Chapter 12
Four mornings running now and Edward had kept his word and gone to the nursery before the household was fully stirring. Four mornings apparently was all it took for Tyler to notice.
“Me Laird,” Tyler said, his voice dripping with sudden, unearned amusement. His eyes darted past Edward’s shoulder, tracking the long stone corridor back to the heavy oak door of the nursery. The grin turned entirely deliberate. “Hauntin’ the upper corridors this mornin’, are we?”
Tyler had a talent for showing up exactly when a man least wanted company, honed, as far as Edward could tell, over ten years of soldiering together and absolutely no accompanying respect for rank.
Duncan, one of the guards, was with the man-at-arms, both of them flushed, sweating, and reeking of the crisp morning air from the training yard, cutting through the nursery wing on their way to return the practice blades to the armory.
It was the shortest route between the two, and it ran straight past the nursery, whether Tyler had chosen it for that reason or not.
Tyler’s hand rested comfortably on the pommel of the broadsword at his hip, while Duncan held a notched wooden practice blade tucked under his arm like an extension of his own awkward, adolescent limbs.
“I was passin’ through,” Edward growled, his voice a low vibration in his chest.
“Passin’ through the nursery wing?”
“The corridor.” He brushed past Tyler’s shoulder, his heavy boots striking the flagstones with unnecessary force.
Naturally, Tyler fell into step beside him.
Edward had not invited the company, but Tyler had never required an invitation in the ten years they had bled together.
“Of course,” Tyler murmured agreeably, matching Edward’s brutal stride.
“The one that happens to run directly past the babe’s quarters.
Where the Lady Chloe spends her mornings. ”
“Drop it, Tyler. Lest ye want to spend the afternoon cleanin’ the stables.”
“Dropped entirely, me Laird. Sealed in a vault.” Tyler clasped his hands behind his back, the picture of innocence. “I was merely notin’ that it is a fine mornin’ for a walk. The upper corridors, especially. Fresh air. Good stone. Nothin’ of particular interest in any direction.”
Edward said nothing.
“Though I will say,” Tyler continued, entirely unbothered, “that the Lady O’Brien has made some interestin’ changes to the mornin’ schedule of this castle.
Fires are lit earlier. Kitchens are runnin’ smoother.
Mrs. Donnan looks less like a woman who has swallowed a thistle.
” He tilted his head. “Remarkable, really. What a fortnight can do.”
“Ye have a trainin’ yard to get back to.”
“I do. Duncan here needs at least another hour on his footwork alone.” Tyler glanced sideways at the boy, who straightened indignantly.
“But I find meself curious, me Laird, in the purely professional sense. How does a man who has terrorized this glen for the better part of a decade end up standin’ outside a nursery door at sunrise lookin’ like he has forgotten how his own legs work? ”
Edward stopped walking, and Tyler stopped with him, wisely saying nothing further.
“I am entitled to occupy any corridor in this fortress.”
“Inarguably.”
“I do nae require yer observations on how I occupy it.”
“Of course nae.” A beat. “Ye looked well, though. Standin’ there. If it helps.”
“It does nae help.”
“Aye.” Tyler’s smirk softened into something that was almost, in a very annoying way, kind. “I am guessin’ she isnae what ye expected.”
“Ye are dangerously close to cleanin’ the stables for a month.”
“I ken.” Tyler resumed walking. “I am just sayin’. A man would have to be made entirely of granite nae to notice.”
Edward looked at him.
“Which ye are,” Tyler added quickly. “Entirely. Head to boot. Solid granite throughout. I noticed nothin’.”
Behind them, Duncan cleared his throat.
“I landed twelve clean strikes during the dawn drill,” he announced, his voice cracking only slightly. “Tyler said ten was the mark to join the castle guard. I got twelve.” He lifted his chin. “I think that means I am ready for the steel, me Laird.”
Tyler groaned. “I said ten strikes was the mark to begin thinkin’ about whether ye might eventually, after another year of trainin’.”
“Twelve is twelve,” Duncan cut in, his jaw set in a perfect imitation of Edward’s own stubbornness.
Edward looked down at the boy. Fifteen, all sharp angles and fierce determination. “We’ll get back to that.”
The morning air in the passage was bitter, the ancient stone still holding the frost of the night. Pale, watery light cut through the high arrow slits, throwing long, jagged shadows across their path.
Chloe had stood there with the boy pressed against the curve of her neck, swaying with a natural, unhurried grace.
She had not been performing for him. She had simply looked at him, stripped away his titles with a single glance, and told him he needed to be there.
He had not been spoken to in such a manner since…
He ruthlessly cut the memory off before his father’s ghost could take shape.
Behind them, the heavy latch of the nursery door clicked open.
Edward did not turn around. His entire body went rigid as her voice drifted down the stone hallway.
“But me Lady, ye cannae mean to carry it yerself.”
“Melodie. I have two arms, and they work perfectly well. Take the other end.”
“The housekeeper will have me head.”
“The housekeeper will have nothin’ to say about it. Come on, then. Left foot first.”
A pause. Then the muffled sound of Melodie’s reluctant shuffling, followed by Chloe’s quiet laugh, brief and unguarded, entirely free of the tension that usually choked these corridors.
The sound hit Edward directly between his shoulder blades.
Tyler turned. Edward watched the man-at-arms out of the corner of his eye. He watched the rogue’s smirk soften into something entirely different, something appreciative.
She wore a heavy woolen gown the color of deep summer moss, a garment that accented the striking, vibrant red of her hair. The thick locks were pinned back, but a few stubborn strands had already broken free, curling damply against her freckled temple.
Sensing their presence, Chloe paused.
“Tyler, me Laird.” She nodded her head toward them. A brief, dignified acknowledgment, before turning toward the spiral stairs without breaking her stride. The moss-green hem of her skirts hissed against the stone until the sound vanished around the curve.
Tyler let out a low, slow whistle through his teeth. “Well,” he muttered. “The Lady certainly brings a bit of life to these old ruins.”
“Daenae finish that thought,” Edward warned, his tone dangerous.
“I wasnae goin’ to say a single word, me Laird.”
“Ye were about to say several, and every one of them would have earned ye a split lip.”
Tyler turned back to him, completely unbothered by the threat.
He had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Edward in deep mud, surrounded by the screams of dying men.
He possessed an absolute immunity to his laird’s black moods.
“Only that it occurs to me, me Laird, it may nae be the bairn’s porridge habits that have ye lingerin’ in this wing before the sun has even cleared the trees. ”
The look Edward leveled at him was venomous enough to drop a charging bull. Tyler received it with absolute equanimity.
“She is me wife,” Edward said, the words flat, cold, and final.
“Of course,” Tyler agreed, a tiny smirk dancing in his eyes. “And she is, if I am permitted to speak plainly, a remarkably beautiful lady.”
“Ye are nae permitted.”
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the corridor.
Edward looked down at Duncan. He was fifteen, all sharp angles, clumsy limbs, and fierce determination. “Show me that strike ye were talking about,” Edward said flatly.
Duncan blinked, his bravado instantly evaporating. “Now, me Laird?”
“Nay. Tomorrow at first light. Ye’ll spar with Tyler in the center of the yard while I watch from the wall.” Edward kept his face a mask of unreadability. “If yer footwork matches the arrogance of yer tongue, we will discuss the steel.”
The boy’s face split into a wide, uncontrolled grin before he caught himself. He cleared his throat, nodding with immense, comical gravity. “Aye, me Laird. First light.”
Tyler shot Edward a sour, sideways look that clearly said, Thank ye for the extra work. Edward ignored him entirely and strode toward his study.
As he closed the heavy oak door of his sanctuary, sealing himself in with the smell of old parchment and ink, he told himself he was not thinking about her laughter.
He told himself he could not care less about the way her moss-green skirts had brushed the stone, or the heat that had flared in his blood when her brown eyes met his.
He sat at his desk, picked up a ledger, and forced himself into the cold arithmetic of his clan. He did his best not to think about her for the rest of the morning because he did not allow it, but he failed.
The great hall felt entirely too large at suppertime when there was only one soul occupying it.
That thought was one Chloe had never expected to cross her mind.
She was no stranger to eating alone. For ten years as a servant, she had eaten her bread standing over greasy iron kettles, huddled in cold scullery corners, or sitting on the back steps of Lady Jenny’s estate while the autumn rain turned her porridge to mush.
She knew how to eat without the comfort of others. Solitude had been her oldest companion.
But tonight, the massive high-backed chair at the head of the long oak table was not just empty.
It was violently and conspicuously vacant.
The pewter goblet resting beside the carved armrest was full to the brim with dark red wine, untouched and taunting.
At the opposite end of the trestle table sat Chloe, her single place setting looking utterly out of place against the vast stretch of dark, polished wood.