Page 58 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

“For supper.” Melodie’s hands moved briefly to her cap, smoothing a small stray thread that did not need smoothing. “With the clan.”

Chloe looked at the window. The Highland light had gone gray and flat, the rolling hills beyond the glass reduced to jagged dark shapes against a darker sky. She had been in this chamber since they had returned from the nursery, sitting perfectly still while the fire burned down to ash.

“Aye,” Chloe said, the word scraping low in her throat. “All right.”

Melodie’s relief was so visible it was almost comic; her shoulders dropped with a heavy, sudden breath.

Angela was indeed in the corridor, leaning her back flat against the rough stone wall. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, and her chin was raised. She examined Chloe once, her eyes sharp as they surveyed her wool gown, nodded in approval, and then stepped in line beside her. Her boots clicked rhythmically against the floorboards.

“Ye look well,” Angela said, her skirts swishing with her long stride.

“Ye are a terrible liar.”

“I am an excellent liar. That was a genuine observation.” She glanced sideways, her dark eyes glittering in the torchlight. “Ye also look like someone who has spent six hours alone thinking too hard. Which I will note is a habit that runs in this family, though I intend to break it in both of ye.”

Chloe said nothing. She kept her jaw tight and her eyes fixed straight ahead. Angela did not appear to require her to speak.

They descended the main stone staircase together, with Melodie trailing a half-step behind, moving quietly and smoothly. The sound of the great hall reached them—a low, heavy murmur of deep voices, the clink of pewter, and the crackle of the huge fire burning in the central hearth.

Chloe straightened her spine. Her chin came up. She had spent ten years entering rooms full of people who outranked her and were perfectly aware of it. She knew how to hold her breath so her chest did not shake. She could manage this.

The heavy oak doors opened wide. The hall was not full, but it was full enough.

A long trestle table ran the full length of the room, heavy iron sconces holding sputtering tallow torches along the walls. The fire at the far end threw a warm, thick amber light across the damp flagstones. The air hit her nose first. It was heavy with roasted mutton, melted fat, and the sweet, sharp bite of peat smoke.

Perhaps thirty clan members were already seated. Heads turned instantly at the groan of the hinges. One by one, they settled back to their conversations, though Chloe felt the heavy weight of the attention that remained, those quieter, sideways glances.

Tyler was on his feet before she had taken three steps into the room.

“Lady O’Brien.” He bowed low, his green doublet catching the firelight. The flourish was precisely theatrical enough to be charming rather than foolish. “Ye honor us with yer company. We had begun to fear the Laird had hidden ye away in a tower.”

“Only one flight of stairs,” Chloe said, her voice steady enough to cut through the room’s damp heat. “Hardly qualifies.”

He grinned. He had the kind of broad face that grinned easily, which she suspected was both his greatest social asset and the exact reason Edward trusted him with everything that mattered in this glen. He pulled out the heavy oak chair at the Laird’s right hand and gestured to it with a small, elegant bow.

She sat, the wood cold and unyielding through her wool skirts. Angela took the seat beside her. Melodie disappeared toward the far end of the hall.

Chloe looked at the head of the table.

Edward’s massive chair was empty. The silver goblet beside it sat untouched. The place setting was undisturbed, laid with the same meticulous care as all the others. She moved her eyes away from it deliberately, her pulse ticking in her throat, and reached for her own goblet.

“He attends when he can,” Tyler said, leaning forward slightly, his tone not quite casual. “Clan matters. This time of year, there’s always a dispute or boundary to resolve.”

“Of course,” Chloe said, her fingers wrapping tight around the cold pewter stem.

Mrs. Donnan was seated three chairs down on the opposite side, her posture as upright and rigid as if she were made of the same stone as the castle walls. Her dark eyes were already fixed on Chloe.

Chloe reached for the loaf of barley bread. She did not slice it; she broke it with two hands, her calloused thumbs sinking into the crust the way she had done at every kitchen table for twenty-five years, and set half of it neatly on the rim of her plate.

Something in Mrs. Donnan’s face shifted. A serving girl appeared at her elbow, her hands trembling as she lifted a heavy copper ladle of broth.

Chloe thanked her by name. “Thank ye, Jean.”

The girl startled slightly, a small gasp escaping her lips as she nearly spilled the liquid. Across the table, two of the older women exchanged a sharp, significant glance. Chloe kept her face pleasant, her features smooth, and reached for her spoon.

The broth was good, thick with barley and something deeply smoky underneath. Chloe ate steadily and listened to the conversations around her without inserting herself.

She was learning what she could, mapping the room by its sounds—who deferred to whom, which of the older men spoke with easy authority, and which ones measured every single word. She noticed where the laughter came easily and where it had to be earned.