Page 51 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

She was distracted, her eyes tracking a heavy fishing boat being unloaded at the far pier, three brawny men hauling a massive, dripping net with flawless coordination. She did not look at her feet.

A smooth stone shifted beneath her heel. Her ankle twisted inward with a sickening, violent pop, and her balance vanished.

She went down hard. She managed to catch her weight on one knee, her bare hand scraping roughly against the abrasive stone, but a sharp, white-hot lance of agony exploded through her left ankle, stealing the breath from her lungs in a jagged gasp. She slammed her teeth together, biting through her lower lip to choke back the scream before it could breach her mouth.

“Chloe!”

Edward was on the stones beside her before the sound of her name had even cleared his throat. One massive, calloused hand clamped around her upper arm; the other braced her opposite knee, his hard face inches from hers, tight with a sudden, roaring panic. His guarded expression was shattered into dust. He was just looking at her, his pale eyes searching hers for the depth of the damage.

“I am perfectly well,” she lied through a clenched jaw, her face blanching white.

“Ye are nae.” He cast a sharp, dark look down at her twisted boot. “Can ye bear weight to stand?”

She tried. She gritted her teeth, braced her hands against his broad shoulders, and attempted to push upward.

Her left ankle rejected the terms of the negotiation instantly and violently. The moment her heel touched the stone, the joint gave way like wet sand. She would have crashed back into the mud if his arms had not already been an iron cradle around her body. His left hand locked under her knees, his right arm sweeping around her waist, catching her before her failure was complete.

“I’ve got ye, lass,” he growled.

And then, with a single, effortless surge of his thighs, he lifted her entirely into the air.

“Put me down,” she said. “I can walk.”

“Ye cannae walk.”

“I can hop.”

“Ye will do neither.” He was already moving through the crowd, his stride unchanged. “Be still.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. The pain in her ankle justified his grip—a hot, stabbing throb that shot up her calf every time he shifted. She curled her fingers into the heavy wool of his plaid and stared furiously into the distance as the village floated past at a dizzying new height.

He carried her through the staring crowd as though she weighed no more than a bundle of dry heather.

The village tavern was a low-slung timber-framed structure three doors down from the harbor wall, reeking of stale ale, woodsmoke, and fried herring. The stout gray-haired woman who managed the taproom hurried forward the moment Edward breached her threshold.

“A private room,” he said. Not a question. “Fire already lit. Hot broth. And a basin of cold water.” He glanced at the woman’s hands. “Now.”

The woman was already moving before he finished the sentence.

They navigated a dark, narrow staircase. A heavy oak chair was dragged before a small hearth. Edward lowered her into it and immediately dropped to both knees on the flagstones before her, reaching for the laces of her boot.

“I can manage me own boot,” Chloe said.

“Ye can manage it after I’ve seen the bone.” He did not look up. “Hold still.”

His massive scarred hands were agonizingly careful as they slid the leather from her foot. He braced her heel in his broad palm, his thick thumbs pressing methodically along the swollen contours of the joint, checking each ligament with focused deliberateness.

Chloe locked her jaw and stared at the flickering flames in the iron grate, refusing to let him hear her whimper.

“The bone is whole,” he said, his voice a low vibration near her shin. “It is nae a break.”

“I told ye I was well.”

“Ye are nae well. Ye are merely unbroken.” He snapped his head up, his pale eyes pinning her to the chair. “There is a vast ocean of misery between those two definitions.”

He lowered her foot carefully to the floorboards and rose to his full height.

“We stay until mornin’,” he stated. “Nay argument.”