Page 80 of A Highland Bride Disciplined

Perfect.

The villagers noticed them at once, as riders always drew eyes. Kian dismounted, tossing the reins to a guard, and strode across the muddy square with Tam at his side. He did not shout his questions; he never did. His voice, calm but cutting, carried well enough.

“Few days past,” he said to an old woman sweeping her stoop. “A lass came through here. Young. With a bairn. Did ye see her?”

The woman’s broom stilled. She looked him up and down, then gave a jerky nod. “Aye. Stayed at the inn. Quiet thing. Barely spoke.”

Tam stepped forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “And how long did she stay?”

“A few nights. Then…” The woman hesitated, eyes flicking toward the cliff path beyond the river. She made a quick sign of the cross. “Then she went up there. Ne’er came down.”

Kian followed her gaze to the jagged edge of rock. The sea crashed below, foaming white against stone. His stomach clenched.

He turned to Tam, who sobered instantly. “The inn,” Kian ordered.

Inside, the air was stale with smoke and spilled ale. The innkeeper, a red-cheeked man with a limp, glanced up from polishing mugs. He froze when Kian’s shadow fell across the counter.

“Gentlemen.” His eyes flicked from Tam’s scarred face to Kian’s cloak, the Crawford pin glinting at the fastening. Wariness crept into his manner. “Ye’ll be wanting lodgin’?”

“Nay.” Kian’s voice was clipped. “Information.”

The innkeeper hesitated, then inclined his head. “Aye, then. About what?”

Tam leaned an elbow on the counter, tone deceptively light. “We heard tell of a lass passin’ through. Young. Travelled alone. Took a room here.”

Something flickered across the innkeeper’s face. A lie forming, then crumbling under Kian’s stare. The man coughed, busying himself with a tankard. “Aye. There was one. Nae local. Stayed some nights. Paid her keep fair.”

Kian’s stomach coiled. “What happened to her?”

The innkeeper’s eyes darted toward the window, toward the roar of surf below the cliffs. His voice dropped. “Folk say she took the path one night. The cliff path. Never came back. The sea takes what it wants.”

The words landed heavy, but Kian’s instincts bristled. Too neat. Too easy. “Ye saw her go?”

“Nay.” The man shifted uncomfortably. “But her room’s been empty near a week. Left no coin, no word. Just… gone.”

Kian’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Elise’s mother — gone into the sea? He couldn’t picture it. Couldn’t reconcile the tiny bairn’s cries with the idea of a woman throwing herself into waves. Unless desperation had left her no choice.

Tam spoke before Kian could. “She leave anythin’ behind?”

The innkeeper hesitated again. “Some scraps. A shift. A kerchief. A bit of parchment. I burned the lot. Best to keep rooms clean for the next tenant.”

“Best to burn lies, more like,” Tam muttered, but Kian silenced him with a look.

“Can we see the room, please?”

“Aye, laird,” the man said quickly. “Third chamber up the stairs.”

Kian’s boots thudded on the creaking steps. The chamber door gave under his hand. Inside, the room smelled faintly of lavender, though the bed was unmade, the hearth cold. A few scraps of parchment lay torn in the grate. On the table, a ribbon frayed at the edges.

He scanned everything with a soldier’s eye. Then his gaze caught on a loose board beneath the cot. He knelt, pried it up, and drew out a folded letter, its edges smudged with ash.

His throat tightened as he turned it over. A woman’s hand. Delicate, precise.

Tam hovered in the doorway, brows raised. “Well?”

Kian exhaled hard through his nose as he slipped the letter into his coat, careful not to crush it. “We’ll need to either ride through the night back to Crawford Keep, or stay here.”

“I’m fit to ride.”