Page 11 of A Highland Bride Disciplined (Scottish Daddies #2)

K ian stabbed a piece of ham with more force than necessary. The crunch of the crust echoed across the long hall, which, to his growing irritation, remained empty but for himself.

He hadn’t said it aloud, but he’d expected and assumed that Scarlett would join him for breakfast. Especially after the night they’d shared, or at least nearly shared. The memory of her lips, to close to his own, made his core tighten.

And yet, as the hour stretched on, no fiery-haired wife appeared at the high table. Only a servant girl, stammering as she refreshed his tea, dared approach him.

“Where is Lady Crawford?” he asked without looking up.

The girl shifted. “She’s… um, she’s with the bairn, m’laird.”

Kian’s fork froze mid-air.

“With the bairn,” he repeated flatly.

The maid nodded, quickly bobbed a curtsy, and scurried away.

He chewed slowly, methodically. With each bite, his mood worsened. He tried to push her absence from his mind, but it clung to him like damp fog.

He finished the meal in silence.

Lunch passed the same. No Scarlett.

Dinner was same. Again.

Kian sat alone at the head of the long dining table while servants quietly placed the dishes before him and cleared them away. He barely touched the food. Each empty chair around him screamed a silent accusation, and the one meant for Scarlett hollered the loudest.

By nightfall, he was done waiting.

He strode through the keep with long, purposeful steps, boots echoing off the stone floor. A boy nearly dropped a basket of turnips when he passed. Tam spotted him from the corridor and wisely turned the other way.

Kian didn’t bother knocking.

He pushed the door to her chambers open with one hand and stepped into the candle-lit room without ceremony.

Scarlett was curled on the chaise near the hearth, the baby tucked against her chest. Effie sat cross-legged on a rug nearby, cooing softly at the bairn. When Kian entered, both women looked up.

“Ye, out,” he said, pointing directly at Effie.

“Lady Crawford and I need to talk,” he said.

Scarlett arched a brow, her green eyes glinting with disapproval. “Effie, would ye give us a moment?”

Effie blinked but scrambled to her feet. “Aye, m’lady.” She gave them one last look, dipped lowly in front of him, then darted out, closing the door behind her.

Kian folded his arms. “Ye’ve avoided every meal since last night.”

Scarlett adjusted the baby in her arms. “I’ve been busy.”

“With a child that isnae yers.”

She looked up sharply. “Is that yer official stance now? That she’s nae mine?”

“She’s nae mine either,” Kian shot back.

Scarlett’s jaw tightened. “Aye. And yet here I am. Risin’ at dawn. Soothin’ her fits. Singin’ lullabies I barely remember. Missin’ meals because I’ve got burpin’ or shite stains on half me gowns and nay free hand to hold a fork.”

Kian opened his mouth to argue, but before he could speak, a sudden growl echoed through the room.

His brows lifted.

Scarlett blinked. Her arms reflexively wrapped tighter around the baby, as if she could somehow hide the treacherous sound of her own stomach.

Kian stared at her.

“Have ye eaten anything today?” he asked slowly.

“I… might have had a biscuit.”

He narrowed his eyes. “When?”

“This mornin’. Or… late last night. Time’s funny when ye’ve got a bairn screaming in yer ear.”

“Ye’re starvin’.”

“I’m managin’,” she snapped. “And ye barge in accusin’ me of bein’ rude when I’m doin’ me best.”

He turned toward the door without another word.

“Effie!” he bellowed into the corridor.

The maid returned almost instantly, her eyes wide. “Aye?”

“Take the bairn, now,” he ordered. “Settle her. Watch her for the next hour.”

Effie looked to Scarlett, unsure.

Scarlett scowled at Kian, and no one moved until finally he broke the silence.

“Effie, take the bairn or I’ll give her to ye meself.”

He watched as the girl crossed the room, her arms outstretched. His wife lifted the bairn gently into the maid’s arms. “She’ll likely fuss. She’s nae to keen on others rockin’ her.”

Effie gave a firm, if nervous, nod, “We’ll manage, m’lady.” The maid retreated quickly, whispering sweet nonsense to the baby as she closed the door behind her.

Kian turned back, eyes on Scarlett.

She crossed her arms. “What now?”

“Ye’re coming with me.”

She raised a brow. “Am I?”

“Aye.”

“I’m nae in the mood for demands.”

“And I’m nae in the mood to argue, but here we are,” he said. “Ye’ve gone at least three meals without sittin’ at a table. That’s nae independence, Scarlett, it’s foolishness.”

“And draggin’ me off like a sack of grain is kindness?”

He stepped closer, voice lowering. “It’s concern.”

Her mouth parted, caught somewhere between surprise and a retort.

He reached out and took her hand.

She looked down at where their fingers met, then up at him again, eyes wary.

“I’m nae askin’,” he said quietly. “I’ll throw ye over me shoulder, and then ye’ll really feel like a sack of grain.”

Scarlett stared at him for a moment longer… and then sighed.

“I hate ye,” she muttered under her breath.

Kian’s lips twitched. “Ye’re still comin’.”

They walked in silence through the corridors. Her hand in his. Her steps slower than usual, but steady.

As they reached the kitchens, Morag bustled out from the pantry, arms full of bread rolls.

Kian paused. “Mrs. Morag.”

Morag blinked at the sight of them, then raised a brow. “M’laird?”

“Tell the cook that Lady Crawford requires a hot meal. Immediately. Whatever’s left from supper.”

Morag glanced at Scarlett, who looked equal parts annoyed and sheepish. But she nodded briskly.

“Right away, m’laird.”

As the housekeeper disappeared with purpose, Kian led Scarlett into the small dining alcove beside the kitchen hearth.

She sat stiffly, glaring at him.

“I daenae need yer pity,” she said.

“This isnae pity. It’s food.”

He poured her a glass of water. “Now. Drink.”

She didn’t move.

“Scarlett,” he added. “Ye look like a dead bush in a desert… Please?”

That softened her. Barely.

She took the glass.

And for the first time that day, she drank.

Scarlett sat stiffly on the edge of the chair, her spine ramrod straight, arms folded tight across her middle. The wood creaked beneath her, and she felt every grain of it like it meant to etch itself into her bones.

This was ridiculous.

It was just a plate of food. Just her husband watching her like a hawk.

And yet, the water he’d handed her still sat half-full on the table, little beads of condensation dripping onto the polished wood.

The fire in the nearby hearth cast golden light across the alcove, warming the stone, casting soft shadows up the curve of Kian’s cheekbone where he leaned back in his own chair, studying her like she might vanish again if he blinked.

She hated how her heart reacted to that look.

Because it fluttered. Like a fool.

He’d dragged her from the nursery not with shouting or demands, but with quiet insistence, a grip on her hand that wasn’t forceful, just firm enough to be felt. And now he sat across from her, legs slightly spread, elbows resting on the arms of his chair like he was ready to deliver a sermon.

“I daenae require handholding,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

His brow lifted. “And yet ye’ve not touched a bite.”

She scowled, her eyes tracing the edges of the cold plate of cheese and meats in front of her. The undeniable smells of stew was swirling around the hall, and she knew that more was on the way from the kitchen.

Kian leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Takin’ care of yerself is part of yer duty, Scarlett.”

There it was again. Duty.

Her eye twitched. “Ye mean to say that if I daenae eat, I’ll be failin’ in me role as Lady Crawford?”

He didn’t flinch. “I mean to say if ye keel over out of hunger, I’ll be stuck holdin’ a squallin’ bairn and explainin’ to the clan, and yer faither’s clan, how their lady starved herself out o’ spite.”

Her lips parted, ready to cut him down because how dare he, but Kian lifed one hand, steady as iron.

“Hush,” he said calmly. “Just sit.”

It was the “just sit” that stung. Like she was a caught muddy-booted on clean floors.

Scarlett’s jaw locked, every nerve bristling for the fight, and yet she didn’t rise. Didn’t argue. Her body betrayed her first, sinking deeper into the chair while her mind clawed for the words she ought to fling back.

She’d spent six days pushing herself to the edge of exhaustion. She’d held that child through every nap, every feed, every fretted tear. She’d scolded Effie and soothed Morag’s nerves and sent letters and managed half a dozen tasks no one had thought to thank her for.

And now, sitting across from her husband, who with nothing more than two words had silenced her, the strength to fight seemed to drain clean out of her bones.

Her mind reeled, scrambling for a reply, when the kitchen door opened and two servants stepped in.

A large tray of food was set down before her with quiet efficiency.

Scarlett blinked.

A steaming trencher of barley stew, thick with carrots, leeks, and chunks of salted beef, the broth so rich it clung to the serving spoon.

Two oat bannocks, still warm from the griddle, crisp-edged and buttered till glistening.

Beside it, a smear of jam, a fistful of pickled turnips, and a slice of apple tart that looked stolen straight from a hearth goddess’s dream.

Her stomach lurched at the scent, curling inward from raw, aching hunger. Still, she sat frozen and eyed it all warily.

Kian watched her from across the table, silent.

The aroma hit her first. Her stomach curled in on itself. Not in revulsion. In sheer, desperate need.

But she didn’t move.

Her fingers picked idly at the edge of the napkin, twisting the cloth into soft little knots.

He didn’t speak. Not at first.

Then, his low voice vibrated her to the core. “Would ye like me to come over there and feed ye meself?”

Her head snapped up.

He looked deadly serious.

A flush bloomed instantly up her neck. “Absolutely nae!”