Page 69 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

“Thank ye, Duncan,” she said softly. “That is genuinely kind.”

He gave a sharp, businesslike nod, already moving to collect the horses. He continued to talk while he gathered the leather straps, releasing a continuous, comfortable stream of information about the morning’s training, a fierce disagreement between two of the older guards about the correct way to sharpen a particular blade, and a stray cat that had taken up residence in the hayloft and produced four kittens sometime in the night.

He did not appear to require a single response. He was simply sharing the morning with them.

Chloe listened to the rhythm of his voice. She breathed the cold air. She did not look at Edward, but she thought about the heavy imprint of his arm around her waist. The solid, burning warmth of his chest pressed against her open palms. She remembered the tiny fraction of space that had remained between their lips, charged and narrowing—until suddenly, it was not.

She breathed again, forcing it to come evenly this time.

Duncan had both horses securely in hand now and was rambling to Edward about the gray gelding’s near foreleg, though she caught only disjointed pieces of the speech.

Something about the way the beast was favoring the joint on these cold mornings, a detail the boy had noticed himself and thought the Laird should know immediately.

“Which leg?” Edward said, his head inclined, hands clasped behind his back.

“Near fore. Only on the cold mornings, me Laird, nay favoring once he’s warmed up proper.”

“Since when?”

“Four days. Maybe five.” Duncan considered this with great seriousness. “Didnae want to say sooner in case it went away on its own. It hasnae.”

“Show me the stall when we’re back.”

“Aye, me Laird.”

Duncan was already moving on to something about a girth strap that needed restitching when Edward cut back in.

“The kittens,” Edward said. “In the hayloft. How many did ye say?”

Duncan blinked, thrown by the reversal. “Four, me Laird.”

“Keep them clear of the grain stores.”

“Aye, me Laird.” Duncan grinned, plainly delighted that anyone had been listening to that particular piece of nonsense at all, and went straight back to the girth strap without missing a step.

Chloe watched it happen and revised, privately, everything she had decided a week ago about what kind of man bothered asking a fifteen-year-old a follow-up question.

She was in deep trouble. She had established this fact. She had been establishing it at regular intervals for the better part of a fortnight, and the realization was not becoming any less true as the days bled together.

Duncan eventually ran entirely out of things to report, or simply ran out of breath, which amounted to the exact same thing. He began to lead the horses toward the wooden gate. His high voice carried back across the grass, still talking comfortably, apparently to the horses now.

The field fell completely quiet.

She became aware of how much physical space Edward occupied, even when he was standing completely still. He was barely two feet away from her and was staring fixedly at the iron gate. The hard line of his jaw was set like granite, and the line of his shoulders was rigidly controlled.

He turned his head to face her.

“We will continue tomorrow,” he said.

His voice was not quite level. It was close, close enough that she felt the hairs in her neck stand.

She held his dark gaze, refusing to look away. “Aye,” she said softly. “Tomorrow.”

He gave a single, sharp nod. He turned on his heel and began to walk toward the gate.

She watched his retreating figure leave. The stiff set of his broad back, the calm, unhurried stride. She stood entirely alone in the middle of the open field, with the damp grass soaking through her boots, the river rushing somewhere beyond the trees, and the pale, thin light of the morning spreading flat across the world.

She understood with complete, cold clarity that he had not been talking about riding a horse.