Page 32 of A Highland Bride Disciplined (Scottish Daddies #2)

T he study door had barely clicked behind him before Kian’s mind started racing again. He sat at his desk, lost in thought.

Tam’s words still nagged, Y e’ll ruin yerself pushin’ her away.

And damn it all, Tam was right.

He rubbed at eyes, then pushed to his feet. There was work piling up, aye, but none of it heavier than the sight of Scarlett this morning, eyes tired, voice nearly breaking as she clutched Elise.

A man could build keeps from stone, strike bargains with lowland merchants, fight raiders off his borders, but he was helpless before the grief of a woman holding a child.

Her grief confused him at first, though. He thought that she would have been thrilled at the decision to keep Elise. He found it almost unbelievable that she would ever think that she would fail.

What would make her believe?

Kian wrenched open the door to the study and walked out purposefully. He’d come up with his plan on the way. It was his duty to have a plan.

His boots muted on stone as he navigated the corridors until he found himself outside her chambers. A sliver of light escaped the crack. He knocked once, then pushed through.

Scarlett sat by the wide window, quill scratching across parchment.

The morning sun painted her hair in fire, each curl gleaming like copper spun fine.

She looked smaller somehow. Her shoulders bowed under a weight he could not lift.

From down the corridor came Elise’s faint cry, a reminder of the life that tethered them both.

Scarlett’s hand stilled. She turned, startled. For a moment her eyes flickered wide as if she hadn’t expected him at all.

Kian cleared his throat. “Ye’ve a moment, Scarlett?” His voice rasped, too rough for the gentleness he meant.

She studied him in silence, then set the quill down. “Always.”

The single word tightened something in his chest. He crossed the room, lowering into the seat across from her. For once, she did not stiffen or scowl. She simply waited.

He braced his forearms on his knees, thumb dragging over the desk edge. Words came heavy as iron. “I’ve been thinkin’. About Elise. About us.”

Her brows arched. She didn’t interrupt, and that unsettled him more than any sharp retort.

“There’ll be questions,” he went on. “From yer kin, from ours. Whispers already run faster than truth. We should face them wi’ strength, nae secrecy.

I mean to hold a hunt. Invite yer family.

A feast after. Elise will be presented proper, under Crawford protection. None will doubt she belongs here.”

Scarlett blinked, lips parting. Her hand drifted over her chest as if to steady her heart. “Say that again.”

Kian leaned closer. “She’s ours in the eyes o’ the keep. And I’ll make sure she’s seen as such by all.”

Relief broke over her face so raw it startled him. A tear slipped down her cheek, unchecked. She let out a shaky laugh, half broken. “Aye. Yes. Thank ye, Kian.”

He shifted, unsettled. He hadn’t sought thanks—hadn’t expected it. It scraped something unguarded in him. “It’s more than showin’ strength,” he said gruffly. “It’s opportunity. The McTavishes will be there.”

At that her shoulders stiffened, the laughter dying. “Why?”

“Because one o’ theirs was askin’ after Nieve afore… afore she was lost.” He exhaled hard, jaw tight. “If there are answers, better they’re spoken at our table.”

Scarlett tapped the desk, once sharp, then again slower. At last she nodded. “So, the feast will be bait.”

“Hospitality,” he corrected, though they both knew better.

Her mouth curved wryly. “Bait wi’ bannocks then. I’ll see to the letters. Maither will nae miss the chance to wag her tongue at ye.”

His jaw ticked at the thought of Astrid Dunlop. “If she does —”

“I’ll handle her,” Scarlett cut in, calm and firm.

Silence followed. Not brittle this time, but full. He found himself watching her fingers curl steady around the quill, already sketching invitations. She wrote this new chapter for them as though she’d always been meant to. And for once, the thought didn’t scrape his pride raw.

A knock rattled the door. Effie poked her head in, curls wild, apron damp. “Pardon, m’lady, but the bairn’s got a hold o’ Morag’s ear and willnae let go — oh.” She spotted Kian and bobbed a curtsey. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Laird. Just thought ye should ken she’s got a grip like a smith.”

Scarlett’s lips twitched, and to his own surprise, Kian almost smiled. “We’ll be there shortly, Effie.”

Effie vanished in a flurry of skirts.

Scarlett chuckled, low. “Elise the Fierce.”

Kian tilted his head. “Fierce bairns make fierce women.” His gaze held hers. “She’ll grow well under ye.”

The compliment surprised her. Her lips parted, ready with a reply, then closed again. A flush rose, soft as dawn, before she bent quickly back to her writing.

Kian sat back, voice deliberately steady. “So we’re agreed. The hunt. The feast. The McTavishes.”

Scarlett’s quill scratched. “We’re agreed.”

And for the second time ever, the words between them did not feel like battle.

Scarlett had not expected his words to linger the way they did.

A hunt. Guests. Her family.

For all his brooding, Kian had surprised her with the suggestion. More than that, he had trusted her to prepare it. Trusted her to bring kin and allies to Crawford and make it more than stone walls and wary silence.

By the time she returned to her chambers, Elise cradled against her shoulder, her thoughts were already racing.

Effie helped her change from her riding gown, clucking about ink stains and dust on the hem, but Scarlett barely heard her.

She sat at her desk before the fire, ordered parchment and quill, and began to write.

Her first letter went to Mabel, of course.

Dearest Sister, she scrawled, the words flowing faster than she could think. Crawford Keep will host a hunt this fortnight. Bring Campbell, the boys, and do not make excuses. I will not take no for an answer.

Her hand stilled at the note.

Should I include something about Elise?

For months Scarlett had led this keep alone, shouldering burdens she had never been trained to carry. But tonight, with ink staining her fingers and Elise asleep in the cradle, she allowed herself the rare gift of anticipation.

Letters went out swiftly after. To her father, formal and precise, as he preferred.

To her mother, a softer note, though Scarlett could already hear the sharp edge of Astrid’s questions about heirs and duty.

To Skylar, she wrote a half-page of sisterly chatter before Effie leaned over her shoulder and whispered, “Best nae mention the laird too much, my lady, or she’ll crow before she’s here.

” Scarlett had laughed, crossed out two lines, and sent it anyway.

Then came the letters to other lairds. A handful only of men and families whose presence would matter, whose alliances might prove useful.

She chose carefully, remembering the endless accounts Kian kept on the trade routes and kinship ties that had bound their clans together.

She wrote of venison feasts, of hounds in the glen, of wine and merriment, painting the picture of a Crawford that was not just rebuilt but thriving.

Effie sealed each with wax, Morag oversaw a lad to deliver them at once, and by nightfall Scarlett sat by the hearth with Elise in her lap, whispering of all that would come.

“Ye’ll have cousins runnin’ through the halls soon,” she murmured into the Elise’s downy hair. “And yer aunt Skylar will likely tell me everythin’ I’m doin’ wrong. But ye’ll have kin, little one. Ye’ll ken ye belong.”

The following day the first responses returned.

Mabel’s came by swift courier, ink blotted where it had been dashed too quickly to dry. We will be there within days. The boys are restless as colts and will not forgive me if I delay. Scarlett laughed aloud reading it, and Effie clapped her hands in glee.

Hamish’s reply was more measured. The MacLennans shall attend. Expect us on the third day. Your mother insists on bringing Skylar. Scarlett folded the letter carefully, her heart tightening at the thought of Astrid’s scrutiny, but she would not let it sour her anticipation.

By evening, answers from two lairds beyond her kin had arrived, both confirming attendance. One even promised to bring an extra hawk for the sport.

Scarlett wasted no time. She gathered Morag, Effie, and half a dozen servants into the great hall and began to issue orders.

Tables to be shifted, rushes laid anew, tapestries dusted.

The buttery needed to be stocked with wine and ale, the kitchens readied for feasts, and guest chambers aired after months of quiet.

“Three hogs, no less,” she declared, ticking through lists with the ease she’d honed these past months. “And see to it that the south orchard’s cider is brought up. Campbell will expect it.”

“Aye, m’lady,” Morag replied, though her raised brows suggested she approved more than she admitted.

Scarlett moved through the keep like a spark on dry straw, her energy igniting those around her.

Effie darted in her wake with fresh ink and parchment, making notes as Scarlett remembered one detail after another.

The servants bustled, the air filled with the scent of baking bread and polish on old wood.

Even the guards straightened at the gates when she passed, their murmured greetings tinged with pride.

And yet, beneath the flurry of preparation, Scarlett felt the familiar tug of doubt. Would it be enough? Would they see me as capable, or as a bride too bold, clinging to a child not our own?

That night, when Elise fussed, Scarlett sat awake long after the babe had fallen asleep again, staring into the fire. She thought of Nieve’s letter. Of the way Kian’s jaw had clenched when he admitted the truth. Of how different he had been with her since.

For the first time, she dared hope.

Perhaps this hunt would not only strengthen their clan’s ties. Perhaps it would prove to her and to everyone that she was not simply holding a place until her laird reclaimed it.

That she belonged, and that Elise belonged with her.

“And everyone will ken it soon enough, sweet one,” she murmured into the child’s hair. A small hand drifted up and weaved into her hair possessively.

Everyone.

By the time dawn came, Scarlett rose with a purpose that steadied her more than sleep could. The hunt would be held. Her kin would come. And she, Lady Crawford, would meet them not as a frightened bride, but as mistress of this keep.