Page 71 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

As he looked, something profound moved through his harsh expression that he did not manage to lock away in time. A brief, entirely unguarded opening.

He unlatched the gate and crossed into the green meadow. He stopped just at the edge of the wool blanket, looking down at the spread, and then looked up at her.

“Ye did this,” he said, his voice low.

“Angela distracted ye,” she noted. “I did the rest.”

“Ye planned this.”

“Aye.”

He went completely quiet for a long moment. His eyes drifted back to the basket, tracing the small jar of preserved plum sitting slightly crooked against the woven willow side, and the wildflowers she had arranged with far more care than she ever intended to admit aloud.

She watched him examine each small thing.

“No one has…” He stopped abruptly, the words catching in his throat.

Chloe waited, her breathing shallow.

“No one has done this before,” he said quietly. Simply. The words were stripped entirely of pride, performance, or defense, left as nothing but what they truly were.

Chloe looked back up, her heart aching. “I ken,” she said, her voice just as quiet, just as bare.

He held her gaze for a long moment, a beat longer than was strictly comfortable or safe for either of them. Then, breaking the spell, he reached down and picked up one of Isla’s round oatcakes, turning the baked grain over in his rough hand. He sat down on the thick blanket.

“The fence is perfectly fine,” he murmured. “I checked every post meself last week.”

“I ken,” Angela called out cheerfully from her post at the gate. “I am leavin’ now.”

She turned and vanished down the path. Edward watched her retreating figure go, then looked down at the oatcake in his palm with an expression of mild, amused resignation.

Chloe sat down carefully across from him, settling young William safely between them on the wool. The wide meadow seemed to settle around them all. The bright wildflowers moved gently in the light wind, the enormous, dark hills rose beyond the green tree line, and the endless sky stretched above.

William immediately attempted to grab the edge of the blanket and eat it.

“Nay,” Chloe scolded gently, reaching down to pry the wet wool from his mouth.

The baby looked up at her, and then instantly reached for the fringe again. Edward extended his large, scarred hand and placed a single thick finger into William’s tiny palm. The baby’s small hand closed tightly around it at once. Edward looked down at his own weathered skin, staring at the tiny pale fingers wrapped so securely around his single large one, and said absolutely nothing.

They ate without much ceremony. The meat pie was good—rich, properly seasoned, Isla clearly had not skimped—and the yellow cheese was sharp, exactly the way Chloe liked it, though she’d never once mentioned that to a soul in this castle.

“Good?” Edward asked, watching her reach for a second piece.

“Ye tell me. Ye ate half of it before I got to mine.”

“I was hungry.”

“Ye’re always hungry.”

“I work for a livin’.” He said it without heat, already reaching for the preserved plum.

She watched him bite into it. He chewed. He swallowed. A low, involuntary sound of approval escaped his throat before he could stop it.

“Well?” she asked, fighting a smile.

“It’s fine.”

“Ye made a sound.”