Page 21 of A Highland Bride Disciplined (Scottish Daddies #2)

Near the musicians’ platform, the festival coordinator, Morven, was hunched over a ledger. Scarlett approached with her list of suggestions, half of which Morven accepted without blinking, the other half sparking mutters and headshakes.

“Moving the poultry pen farther from the dancing green?” Morven frowned.

“Unless ye want yer reels performed to the accompaniment of clucks and the occasional escapee, aye,” Scarlett replied, lips twitching.

“And the extra tables by the pie stall?”

“They’ll pay for themselves in minutes,” she said. “Trust me. I’ve seen grown men elbow each other into the dirt for the last slice of Mrs. Fenwick’s treacle tart, and that was just a Tuesday!”

By the time Scarlett finished her circuit, the green felt right. Stalls stood where they’d serve best, quarrels had been soothed, and even the stubborn ones had left with at least a nod of agreement.

She stepped back to the center, hands on her hips, and let her gaze sweep over the scene. The festival was beginning to take shape. It would be a day the village would remember… exactly how Kian wanted it to be.

And she’d make sure Kian knew it.

Not because she needed credit. But because it mattered that he saw she wasn’t undermining him, only making certain his festival shone as much as his clan deserved.

“Are ye headed back to the Keep, m’lady?” Young Fionn called out from behind her, his father, Murtagh, smiling and waving at her as well.

“Aye, I am. Where are ye two headed?”

“To the Keep stables! Right, da?”

“Aye,” Fionn’s father, Murtagh, confirmed proudly. He was the clan’s farrier. The best in all of Clan Crawford. “One o’ the new stallion’s got a limp. I’ve been summoned.”

“Course,” Scarlett says, turning the mare back toward the keep and urging her forward.

The three of them weaved through the wood together, Fionn regaling them with tall tales he learned about from the traveling spice man.

It wasn’t long before Scarlett dismounted and let Murtagh lead the mare to the stables with them, and she walked the rest of the way to the courtyard.

The late-afternoon sun slid low enough to set the stone walls in gold. She’d been in the village longer than intended, but every stall in the square was now exactly where it ought to be, and every quarrel had been settled with minimal injury to pride.

She was still smiling faintly when the gate guard dipped his head and swung the postern wide. Perhaps the festival willnae be so bad, leavin’ Elise behind… I really did lose track of time…

She didn’t make it ten paces into the courtyard before Kian appeared from the shadows beneath the western tower, his arms crossed, and his expression carved from granite.

“Where in God’s name have ye been?”

Scarlett slid from the saddle with deliberate ease, passing the reins to a waiting stable boy. “Good afternoon to ye as well, husband.”

His jaw ticked. “It’s well past afternoon. Dinner’s been waiting over an hour.”

“I had work to do.” She smoothed her skirts, brushing away a faint dusting of flour from Mrs. Fenwick’s bread loaves. “The festival stalls needed arranging.”

“Ye left the keep without telling anyone.”

“I told Morag.”

His brow darkened. “Morag dinnae ken where ye were today. Neither did Effie.”

“I told her as I was leavin’. If she dinnae pass on the message, that’s between the two of ye.”

Kian took a step closer, enough that she could see the amber ring around his pupils in the fading light. “Do ye ken what it looks like, Scarlett, when the laird’s wife disappears for half a day without a guard? To our allies? To our enemies?”

Her smile sharpened. “I ran this clan for eight months without ye. I think I can manage a ride to the village.”

“This isnae about whether ye can manage it,” he said, voice low but edged with steel. “It’s about what it means . To anyone watching, ye’re the laird’s greatest weakness. And a wise enemy strikes where a man is weakest.”

Weakness?

The words caught her off-guard. Not the warning in them, but the way they made her chest flutter.

His weakness.

“Ye think I’m yer weakness?” she asked, feigning lightness, though her pulse had quickened.

“I think ye’ve been careless,” he countered. “Especially with Elise in the picture… for now.”

The last two words hit her like he had thrown a stone at her. A mixture of hope and dread both spreading out into her limbs. She forced herself to keep her voice even. “So ye’re warming to the idea of raising her ourselves, then?”

Kian’s mouth tightened. “I’m saying nothin’ is certain until we ken more. And until then, I’ll nae have ye putting yerself in harm’s way.”

Scarlett tilted her head, letting her gaze flick over him slowly. “I apologize if I caused ye worry,” she said, the sincerity in her tone undercut by the faintest curl of her lips.

He frowned. “If?”

She lifted her chin. “But I told Morag. So truly, this is a matter between ye and yer housekeeper.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched taut between them.

Then Kian let out a sharp huff of breath that might have been a laugh, or might have been the prelude to a lecture. Before he could decide which, she stepped past him, her skirts brushing his thigh as she headed for the keep’s main doors.

He caught her arm. His grip wasn’t hard, but it was enough to halt her. “Scarlett.”

She looked back, brows lifted.

“Ye’re nae untouchable,” he said quietly, his voice dropping into that dangerous timbre that made her stomach flip. “Remember that.”

Her own voice softened, though the challenge in it didn’t fade. “Neither are ye, Kian.”

For the span of three heartbeats, they just looked at each other. His eyes sharp, hers warm and steady before she smiled, slow and knowing, and pulled free.

“Now, if ye’ll excuse me,” she murmured, “I have a bath that’s callin’ me name.”

She swept inside and called out over her shoulder, “Oh, and I’ll be takin’ me supper on a tray in me chambers.”