Page 57 of A Highland Bride Disciplined

Scarlett forced a smile, her fingers tightening in her skirts. Too perfect. Almost rehearsed. Yet when Màiri spoke of heartbeats, there’d been no artifice. For the first time since Elise had been left at the keep, Scarlett felt a thought stir —This woman might actually be perfect.

The slight woman sat in the high-backed chair by the nursery hearth, hands folded neatly in her lap, posture perfect as if she were being painted for a portrait.

Scarlett tilted her head. “Ye’re young. Barely past five-and-twenty, are ye nae? Do ye feel seasoned enough to tend another’s bairn?”

Màiri’s mouth quirked, not insulted but thoughtful. “Aye, I’m young enough to have the strength for long nights, and old enough to ken what’s needed.

Scarlett’s brow furrowed. “And if it comes to feeding Elise yerself? Ye’d be comfortable? Elise has naught but seven months.”

Màiri nodded solemnly. “I’ve milk enough since me own babe passed about a month back. God took him quick, but left me the means to help another. I’d count it mercy if I could give that to this bairn, m’lady.”

The room seemed to still at her words. Scarlett forced her face neutral, but inside her chest ached. Too perfect, this lass. Every answer steady, every wound worn like proof of her skill.

Was Elise’s fate truly to fall into such practiced hands?

Not that it helped her make the decision, but Effie was smitten.

“Och, she ken’s how to swaddle, change, feed, an’ she kens the songs from her own gran, too! D’ye hear the way she talks about bairns? Like wee blessings instead o’ trouble.”

And Mrs. Morag as well. While she wore a skeptical expression, she plainly had to admit, “I’ve nae seen better handling o’ a newborn since I was in nappie duty meself.” Which, coming from Morag, was high praise indeed.

When the interview ended, Effie practically bounced. “We’ll ne’er get a better one!”

Scarlett gave her a quick smile, the kind one might use to soothe a child, and excused herself. She could feel Morag’s eyes on her as she left, as if the housekeeper was trying to measure what, exactly, she’d just seen pass across Scarlett’s face.

She needed air.

The cold, autumn air that slipped through the arrow slits wasn’t enough. She needed gulps of it. Pints of it. Cold and biting.

Her slippers connected with the gravel in the front courtyard and she let herself breathe in the breeze heavily. Her chest laboring to keep up as Scarlett inhaled deeply. Should have goneback to Elise. She should have told Effie to draft an offer of employment. It was the right thing to do.

The woman was perfect.

Every answer she gave was perfect.

Not polished or coy, but steady, born of experience Scarlett couldn’t hope to match. Raising brothers from the cradle. Nursing a cousin through fever. Milk enough left from her own lost babe to give Elise a chance.

Scarlett’s throat tightened.

She should’ve felt relief. God above, that’s what she’d prayed for. Someone strong. Someone competent. Someone who would keep Elise fed and safe when Scarlett’s own hands shook with fatigue. But instead, the relief curdled.

Because if Màiri was so perfect, then what good was Scarlett?

A stand-in. A lady playing at mother. A woman clinging to a child that might never have been hers to keep.

Her arms ached with the memory of the weight of Elise pressed against her chest. She’d been so certain the babe’s laugh, the gurgle against her shoulder, meant she was enough. And yet, Màiri had spoken with the quiet authority of a woman who’d already lived a dozen mother’s trials.

Scarlett turned to face the keep, blinking against the sharp chill that nipped at her eyes.

Elise needs more than love, she needs skill. And if another woman can give her that… where does that leave me?

But she knew that if she dismissed this candidate, after the glowing reviews of Effie and Morag, and Tam as well, then she’d need a reason.

Hoping to find a sound reason on the way, she took in one last inhale and exhaled sharply before her feet carried her back inside toward the study.

She found Kian at his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a ledger open before him. His quill scratched with steady precision, pausing only when she stepped into the room.

He looked up, the brown of his eyes flicking over her quickly, “Well?”