Page 44 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

Edward added a fresh log of peat to the fire and resumed his place at the other side of the cradle.

“How long does it last?” he asked. “The teethin’.”

“Weeks, usually. Sometimes longer.” She glanced at him. “Did nay one tell ye when it started?”

“Mrs. Donnan mentioned it.”

“And?”

A pause. “I thought she was exaggeratin’.”

“Mrs. Donnan,” Chloe said pleasantly, “does nae exaggerate.”

“I am beginnin’ to understand that.”

She gently lowered William into the cradle, tucking the cloth near his flushed cheek. Edward held out his hand for the linen without being asked. She passed it to him. He wrung it out in the freezing basin and handed it back.

Their fingers crossed twice in the exchange, his knuckles grazing her inner wrist on the first pass, her palm brushing his thumb on the second. Neither of them acknowledged it. Neither of them needed to.

Chloe was pulling the blanket over William’s tiny shoulders when the boy turned his head, opened his mouth, and bit down directly on Edward’s thumb.

Edward let out a sharp, low sound, a rough grunt of pure, unadulterated surprise rather than pain.

Chloe spun around. The great Laird O’Brien was staring into the cradle with an expression of speechless, profound affront. William merely stared back through half-closed lids.

Chloe tried to fight it. She pressed her lips into a white line, turned her face toward the stone window, and forced herself to breathe slowly through her nose.

It was a catastrophic failure.

The laughter burst from her throat in a wild, sudden rush, completely beyond her control. She slammed her hand over her mouth, but it did nothing to silence the sound. Tears of pure mirth welled up in her eyes. She turned completely away from him, pressing her forehead against the cold, rough stone of the fortress wall, her shoulders shaking violently as she laughed until her lungs yearned for air.

When she finally gathered her composure and turned back, Edward was standing perfectly still. He was looking at his thumb, then at the sleeping babe, then at her, his expression a comical mix of wounded pride and a desperate, failing attempt to maintain his terrifying reputation.

“The beast bit me,” he muttered, his voice deadpan.

“I ken,” Chloe managed to choke out, her voice cracking.

“With his bare gums.”

“I ken.” She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand, her face flushed red. “I warned ye the lad’s mouth was harder than iron.”

Edward’s lips pressed tightly together. She could see the faint, dangerous twitch at the corners of his mouth, a massive, muscular effort to prevent a smile from breaking through his armor. His blue eyes were brighter, clearer than she had ever seen them.

Edward looked down at the boy one last time. William had officially fallen into a deep, heavy sleep. Then, Edward looked at her. Really looked at her. Chloe met his gaze, the remnants of her laughter still softening her eyes, and his expression changed. The hard lines of his face softened, revealing a raw, intense emotion that made her heart skip a beat, a sudden heat igniting deep within her belly.

Then, the shutter slammed down. He cleared his throat roughly and tore his eyes away.

“Rest while the bairn allows it,” he growled low, his posture rigid once more. “He’ll wake within the hour wantin’ the chill again.”

He delivered it like an official military command and vanished through the doorway before she could even offer a parting word.

Chloe looked at the sleeping child, then at the empty threshold, and slowly pressed two fingers against her lips, unable to wipe away the smile that lingered in the quiet room.

By the third morning since Edward had wrung out that cloth for William with his own hands and then vanished like a man fleeing a burning building, the saintly patience Chloe had promised herself burned entirely to ash.

He had promised her four outings. She had not demanded them; he had agreed to them as part of their arrangement. Still, he had organized nothing. He showed up at supper only after she had stopped staring at his empty chair, and he kept hiding away in whatever dark corner of this godforsaken castle he used to avoid her flesh.

She did not ring the brass bell for Melodie. She dressed herself in a gown of dark, practical gray wool, her fingers working the laces with vicious, rapid jerks. She needed a task for her hands before she lost her temper entirely.