Page 31 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

They were planted too close to the far wall, too ambitious for the Highland climate, and the earth had made them pay for it year after year. Half had rotted back into the gray soil. The other half had grown thorny, stubborn, and wild.

She stopped in front of them and looked at what was left standing.

Aye, I ken the feelin’.

Chloe walked past them for twenty minutes, her boots clicking against the gravel. She did not see a single petal.

She turned at the wall and marched back toward the fortress.

Duncan, the young stable boy, crossed the yard balancing a heavy wooden bucket against his hip. He shot her a quick glance, his eyes darting away. Chloe ignored him. She reached the perimeter wall and turned again.

Her mind spun on a single loop.

What comes next?

Not today, today she could survive. But what about tomorrow? What about the day after that, or the forty or fifty years of days stretching out before her in a castle of freezing, drafty stone? She belonged to a man who would rather twist his spine into a knot sleeping in a hard wooden study chair than share a bed with her.

Where was she meant to stand? What was she meant to do?

She reached the wall and turned.

“If ye keep that up, lass, ye’ll wear a trench straight through the stone.”

Chloe stopped short. Angela sat on the low bench near the iron gate, a thick wool shawl hugged tight around her shoulders. A cup of steaming tea rested between her palms, the vapor rising into the crisp air. She was watching Chloe with a wry, knowing smile.

“How long have ye been sittin’ there?” Chloe asked, her breath hitching slightly from the pace.

“Long enough to see ye try to walk a hole through the earth.” Angela shifted sideways, her skirts rustling against the frost-bitten stone as she patted the empty space beside her. “Sit down before ye drop.”

Chloe sank onto the bench. The stone was cold, striking right through the layers of her wool petticoats.

The garden fell silent, save for the wind whistling through the high battlements. Angela offered the cup. Chloe shook her head, her hands tightly clasped in her lap to hide their trembling.

“He doesnae tell people things,” Angela said quietly, staring into her tea. Chloe had not asked a thing, but her sister-in-law read the silence perfectly. “In case that is the ghost ye’re tryin’ to outrun. He doesnae explain himself, he doesnae answer questions he deems foolish, and he has been that exact way since I was old enough to crawl.” She tightened her grip on the warm earthenware. “It is nae personal, Chloe. I need ye to ken that.”

Chloe looked at the jagged rose thorns scraping against the mortar. “It feels personal.”

“I ken.” Angela paused, her smile fading into something softer, heavier. “But it isnae. It is simply how he learned to survive a father who was a monster. He has nae yet worked out that survivin’ and livin’ are two different things.”

Chloe did not answer. The wind swept through the courtyard again, forcing the wild rose canes to claw at the stone. She swallowed the lump in her throat and leaned in just a fraction.

“What is he like?” Chloe whispered. “When there is no one watchin’.”

Angela stayed quiet for so long that Chloe turned to look at her. The other woman’s gaze was fixed on the horizon, her eyes distant.

“Better,” Angela said at last. Her voice was barely a murmur over the wind. “He is so much better than he kens. When William’s cradle arrived from the carpenter, Edward spent three nights in the workshop buildin’ a new one entirely from scratch. He didnae trust the carpenter’s joints to keep the bairn safe. He never told a soul.” She cut a look at Chloe. “That is the man he is when the world turns its back. A man who builds cradles by candlelight and expects nay praise for it.”

The cold of the bench seemed to melt away, replaced by a sudden, strange ache in Chloe’s chest. She pressed her palms flat against her thighs. She pictured Edward, his massive frame, his hands thick and heavily scarred from a brutal youth, bent over raw timber, carefully measuring each piece so the small boy would not fall.

“And the boy’s mother?” Chloe asked softly. "Is she… was she someone he loved?"

Angela's face shuttered, gentle but final.

"That isnae mine to tell ye, Chloe. Ask him yerself, if ye ever get him talking long enough."

Chloe wanted to press for answers. She was eager to demand the truth about the woman who had left such a mark on this household, but she bit her tongue instead. She stood up, shaking out her heavy skirts to get the circulation going in her legs.

“Where does he go in the evenings?”