Page 93 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

They came on the clearing at a full gallop, and Edward was down off Beira before she’d fully stopped, sword already drawn, the whole scene arranging itself in front of him in the space of one indrawn breath.

The carriage sat askew where it had been forced off the track, one wheel tilted into the ditch. Three of his guards lay in the grass nearby. Edward’s eyes moved from one to the next, checking for breath, blood, and the rise and fall of a chest, and he found two of them still alive, which was more mercy than the scene had any right to offer. Melodie sat pressed against the carriage wheel with her arms wrapped around her knees, unhurt but stiff, staring at something across the clearing she could not look away from.

Chloe stood at the center of it, her wrists bound in front of her, held tightly at the shoulder by a man still wearing MacLaud colors, the false messenger, Edward understood at once, Fergus Boyd if that had ever truly been his name — and a second guard Edward did not know, both armed, neither in a hurry.

And across from her, close enough that the blade in his hand caught the light every time his wrist so much as twitched, stood the man who had put Chloe's hand in his at the altar and called it a settled debt.

"Laird O'Brien." The man's voice carried easily across the clearing, unhurried, almost pleasant. "Ye'll remember me, I expect. Alistair O'Donell. Chloe's father."

The knife rested against William’s throat, close enough that the boy had gone rigid and silent, as if he knew something was wrong. Some animal instinct in him, reading stillness as the only safe thing left to offer.

“Let the boy go.” Edward’s voice came out level, flat, hiding how much anger he felt with Williams in that position. “He’s naught to do with whatever quarrel ye’ve got.”

“He’s yer heir’s shadow, near enough, and ye’d bleed the whole clan dry to see him safe. That’s quarrel enough for me purposes.” Alistair’s eyes moved to Chloe, something in his face shifting, not softening, closer to appraisal. “Ye look well, daughter. Marriage suits ye. Pity it wasnae the marriage I arranged.”

“Ye arranged nothin’.” Chloe’s voice held steadier than Edward would have managed in her place. “Ye sold me. There’s a difference.”

“Semantics.” Alistair did not look away from Edward. “I’ve come for what’s owed me, Laird O’Brien.”

“Ye’ve been paid. In full.”

“Coin was never the whole of what was owed.” Alistair began to circle, slow, the knife loose but never lowered. “I want somethin’ returned to me that me daughter’s been keepin’. And I find men listen a great deal better when they’ve somethin’ to lose standin’ right in front of them the whole while I am askin’.”

William made a thin sound against the silence, working toward a proper cry, and every person in the clearing tensed at once. Alistair’s hand tightened on the blade.

“Give him to her,” Edward said, before he’d decided to speak at all. “A bairn cryin’ willnae strengthen yer position, O’Donell. It’ll only make yer own hand less steady, and I’d nae wager much on how steady it already is.”

Something flickered across Alistair’s face, the beginning of a calculation he had not made before. He looked at William, red-faced and building toward a wail, then at Chloe, whose whole body had drawn tight as a bowstring.

“Boyd. Give the boy to his aunt. He’s no use to me screamin’.”

Boyd crossed and lifted William, setting him into Chloe’s bound arms. She could not hold him properly with her wrists tied, so she bent instead and pressed him to her chest, and William quieted almost at once against the sound of her heart.

“There.” Alistair straightened, the knife lowering though not sheathing. “A show of good faith, Laird O’Brien.”

“Ye held a blade to an infant’s throat nae a minute past.”

“To be certain ye’d listen, which ye are.” His tone had not shifted at all, still easy, still pleasant. “Now. Terms, before this goes any further.”

Edward’s grip on his sword had gone white-knuckled. Behind him, he heard Duncan and Tyler draw level, neither lowering a blade, both waiting on a word from him that had not come yet. Across the clearing, Alistair waited too, unhurried and completely at ease.

Alistair let the silence stretch a moment longer, plainly enjoying the shape of it, before he spoke again.

“Ye’ll be wonderin’ why now. Why nae in the first month of yer marriage, when the takin’ would’ve been easier.” He resumed his slow circle, the knife still in his hand. “I’ve had men watchin’ yer castle since the weddin’, Laird O’Brien. Watchin’ the bairn most of all, once word reached me a child had turned up on yer steps within weeks of the vows bein’ said.”

“He’s me brother’s son. Naught to do with ye.”

“So I learned. Took some doin’, but I learned it proper. Legitimate, born in wedlock, the true blood of the O’Brien line, nay bastard shame on him at all.”

Alistair’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “And once I kent that, I understood what it meant better than ye seem to, yerself. A livin’ heir already secures yer bloodline, Laird O’Brien. Ye’ve nay true need of a son from me daughter at all, now, have ye. Which means me daughter’s worth to ye, as a political matter, has gone considerably thin.”

“She’s me wife. Nae a ledger entry.”

“Everyone’s a ledger entry, to the right eye.” Alistair’s gaze slid past Edward to William, still pressed to Chloe’s chest. “Remove the boy, and the balance shifts back. Ye’d need an heir from her again, wouldnae ye, and any child she gave ye would carry me blood as much as yers. Me grandchild, Laird O’Brien. A far more useful thing to me than a daughter I’ve already spent.”

Chloe went rigid where she knelt. “Ye’d kill a bairn to make yer own blood matter more.”

“I’d remove an obstacle. There’s a difference, same as there was a difference between sellin’ ye and arrangin’ ye, as ye were so quick to point out earlier.”