Page 61 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

For a moment, she thought he would not answer at all. His eyes moved over her face, unhurried, like he was deciding something and taking his time about it.

“Ye ken why,” he said.

Then he was through the door, and this time she was not the one left wanting.

18

“Quiet night?” Edward called out as he crossed the yard.

One of the sentries leaned into the mist. “Quiet enough, me Laird. Naught but this soup to complain of.”

Edward grunted and kept walking. The mist hung low and thick, swallowing the far curtain wall until the granite went gray and indistinct.

The heavy thud of his leather boots on the cobblestones echoed back to him, muffled by the damp air. The castle was not yet fully awake. A kitchen maid crossed the far end of the yard, her head tucked low against the mist, carrying a covered wicker basket. Up on the ramparts, two sentinels moved around.

He did this every morning. The stables came first, then the outer yard, then the granary stores, if the locks needed checking.

The heavy stable doors stood open, spilling a warm, yellow line of lantern light across the damp earth. He stepped through the threshold.

The scent of dry hay and oiled leather hit his nostrils. Six stalls lined each side of the aisle, the horses shifting in the shadows and blowing soft breath into the early quiet. He moved down the left row without hurrying. He checked the water troughs. He checked their hocks. His thick palm slid down a warm neck here, along a sleek flank there. The animals knew his scent. They stilled at his approach, their ears turning toward him, refusing to shy from his calloused hands.

He squatted to check the near foreleg of the gray gelding at the far end when the scraping sound started. Small boots hit the flagstones, moving fast.

“Laird O’Brien.”

Edward straightened his spine.

The boy was perhaps nine, slight and dark-eyed. He skidded to a halt two feet away and tilted his chin back, looking up at Edward.

“Lionel,” Edward said, his voice flat in the rafters.

“Aye.” The boy fell into step beside him as Edward moved to the next stall, entirely uninvited. “Is it true ye fought at Glen Moriston? Alasdair from the kitchens says ye killed four men in the same hour, but Cook says Alasdair exaggerates everythin’, so I didnae ken whether to believe it.”

“Alasdair exaggerates,” Edward said, his fingers examining the wooden latch.

The boy paused, tracking him. “So it wasnae four.”

Edward stepped to the next horse. “It wasnae the same hour.”

Lionel absorbed the words, his face tightening. “Was it frightenin’?”

“Aye.”

The boy’s eyes went sharp, as though he had not expected that specific word from a mouth like Edward’s. “Lairds get frightened?”

“Everyone gets frightened.” Edward slid his open palm along the mare’s sleek shoulder, tracking the muscle line. “The ones who tell ye otherwise are either lyin’ or they havenae been in enough trouble yet to ken the difference.”

Lionel went dead quiet for three seconds, which Edward was beginning to realize was the boy’s absolute limit.

“How do ye ken when a horse is frightened?” Lionel asked, his voice bouncing off the wood.

“Her ears.”

“What about them?”

Edward cast a sideways glance down at him. The boy’s head was tilted to one side, his small face fixed on the mare with real focus. Edward looked back at the beast.

“Flat back means fear or anger,” Edward said. “Forward means she’s listenin’. Loose and sideways, she’s relaxed.” He moved toward the mare’s muzzle, his steps slow, calculated, and even. “Watch her eyes as well. Wide and showin’ white, she’s about to do somethin’ ye willnae like. Soft and half-lidded, she’s content.”