Page 26 of A Highland Bride Disciplined (Scottish Daddies #2)

K ian woke to the cracking of dying coals and the rasp of boots on stone.

His neck ached where it had lolled against the back of the study chair, and a half-dried smear of ink tugged at the skin of his knuckles where he’d fallen asleep mid-line.

The ledger on the desk still sat open, his scrawl trailing off into nothing.

“Saints above,” came a voice that was as dry as winter. “A man could mistake ye for a corpse sittin’ there.”

Kian blinked into the dim, morning just hinting pale blue beyond the mullioned window. Tam stood in the doorway, arms folded, one eyebrow climbing high under the leather strap of his eyepatch.

Kian sat forward, rolling his shoulders until they popped. “What hour is it?”

“Too late for bed, too early for work,” Tam answered, ever unhelpful. “But if ye’ve the strength for both, I’ll join ye.”

Kian raked a hand over his face, the rough bristle of his jaw reminding him he hadn’t shaved since yesterday morning. “Did ye come to mock, or is there purpose to yer intrusion?”

Tam grinned, all teeth. “A bit o’ both, if I’m honest.”

“Let’s have it then.”

Tam leaned against the study doorframe, one boot crossed over the other, eye glinting with mischief. “Before ye start barkin’ orders, ye should ken Duncan’s returned. Or —” he corrected, lips twitching, “— stumbled in, more like. Smelled like he’d been livin’ inside a whisky barrel.”

Kian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Christ, Tam. Tell me ye’ve lashed him to the stables till he sobers.”

“He’s lashed, aye, though nay thanks to me. Near collapsed on his horse when he rode in. But he brought word… garbled as it was.”

That drew Kian up straight. “Aye?”

Tam nodded. “Heard tell of a lass. Young, alone. Took work in scraps, asked after lodgin’ by the coast road. Had a bairn that she left in the inn whenever she worked, or so the gossip goes. Duncan swears the innkeeper is tellin’ the truth.

Kian stilled. Elise’s mother. A real lead . “And where was this?”

Tam scratched his jaw. “Village by the cliffs. Fisherfolk mostly. Name changes dependin’ on who ye ask, but Duncan swears she was there as recent as nearly a week or so past. Then —” He hesitated, for once weighing his words.

“— says folk tell she went missin’. Some claim she walked the cliff path and never returned. ”

The words struck like ice. Kian’s jaw flexed. “Gossip.”

“Aye. Could be nothin’. Could be truth. Duncan’s nae clever enough to invent it though.”

Kian began pacing, boots dragging lines across the study rug. His chest felt tight, too tight, the memory of Elise’s small weight in his arms pressing at him. “If she’s alive, we find her. If she’s nae, then we’ll find proof. Scarlett deserves that much… Elise deserves that much.”

Tam straightened, sensing the decision had settled. “So. We ride?”

Kian met his gaze, grim. “Aye. We ride. Duncan’s tongue may be loose, but his nose for trouble’s sharp enough. If the lass was seen there, we’ll learn it ourselves. Better truth from me own eyes than rumor carried back on whisky fumes.”

“The men are saddled and waitin’. Thought ye’d want to lead this search yerself,” Tam grinned flourishing his hands feigning ceremony.

That dragged Kian fully awake. He rose, tugging on his coat with brisk motions. “Right, then.”

“Aye. Best afore the village grows busy. Folk are looser-tongued when their bellies are empty,” Tam said, falling into step behind him as they left the study.

The keep was quiet, only the scrape of their boots on stone and the faint bleat of sheep from the far meadow. Dawn hadn’t yet cut the sky. For a moment Kian wondered if Scarlett stirred upstairs, curled protectively around Elise. He pushed the thought down.

By the time they reached the stables, the air bit sharp and cold. Two guards stood ready with bridled horses, stamping and snorting in the chill. Tam swung up with the ease of long practice, while Kian settled into the saddle of his black gelding. The beast pawed once, eager.

They rode hard at first, hooves hammering the frozen earth, mist trailing like smoke in their wake. The glen widened, then narrowed again, leading them toward the next village along the ridge.

Tam whistled low. “Ye ken, I’ve seen ye ride to Edinburgh with less fire than this.”

Kian kept his gaze on the horizon. “Edinburgh is coin and contracts. This —” His jaw tightened. “This is flesh and blood. A bairn’s future.”

Tam said nothing for a while, and Kian was grateful. The wind tore at his cloak, the heather blurred past, and still the unease sat heavy on his chest.

When the roofs of the village finally appeared it was nearly nightfall.

Kian slowed his gelding. The place was no more than a clutch of cottages around a sagging inn, a handful of fishing boats drawn up at the riverbank.

The kind of hamlet where every face was known, and strangers were remembered long after they left.

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.”

“Aye, me as well,” Kian said, standing and walking back downstairs.

“There’s more,” the innkeeper admitted reluctantly as the men started to walk past him. “Day before she vanished, a man came askin’ after her. Big fella. Rode in from the north road. Dinnae give his name. But…” He frowned, trying to recall. “His plaid was green and black. With a white stripe.”

Tam stiffened. Kian’s head snapped toward him. McTavish colors .

The air seemed to thicken. McTavish men did not wander into fishing villages without reason.

“Did he find her?” Kian asked, voice dangerously low.

The innkeeper shook his head quickly. “Nay. She was gone when he came. He left angrier than a kicked bull and near cracked my door off its hinges.”

Kian’s mind spun. Elise’s mother, here, alive, only days ago. A McTavish man looking for her. Then she was gone — whether into the sea or elsewhere.

He stepped closer, looming over the counter. “What else did ye see? Did she say aught to ye? Did she speak of where she came from? Why she traveled alone?”

The innkeeper raised both hands defensively. “Nothin’ more. She was quiet. Kept to herself. Wrote in a wee book, sometimes. Dinnae talk much. That’s all I ken, I swear it.”

Kian studied him a long moment, reading the lines of sweat on the man’s brow, the twitch of his mouth. Truth, or close enough to it.