Close enough that she could feel the warmth coming off him, the solid reality of his chest, the steadiness of him in the way that nothing in this castle had yet been steady for her. His hand was still over hers, both of them raised toward the mare.

Her heart was doing something she would have to ignore completely.

“She feels yer fear,” he murmured. His mouth was near her ear, and she was fairly certain he was not aware of that. “Horses daenae listen to words. They listen to breath.”

She was not breathing well at this moment, which was probably not helping the horse.

“Breathe out,” he said.

She breathed out.

“Again.”

She did.

The mare’s head lowered a fraction.

His hand gently guided hers forward, slowly this time, not toward the neck, but into the space between them and the horse—a patient offering.

“Let her see ye first,” he said. “Then touch her.”

The mare stretched her nose out. Chloe felt the warm breath against her palm before the soft weight of the muzzle followed, pressing into her hand gently, then withdrawing, then pressing again.

A smile moved across her face before she could think about it.

“She likes ye,” Edward said.

“I think she likes ye more,” Chloe answered softly.

She had not thought about what she was saying. It just came out. She felt the shift in him when it landed. A slight stillness, with his breath changing against the side of her neck.

He was still holding her hand. She remained aware of every contact point between them with such clarity that it was hard to think about anything else. The width of his chest against her back. His arm still loosely around her waist. The warmth of his hand over hers, which had not moved.

He released her and stepped back. The loss of him was sharp, like a sudden drop in temperature.

But he did not leave. He moved to the side of the stall instead and began to show her.

“Come around to the side,” he said. “Never straight on. Ye are nae a threat from the side.”

She moved. He watched her placement and shook his head once.

“Further back. Level with her shoulder.”

She adjusted. The mare’s ear swiveled toward her.

“Now yer weight.” He glanced down at her feet. “Ye are standin’ like ye are ready to run.”

“I am ready to run,” she muttered back.

Something shifted at the corner of his mouth. “Even yer feet.” He said it without mockery. “Settle them.”

She pressed both feet into the ground and felt faintly ridiculous, but did it anyway.

“Better.” He moved closer to the stall, not looking at her now, his attention on the horse. “Talk to her.”

“What do I say?”

“Anythin’. The words daenae matter. The sound does.”