Page 56 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

He simply stood over the boy in the pooling golden light, his massive arms hanging loose at his sides, watching the tiny rise and fall of the infant’s chest. The expression carved into his scarred face was entirely, beautifully undefended, the raw, naked look she had witnessed in the blackness of the tavern bed. It was that fleeting, primal devotion he only allowed himself when he believed the world was blind, a vulnerability she was learning to fiercely protect by pretending she did not see it at all.

He was not hovering over the child. He was guarding him. That was the only word for it. The absolute, lethal stillness of his posture, the unyielding focus of his eyes. He was a warlord standing sentinel over his heart.

Chloe watched him from the shadows of the door, a profound, terrifying emotion rippling through her soul, an ache so sharp she could not name it.

“Do ye pass the majority of yer days in this room?” she asked, her voice a low, reverent whisper. “When ye are nae hidin’ in yer study or drownin’ in yer dram?”

“Aye,” Edward rumbled, not breaking his gaze from the bairn.

She filtered further into the golden sanctuary, carefully dragging her splinted ankle across the oak planks until she occupied the space directly opposite him, the wooden cradle separating their bodies.

“And yer nights?” she challenged softly.

She studied him across the sleeping form of the orphan. He kept his eyes locked on William, his jaw setting into a hard, rigid line, his features instantly hardening back into his stoic armor. The suffocating silence stretched out between them, heavy and thick with unsaid truths.

Chloe did not attempt to shatter it. She had lived a life of servitude; she knew that some silences were the loudest confessions a man could offer, and this one was deafening.

Suddenly, William stirred beneath his wool blankets.

The child let out a small, high-pitched whimper. Chloe was already on the move.

Her left ankle screamed in white-hot protest at the sudden weight, but she ruthlessly overrode the agony. She reached into the depths of the cradle before the child’s whimper could crest into a full-throated cry, her hands sliding beneath his warm little body. She lifted William smoothly against her chest, settling him into the familiar, comforting hollow of her shoulder as her hips fell into a swaying rhythm.

“Yer joint,” Edward growled, his eyes snapping to her leg, his brow furrowed in dark disapproval. “Ye should nae be bearin’ weight.”

“The lad was about to wake the dead.”

“The nursemaid should be doin’ that.”

“The nursemaid is nae in the room, Edward,” she cut him off smoothly. She turned her torso, balancing the settling baby against her ribs, and met his fierce gaze dead-on. “The boy is quiet. I am perfectly well.”

He cast a dark, piercing look down at her bandaged foot, then dragged his eyes up to the flush on her cheeks. His expression made it clear that he deemed both of her assessments to be utter lies.

He took a heavy step toward her, breaching her air.

“Yield the boy to me,” he commanded, his voice dropping an octave.

She looked up, her breath hitching. He was standing agonizingly close, far closer than the narrow dimensions of the wooden cradle required. He had moved with immense, physical purpose, trapping her between his massive frame and the wall, leaving no room for a diplomatic retreat. His large, scarred hands were already rising into the space between them.

Chloe hesitated.

It was not because she doubted his abilities. She had seen the remarkable, subtle skill he had brought to William’s suffering during the teething storm. She hesitated because he was close enough that she could see the strong pulse pounding against the tanned skin of his neck. The raw, intense heat of his flesh crossed the small gap between them, burning her skin just as it had in the dead of night in that narrow tavern bed. Her lungs suddenly forgot how to breathe.

Slowly, she handed the child over to his care.

Their fingers collided and tangled during the brief transfer, her palms cradling William’s warm, heavy weight, while his massive hands slid beneath hers to claim the prize. Neither of them completed the exchange. Edward’s thick, rough fingers fully closed over her smaller hands, stopping the movement altogether.

Chloe felt the roughness of his calluses, the scars from brutal swords, the thickened skin hardened by years of violence, and the cold mountain air still lingering on his knuckles. She froze in place. Edward did not pull back. They remained locked together, their hands forming a physical cradle beneath the orphan, while William slept peacefully between their chests, completely indifferent.

Then, with a low intake of breath, Edward slipped his hands free, taking the full weight of the child, and Chloe let her arms drop to her sides, her skin tingling from the loss of contact.

William settled against the broad expanse of Edward’s chest without a single flutter of his eyelids. It was an instantaneous surrender. The boy’s flushed face relaxed. One tiny, damp fist opened against Edward’s plaid.

“Ye strike absolute terror into the hearts of hardened Highland warriors,” Chloe murmured, the words slipping from her lips almost entirely to herself. “Yet infants surrender to yer hands without a single term of treaty.”

The moment the sentence left her mouth, she wished she could claw it back. It was too soft. Too terribly true.

Edward looked down at the crown of the boy’s head, his jaw tightening, but the rigid line of his broad shoulders shifted slightly. A deep, tiny release moved through his muscles. A yielding he would have forcefully suppressed if he had been aware of his own defenses.