Page 36 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

“Through the nursery.”

“Through the corridor.”

“The corridor that leads nowhere except the nursery.”

He said nothing. She turned back to William with the spoon.

“He spat his porridge at me,” she offered into the silence.

“Aye.” Edward did not look away from the window. “He has opinions about porridge.”

“He has opinions about everythin’. The spoon, the angle, the temperature.” She glanced down at her sleeve. “And apparently me clothin’.”

“He did it to me the first time as well.”

Chloe looked at him. “What did ye do?”

“I stood there.”

“And?”

“And he did it again.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “So yer solution was to stop comin’.”

His jaw shifted. “Me solution was to send for Mrs. Donnan.”

“Aye.” She let the small word cut through the heat of the room. “And yet Mrs. Donnan tells me ye daenae cross this threshold often.”

His jaw shifted, his eyes narrowing as he stared out the window. “Mrs. Donnan talks too much.”

“Mrs. Donnan talks exactly as much as is useful,” Chloe countered pleasantly, her voice laced with a quiet challenge. “Which is more than can be said for some.”

He snapped his head around, a sharp, dangerous look flaring in his eyes. Chloe did not flinch; she held his gaze steadily, her heart tripping against her ribs. William chose that exact moment to let out a long, warm exhale against her collarbone, shifting his weight as he finally surrendered to sleep.

“He’s goin’ down,” she whispered, her voice dropping the sharp edge.

She walked slowly to the wooden cradle, the one Angela said he had built with his own scarred hands, and lowered the boy with agonizing care. She held her breath, her movements slow and deliberate, holding him until she was certain the wool blankets had claimed him. The boy sighed, rolling onto his side, his tiny fist curled beneath his cheek.

Chloe stood up and let herself breathe.

When she turned, Edward was watching her. The intensity in his pale eyes was scorching, but to her utter surprise, he was the one who looked away first, his gaze dropping to the floorboards.

“Ye’ve done that before,” he said. It was not a question.

“I was a maid for ten years,” she answered softly, moving a step closer to him but keeping a respectful distance. "Lady Jenny's house. Ye learn the way of bairns quickly there, or ye learn it at two in the morning while scrubbing the floor."

Edward was quiet, his chest rising and falling beneath his damp plaid. “What was it like?”

The question was dull, spoken like a cold business deal, but it was still a question. He looked at the cradle, his large hands gripping his own arms so hard that his knuckles turned white. He was trying to understand her.

“Well,” Chloe said, her eyes fixed on the child’s sleeping face. “A bairn’s wants are plain. He cries when he’s hungry, he cries when he’s hurtin’, and he laughs when ye please him. Ye always ken where ye stand with a wee one.” She glanced up at him through her lashes. “I cannae say the same for grown folk.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. It was not a full smile, but it was the ghost of one. A sudden, sharp softening of his hard features that he ruthlessly pulled back before it could fully form.

“Ye have a remarkably sharp tongue for a lady who should be tryin’ to make a good impression on her laird,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a lower register.

“I stopped tryin’ to make a good impression…” Chloe whispered, her eyes locked onto his. “Around the hour ye chose to sleep in a hard wooden study chair for the third night runnin’.”