Page 63 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

Lionel fell silent once more. When Edward looked down at him, the boy was looking at the colt.

“I will learn everythin’,” Lionel said, “Whatever I need to. For the guard.”

“Ye have time,” Edward muttered.

“But I will learn it.” He snapped his eyes up to meet the Laird’s. “Willnae I?”

It was not quite a question; it was a demand for the truth. Edward studied the small face for a long moment. The hard, set jaw, the wide dark eyes, the small hands still clenched tightly behind his back in that painful, unconscious echo.

“Aye,” Edward said, his chest tight. “Ye will.”

Lionel’s face broke open into a grin so raw and unguarded it was nearly difficult to look at directly. He parted his lips to launch into another speech, but Edward turned sharply toward the stable doors, which was perhaps cowardice but was also survival. The boy did not miss a beat; he scrambled right back into step beside the Laird’s heavy stride.

They walked out through the high stable doors into the open yard.

The thick mist had lifted by a fraction, revealing the dark stones of the castle walls. The sky above hung like flat, beaten pewter, waiting for the morning light to decide what it was going to do. Edward looked up out of pure habit to check the clouds, and in doing so, his gaze crossed the upper face of the stone keep.

The window of the guest chamber. The narrow glass that had belonged to Chloe since the hour she arrived.

She was there.

Her hand was raised against the wood frame, her fingers pale. She stood in her thin white nightgown, her dark hair completely loose and unbound, spilling wild across her bare shoulders.

Something clamped shut inside his chest, fast and violent and completely involuntary. The sudden heat of it burned through his throat. He snapped his head down, looking away. His jaw locked into a hard line. His massive shoulders rose by a fraction.

“Go to yer ma, lad.” He muttered to Lionel

He began to stride across the flagstones toward the keep. There was nothing casual about his pace; it was rapid, hard, and fleeing.

Behind his back, the boy shouted something after him. Edward did not catch a single word over the sudden, heavy rushing of the blood in his own ears. He kept walking, his boots hammering the stone.

Beathag, the healer, came at the hour she’d promised. Three days, she’d said when she’d last bound the ankle, and three days it had been.

She let herself into the chamber without waiting for an answer to her knock, already unwinding the old linen wrap before she’d properly crossed the room. She was small, precise, and had been treating the O’Brien clan since before Edward could walk.

He had not meant to come in. He’d been on his way to the granary stores when Beathag’s low, dry voice carried through the half-open door, and he stopped.

He was standing at the far wall with his arms crossed, his skin prickling hot under his wool jacket, before he’d properly decided to enter at all.

She said nothing for the first two minutes of the examination. Her unhurried, weathered hands unwound the white linen from Chloe’s ankle. She turned the joint once left and then once right, her calloused thumbs probing deep into the flesh.

When she pressed two firm fingers directly along the swollen outer edge of the bone, her sharp eyes darted up to lock onto Chloe’s face. Chloe gave nothing away. Her features remained a smooth, carved mask, her breathing shallow and steady.

Beathag’s thin mouth compressed into a tight, hard line. A clear sign she had noticed the fierce effort it took to keep that face still.

Edward stood at the far end of the chamber, his huge arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stared unblinkingly at the rough stone wall.

“Bend it,” Beathag commanded.

Chloe drew her foot back, her jaw tightening by a fraction as she bent the joint.

“Further.”

She pulled it closer to the bed, her knuckles whitening where she gripped the mattress linen.

Beathag made a low, guttural sound that was neither approval nor its opposite, and set the slender foot down on the low wooden stool. She straightened her old spine, pressing her palms together, and peered at Chloe over the square silver rims of her spectacles.

“Another three days of rest,” the healer said, her voice dropping like a stone, “and ye’ll be sound.”