Page 30 of A Highland Bride Disciplined (Scottish Daddies #2)

T he nursery door was ajar when she walked by, a sliver of warmth spilling out. Inside, Scarlett found Elise swaddled and fussing in Effie’s arms while the new nursemaid hummed low in the background, adjusting a basket of linens by the fire.

Effie’s cheeks were pink with the effort of rocking and cooing. “Och, milady, she’s a sprightly one this morn. Kicked off her blanket twice already!”

The nursemaid gave a polite bob of her head. Efficient and calm. Every movement she made was quiet and competent, as if she had been born to mind children. Effie, on the other hand, looked like she was juggling an eel.

Scarlett tried to smile but it faltered. Her chest was still heavy with yesterday’s truth. Elise’s mother, gone. Nieve. The face of the girl on the roadside haunted her even now. Scarlett couldn’t push it away, no matter how she tried.

She crossed the room, bent, and pressed a kiss to Elise’s warm crown. The baby’s little fist stretched open as though to grasp her chin, then curled back into Effie’s sleeve. Scarlett lingered, letting herself breathe in that innocent scent, before stepping back.

“I’ll return shortly,” she murmured, her voice too even. “See to her bath in the meantime.”

Effie nodded brightly, though her smile wobbled with uncertainty. “Aye, m’lady.”

Back in her chamber, Scarlett found a steaming tub waiting. Effie must have stoked the fire before dawn. The steam curled against the air, sweetened faintly with rosemary sprigs.

Scarlett loosened her gown and let it fall, slipping into the water with a sigh. The warmth should have eased her, but her body felt like stone. She dipped beneath the surface, holding there until her lungs burned, before coming up and dragging her hair back from her face.

Her mind circled the same jagged thoughts.

Nieve had trusted them. Had written that letter with trembling hands, believing Scarlett and Kian would do what she could not.

Scarlett pressed her palms over her eyes. The ifs piled high until they crushed her. And beneath them all lurked something darker. A new fear.

From the first night Elise had been laid in her arms, a quiet voice had whispered: Ye’re nae meant for this. Ye’ve nay milk, nay training, nay right. The voice had only grown louder since.

She was Lady Crawford, but could she be a mother? Nieve had carried Elise in her womb, and had given birth to her. What claim did Scarlett have, truly, save for chance and circumstance?

What if I failed her? What if Elise grew up wanting something Scarlett could never give? What if I am only ever a pale imitation of what a maither should be?

The thoughts hollowed her out. She sank lower in the water, letting the heat lick her skin until it stung.

The clang of steel rang sharp in the morning air. Kian’s blade met Tam’s with a crack that reverberated up his arm. He twisted, drove forward, but Tam was quicker than he looked, pivoting on his heel and slamming the flat of his sword against Kian’s guard.

“Ye’re swingin’ like a man possessed,” Tam grunted, eyes narrowing. Sweat already darkened the collar of his tunic.

“Better than brooding in a chair,” Kian snapped, shoving him back a pace and circling.

The training yard was still damp with dew, the sun only just cresting the far ridge.

The walls of Crawford Keep threw long shadows across the packed dirt, and the air bit sharp with cold.

A handful of guards had gathered near the fence, pretending not to watch, but Kian ignored them.

He needed the fight. He needed the sting of muscle, the burn of his lungs.

Anything but the memory of Scarlett’s tears, the way her shoulders had crumpled under the weight of that cursed letter.

Tam swung again. Kian ducked, drove his shoulder into the man’s ribs, and they grappled, blades forgotten for the moment. The thud of their boots on the dirt echoed against the stone.

“Yer wife’ll nae thank ye if ye break yer back before breakfast,” Tam wheezed, shoving him off.

“She’ll nae thank me anyway,” Kian muttered, stooping for his sword.

Tam straightened slowly, wiping his forearm across his brow. “So that’s what this is, eh? Ye’re wearin’ yerself out ‘cause Scarlett wept.”

Kian froze, jaw clenching. His grip on the hilt tightened until the leather creaked. “She’s nae weak,” he ground out.

“I dinnae say she was.” Tam tilted his head, studying him with that infuriating calm. “I said she wept. And ye dinnae ken what to do wi’ it.”

Kian’s stomach knotted. He charged forward, steel flashing, and Tam barely raised his guard in time. They clashed, locked hilts, sweat dripping from their brows.

“It’s nae the tears,” Kian hissed, forcing Tam back. “It’s what they mean. She blames herself. Thinks she could’ve saved that lass. Thinks she’ll fail the bairn.”

“And ye?” Tam pushed back hard, their blades screeching. “What do ye think?”

The question cut sharper than any steel.

Kian wrenched free, striking again, his movements wild enough to draw a startled glance from one of the guards on the rail.

He didn’t answer. Not when every time he closed his eyes he saw Scarlett’s face as she whispered Nieve’s name, broken as if her heart had split down the middle.

Tam parried, then deliberately dropped his blade into the dirt. Kian stumbled a half-step, caught off guard, and Tam’s fist thudded into his chest hard enough to knock the breath from him.

“Bloody hell, Tam!”

“Yer fighting like a madman,” Tam said flatly. He bent, retrieved his blade, and rested it against his shoulder. “And that truth is simple. Ye cannae mend what’s already broken. The lass is dead. But the ones left still need ye.”

Kian stood heaving, chest rising and falling like bellows. The sting of the blow throbbed in his ribs, but the words cut deeper.

“She says she’ll nae let Elise go,” Kian admitted at last, low, rough. “That she’ll fight me if I try. And God help me, Tam, when she said it, I believed her.”

Tam’s mouth twitched, something like amusement sparking in his good eye. “Aye. Scarlett’s got more steel in her than half the men out here.”

“This isnae jest,” Kian snapped.

“And I’m nae jestin’,” Tam said, calm as a priest. “Ye’ve built this clan on yer back, aye. But dinnae think ye’ll shoulder this alone. Scarlett’s proved she’s as much Crawford as any of us. Ye ken it. The men ken it. Even Morag ken it.”

Kian shook his head, pacing to the edge of the yard. His boots crunched over frost-bitten grass. He braced his palms on the fence rail, staring out at the rolling hills beyond. “But I should be in control. She makes me hesitate. Makes me… softer.”

Tam chuckled. “Hesitation’s nae weakness, Kian. It’s care. And care’s what keeps a blade from cuttin’ too deep.”

Kian turned, scowl set deep. “Since when are ye the philosopher?”

“Since watchin’ ye stumble about like a lad with his first kiss,” Tam shot back, grin crooked. “Face it, m’laird. Ye’re nae fightin’ Scarlett. Ye’re fightin’ yerself. The part that still thinks feelin’ makes ye weak.”

Kian’s fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Tam he was wrong. But the words stuck.

He remembered Scarlett’s head bowed over the letter, tears blotting the ink. The way her hands had trembled when she reached for him, and the way his own chest had ached to take the pain from her.

Softness. Hesitation. Weakness.

Or something else entirely.

Tam stepped closer, dropping his blade into the dirt once more. His voice softened. “Ye’ll nae lose yerself by lettin’ her in, Kian. Ye’ll just find out who ye are wi’ her beside ye. And maybe that’s what scares ye most.”

Kian stared at him, the words settling heavy in his chest.

Tam grinned suddenly, breaking the moment. “Besides, better her than Morag. Can ye imagine spendin’ yer nights tangled wi’ that dragon?”

One of the guards snorted laughter, earning a glower from Kian. But even he couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching.

He bent, picked up his sword, and sheathed it. The fight had bled some of the restlessness from his veins, though not the unease. That would linger. Still, Tam’s words hung like a torch in the dark.

When Scarlett returned to the nursery, Effie and Morag were both bent over the tub.

Elise’s shrieks bounced off the walls as the women tried, and failed, to keep her content in the water.

Effie was flustered, Morag was stern, and Elise was red as a boiled beet, tiny fists flailing as though waging war.

“Stop wringin’ the cloth like ye’re milkin’ a cow!” Morag barked, snatching the flannel from Effie’s hands. “The bairn’s nae a sheep to be scrubbed raw.”

“I wasnae scrubbing! I was dabbin’—och, hush, wee one, hush,” Effie pleaded, her face redder than Elise’s.

Scarlett leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, but her heart was elsewhere. Their voices reached her ears like sounds from underwater. Elise’s cries pierced, but even those felt distant.

Morag caught her standing there and narrowed her eyes. “Well, daenae just hover, m’lady. Come and soothe her, else she’ll screech the roof off.”

Scarlett stepped forward, but it was like moving through fog. She lifted Elise from the water, bundled her in the towel Morag thrust at her, and pressed her to her chest. The baby’s cries softened but didn’t fade, her tiny body heaving against Scarlett’s.

Effie smiled nervously. “See? She likes ye best. Always does.”

Scarlett tried to answer, but her throat closed. She rocked Elise gently, her mind far from the nursery. Nieve’s voice seemed to echo in the chamber, words from the letter replaying, though she wished she could forget. Elise’s tiny weight in her arms was both balm and blade.

Morag’s sharp eyes softened for the briefest moment. “Ye’ve the look of a lass buried under ghosts, Lady Crawford. Best ye shake it off.”

Scarlett gave a faint nod but said nothing.

Effie tried next, her usual cheer dimmed. “She’s here, m’lady. She’s wi’ us. That’s what matters.”