Page 24 of A Highland Bride Disciplined (Scottish Daddies #2)

T he bells over Crawford Keep’s courtyard gates rang out in slow peals. The three long notes that rolled over the hills like a summons. The Michaelmas Festival Day had begun.

Scarlett stood at the edge of the bailey, hands smoothing over the skirts of the gown Mrs. Morag had bullied her into wearing.

Dark green velvet, embroidered in gold wheat stalks along the hem, with a bodice snug enough to keep her upright if her spine gave out.

Her hair, tamed into loose curls, was pinned back just enough to keep it from blowing into her face in the autumn wind.

She certainly looked the part of the Laird’s wife.

Her lips pressed together.

She felt like someone had taken the solid ground beneath her and replaced it with thin ice.

The sound of children’s laughter and the thump of boots on packed dirt rose from the meadow below, mingling with the merry whistle of a piper already warming his fingers.

The air smelled of roasting meat, sweet cider, and peat smoke drifting from the cooking fires.

Somewhere down there, bread was baking in clay ovens, and somewhere else, women were laying out platters of apples glazed in honey.

It should have been a day for joy. Her first appearance as Lady Crawford next to Laird Crawford. Her first public appearance since Elise had come into her life.

And there it is again — the hollow ache in her chest.

Elise was in the nursery now, Morag and the new nursemaid watching over her. Scarlett had told herself over and over that she was safe. Still, every instinct she had screamed at her to turn back, climb the stairs, and peek just once more to make sure her little chest rose and fell.

Nae for too many hours , she reminded herself. She’d never left her for so long.

She stepped forward as a knot of villagers approached, their faces splitting into grins.

“Lady Crawford!” Old Fergus MacNair, stooped as a willow in winter, bowed low, his wool cap clutched in his hands. “It does me good to see ye among us.”

Scarlett smiled and clasped his arm briefly. “It does me good to be here, Fergus.”

He nodded toward the line of market stalls that curved in a half-moon around the green. “We’ve kept the oatcakes away from the honey, as ye advised.”

“Good,” she said, allowing herself a small swell of pride. “I’ve nay wish to referee one of those famous brawls between yer wife and Mrs. Crockett over bee rights.”

A ripple of laughter passed between the men in the group.

And still, her thoughts tugged back to the keep.

She walked on, making herself stop at each cluster of stalls, praising the dyed wool, the carved toys, the fresh loaves scored in neat patterns. A pair of girls no older than twelve came running up with garlands of late-blooming marigolds, insisting she take one to wear in her hair.

She thanked them, promised she’d wear it before the day was out.

But then her mind shifted again, to something darker.

Elise’s maither.

It was entirely possible that by day’s end they’d have an answer. That guard would ride in with some scrap of news from wherever he’d been searching.

And if Kian was right, if Elise’s maither was just a poor woman who couldnae feed her child, then was it nae cruel to keep them apart?

Scarlett knew what Kian had said was true. They could help her. They have the means. But helping a woman raise her child was not the same as handing the child back and stepping out of her life.

Her hand tightened around the leather strap of her small satchel until her knuckles went white.

Would Elise cry for me? Forget me? Would she be happy?

She forced herself to focus as the baker’s wife brought her a sweet bannock, its crust golden and dusted with sugar. “For ye, m’lady. Some fresh from the griddle.”

Scarlett accepted it with a smile, but her stomach twisted instead of growling. She thanked the woman and moved on, the music of a fiddle and drum pulling her toward the main square.

Why was this affecting me so much?

From the top of the small rise, she could see the whole festival spread below like a tapestry.

Rows of booths and banners in Crawford blue snapped in the brisk wind.

The pen for the sheepdog trials was already crowded with spectators, children perched on their fathers’ shoulders.

At the far end, a line had formed for the archery competition, bows glinting in the sunlight.

Scarlett drew a long breath and tried to let the sight of her people and their easy camaraderie, and push away the worry.

It worked for a moment. Then she pictured the empty cradle upstairs and the ache settled in again.

Shite.

Then she felt his eyes on her. The sensation was warm, heavy, like the brush of a hand at her back. She didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“Ye look like ye’ve been made to swallow vinegar,” Kian’s voice drawled from just behind her shoulder.

Scarlett glanced sideways, keeping her chin up. “I’m enjoying myself.”

He arched a brow. “Aye. Ye’re standin’ here starin’ at folk like they’ve offended ye by breathin’. That’s the very picture of enjoyment.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “I’m takin’ it all in. All our hard work.”

“Mm.” He came to stand beside her, broad shoulders blocking some of the wind, his gaze sweeping the festival with a quick, assessing pass.

She folded her arms. “If ye’ve come to critique me posture, I’m afraid I left me curtsey lessons at home.”

Kian’s mouth tugged at one corner in a smile. “Noticed ye’ve been wearin’ that same furrow in yer brow all day.”

Scarlett looked away, out over the green. “It’s nothin’.”

“Is it.” He didn’t phrase it as a question.

She hesitated. “ Fine. It’s Elise.”

At that, his head turned sharply toward her. “What about her?”

“Ye said yer guard might be back today.” She kept her voice low, though the music and chatter below would have swallowed anything short of a shout. “And if he comes with news about her maither…”

Kian’s jaw flexed. “We talked about this. If her maither’s alive and wants her back, then we have nay right to her.”

“I ken what ye said.” Scarlett’s arms tightened around her ribs. “And I agree.”

Kian straightened. “Ye… agree?”

Scarlett met his eyes then, letting him see the truth of it. “Aye. If she’s a good woman who loves her, who can care for her, it’s the right thing.” Her throat worked as she forced the words out. “But I cannae…”

The rest tangled in her chest, sharp and hot. Tears pricked behind her eyes. She turned her face away before he could see too much.

Kian’s voice gentled, though it still held that unyielding edge. “Scarlett.”

“Nay.” She shook her head once, the motion clipped. “I cannae talk about it right now.”

For a beat, he said nothing. Then his hand brushed hers. Not quite a touch, but close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. “Dance with me.”

She blinked at him. “Dance?”

“It’s a festival,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Folk will expect the laird and his lady to be seen together. Laughin’. Enjoyin’ themselves. Not scowlin’ over the crowd like they’re weighin’ who to hang first.”

Scarlett almost laughed at that. Almost. “I’m nae —”

He stepped closer, close enough that the smell of clean wool, leather, and the faintest trace of smoke wrapped around her. “Come now. Unless ye want Tam to find some excuse to drag ye into it.”

Her lips parted to argue, but the sight of him, his eyes dark with a challenge, and his hand outstretched unraveled her resistance.

“Fine.” She slipped her hand into his.

The crowd seemed to part for them as they moved toward the dancing green. A piper struck up a reel, the drum keeping a lively beat, and the couples already in motion clapped as they joined.

Kian’s hand settled at her waist, his palm warm even through the velvet. They stepped into the rhythm, her skirts swaying, his boots moving with the kind of surety that made her suspect he was good at this. Infuriatingly good.

“Ye’re smirking,” she said after a turn.

“Am I.”

“Aye.”

“Mayhap I’m enjoyin’ myself.”

“Or mayhap ye’re pleased that ye’ve managed to manhandle me into doing what ye wanted again.”

His mouth curved into something closer to a grin. “Could be both.”

Scarlett narrowed her eyes but felt the heat rise in her cheeks all the same. The music quickened; they spun with the other couples, the air whipping strands of her hair loose. For a moment she forgot the ache in her chest.

By the time the reel ended, they were both flushed, breath coming faster. The crowd clapped and called for another, but Kian guided her toward one of the long tables set with food.

“Eat,” he said simply, nodding toward a platter of roasted pheasant, bowls of root vegetables glazed with butter, and golden rounds of bannocks.

She arched a brow. “Is that an order, Laird Crawford?”

“If it were, ye’d already be sittin’.”

Her lips twitched again despite herself. “Bossy.”

“Alive,” he countered. “Ye’ll do better at both if ye keep yer strength.”

She let out a quiet huff but took the plate he handed her. Around them, the festival roared on.

And yet, even with the world in motion around her, Scarlett found her gaze drifting back to the keep. To the window she knew belonged to the nursery.

Kian followed her line of sight. “She’s safe,” he said, not unkindly.

Scarlett nodded, though the knot in her stomach didn’t loosen.

Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and the dancing. Hair had loosened in the evening breeze, a few errant strands curling against her neck in a way that made his pulse race.

She caught sight of him and her smile changed. It was still bright, but sharper now, like she’d just remembered who she was smiling at.

He closed the distance between them in a few easy strides. “Enjoyin’ yerself?”

“Aye,” she said, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “For once, I’ve nae had to chase after anyone with a ledger or a broom.”

Kian’s mouth quirked. “Give it another hour. Someone’s bound to spill the cider or fight over the last bannock.”

“Ye say that like it’s tradition.”