Page 121 of A Highland Bride Disciplined

Roderick was dead. His men and his father’s men in slow retreat. But the weight on Kian’s shoulders hadn’t lifted.

Because Elise’s safety wasn’t just about blades and battles. It was about promises. To her. To Scarlett.

25

The silence came on like a blanket thrown over a fire. It was smothering and absolute. No more clang of steel, no shouts, no broken commands carried by the wind. Even in the depths of the keep, in the safety of the nursery, the roar of battle quieted to just the hush of a courtyard holding its breath and the soft edged hush of Elise’s tiny breaths.

She rocked on her heels, clutching the babe so close her knuckles blanched. Her lips moved of their own accord, the old words spilling in a whisper she hadn’t spoken since she was a girl with scraped knees and braids,“God keep him. God keep them all. God — keep him.”

A tear slipped hot and guilty from the corner of her eye and slid into the baby’s bonnet. Elise snuffled once, as if answering, and burrowed deeper into the crook of Scarlett’s elbow.

Effie hovered near the nursery door like a guard too small for her post, hands worrying the linen of her apron into a rope. “It’squiet,” she breathed, as though saying it any louder might crack the quiet open again.

Scarlett nodded, throat too tight to manage sound. She bent and pressed her mouth to the babe’s warm crown. “My wee fierce one,” she murmured into the curls. “Ye’re safe. Ye’re safe.”

Footsteps. More than one set — a shuffle, thud, and scrape — moving along the corridor outside. Effie’s eyes went wide, and her hand flew to her mouth. Scarlett turned, every muscle ready to fracture.

Kian filled the doorway.

Blood streaked the leather across his chest in dark swathes. There were flecks along his jaw, dried in his beard. His hair was damp with sweat, and his eyes were bright. For a strange, disorienting second, the world narrowed to the shape of him within the frame of that door, living proof that the silence wasn’t grief.

He looked first to Elise and then to Scarlett. Something like relief broke across the carved severity of his face, too fast and too raw to hide. “Scarlett.”

Whatever she’d meant to say scattered. She couldn’t remember how to breathe. Her arms tightened on the babe and then, realizing herself, she pushed Elise gently into Effie’s waiting hands.

“Take her,” she whispered. “Please, just take her.”

Effie gathered the child with a murmured “Aye, m’lady,” and stepped back from the door, giving them space.

Scarlett crossed the room before her mind caught up with her feet. “Kian.” She was running and then she was against him, her arms around his neck, her cheek to his chest. He was warm and solid and so very alive. The smell of smoke, iron, sweat mixed with the sharpness of spent fear and it hit her all at once, and her knees almost buckled.

“Easy,” he said, voice rough. He caught her by the waist and steadied her, his hands spanning the narrow of her back. “I’ve got ye, lass.”

“Are ye hurt?” The words rushed out high and thin. She reared back to look him over, hands already moving of their own will, checking, searching. “God above, Kian, ye’re — ye’re covered!”

“It’s nae mine,” he said. “Well, most of it, anyway…”

“Most?” She dragged his sleeve up, found a scrape along his forearm and a bruise purpling the ridge of muscle near his shoulder, but nothing that bled fresh. Her fingers trembled so badly she couldn’t make them behave.

“Does it pain ye? This — here,” she pressed against a bump on his arm. “Does it?”

He caught her hands gently. “Scarlett.”

Her gaze snapped to his. The steadiness there, the keening heat held in check, made the floor tilt. “Ye’re all right,” she said, like a woman testing language again. “Ye’re — ye’re all right.”

“Aye.”

“And the men?”

“I assume some injuries,” he said. “But we held. The keep stands.”

Her lungs released by halves. She looked down at herself only when he did, his mouth quirking at the edge. Her gown was a creamy wool, the one Morag called too nice for every day, and it now bore his dark smears like a grisly new pattern.

“Yer gown,” he said softly. “Ye’ll have Morag after ye if she sees it.”

“I’ll burn it before she sees.” Her laugh came out strangled and ugly. Her palms slid back up to his face, the rasp of his short beard scraping her skin. “I thought —” The words tripped and fell.

“I thought I was about to lose ye —”