Page 46 of A Highland Bride Disciplined (Scottish Daddies #2)

C rawford Keep breathed easy again.

The scaffolds had come down that morning, and the patched stone over the gatehouse looked almost smug in the sun. The singe on the east wall had been scrubbed to a pale ghost of a mark.

In the yard, convalescent guards leaned on the low wall and argued amiably about who’d felled more men, each story growing taller with every retelling.

Fresh rushes sweetened the halls. The smith’s hammer had returned to its everyday rhythm.

It was no longer a battle drum, just the honest music of work.

Kian stood at his study window and let it all soak through him.

He should have gone straight to the ledgers.

But there was a different hum in the keep today.

It was a low, steady current that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with life.

Somewhere down the corridor, a baby laughed, and the sound ran a clean line through his chest.

A knock. Two raps, deliberate.

“Enter,” he said.

Tam shouldered in, wind-chapped and smelling of peat and horse. “Messenger out o’ Glen Tulla,” he reported, holding up a leather satchel. “Rode under the banner o’ truce. Wore McTavish colors clear as the day is bright.”

Kian’s gaze caught on the wax seal pressed in black — a stag rampant over crossed fir boughs. Mourning ribbon, too. He took the packet, thumbed the weight of it.

“Ye want me t’ linger?” Tam asked, already dragging a chair with his boot.

“Shut the door and sit.” Kian broke the seal.

Inside lay a folded letter on good vellum and, beneath it, a small, wrapped parcel tied with green-and-amber twine. He set the parcel aside for the moment and flattened the letter on the desk. The hand was old-fashioned but firm.

He read aloud at first, “To Kian Murray, Laird of Crawford clan —” He skimmed ahead for a moment and then Kian’s eyes met Tam’s just briefly enough to dismiss the man silently.

Kian continued to read as Tam slid out of the study without another sound.

I write in grief and in shame. Word reached me by your rider, and by the body you sent home with the care due to a fallen man, that my youngest son, Roderick, came to you under false cause and compounded those lies with violence and insult beneath your roof.

I can give you no excuse for him. He was of my blood. But his choices were his own.

Kian breathed in deeply and read on.

You speak in your letter of a kitchen maid once in my household, Nieve O’Brien, and of a bairn left at your gate.

I am made to understand that my son wronged the lass grievously and sought to wrest the child from your keeping by force.

If there is a rot in my house that allowed such conduct to flourish, I will cut it out to the root.

The captain who lent my guard to Roderick on his private errand is stripped of rank and awaiting judgment.

Men who followed, knowing the errand was not of clan duty, will answer for it.

A heavy sense of those men’s fates weight heavily across Kian’s shoulders. He rolled them, then stretched his neck back and forth. This note was written with care, and he knew to afford the man all of the respect that was due. He lost a son after all…

You returned my son to me for burial when you might have left him to hard earth. For that, I thank you, man to man, father to father. There will be no vengeance from McTavish for what passed at Crawford Keep. My son came as an enemy and fell as one. I set my seal to that.

As to the child, you write that she is called Elise, and that the mother desired that she be kept in your care. I grieve that I did not know of the lass’s burden sooner. I grieve that a woman under my roof was made desperate. If I could undo it, I would. Failing that, I will honor her last wish.

Kian’s heart raced as his eyes tore across the page, devouring every single word as quickly as possible.

Let the bairn be reared at Crawford Keep with your lady, as the mother wished.

I will not contest it now or hereafter. If you would have me stand as sponsor at her christening, say the word and I will come under the banner of truce and without sword.

If not, I shall send the child’s portion by your steward each Martinmas — coin enough for a dowry or schooling as you deem fit, and grain against a poor harvest.

Know also: my roads and passes are open to your messengers; my men have order to treat Crawford colors as friend. Should harm ever threaten the child on my lands, she will be shielded as my own.

I enclose a small token. It is fine cloth woven by the women of my house in our colors, to wrap the lass when winter sets in. It is not a claim. It is contrition.

Kian read the final part out loud, the words running into each other as they rolled off of the page as rapidly as possible, “If trade serves us both, I would speak of it when time is decent.

Timber from our northern slopes for your cooperage.

Barley. Beeswax. In exchange for whiskey we cannot match.

Let what was born in ashes end as alliance, not feud.

By my hand,

Euan McTavish, Laird of McTavish

Under seal at Dun Ruadh, the seventh day since your messenger rode…” he flipped the parchment over and continued.

“Postscript. There are hotheads yet who swore to my son and think honor means shouting. I am cooling them as quick as the law allows. Keep a watch to your south pass for a fortnight, then ease your guard.”

Kian let his hand drop to his side for just a moment before he lifted it and read the letter again, and then a third time, letting each line settle in its place.

The first feeling that moved through him was not triumph. It was a tired sort of sorrow. Sorrow for a father forced to bury a son and write this kind of letter. For a girl in a kitchen who’d needed help and hadn’t gotten it in time. For the shameful waste of it all.

But beneath that, quieter, came relief. The kind that loosened the jaw you’d kept clenched for days. No vengeance. No claim. Just a hand offered, even if it trembled.

He picked up the little parcel next, and loosened the twine.

Inside lay a shawl no bigger than Kian’s palm, fine as spider silk, light but warm to the touch.

It was McTavish colors, as promised, green and amber worked in a careful check, the edges hemmed by someone with patient fingers.

A grandmother’s work, Kian thought, though he didn’t know if McTavish had a living wife.

He imagined the old laird sitting at a long table with ink-stained fingers while a woman at the far hearth sewed, both trying to make sense of the hole Roderick had left.

Tam knocked once, and peeked his head into the room. “Well?”

Kian snorted despite himself and set the cloth down as if it were something sacred. “An alliance.” He said simply, pressing a finger to the parchment. “On his word. We’ll double the watch on the south pass for a fortnight, then rotate light.”

“Aye,” Tam said, without even the hint of a question in his response, and stepped into the room fully letting the door close behind him.

“And we’ll be sendin’ thanks to Muir and MacLennan for standing with us. Barrels to each. Tell Campbell he’s to return the casks for refilling or I’ll charge him double.”

“Aye, I’ll take care of it.” Tam said. “And the men?”

“We ease the alert, not the drills,” Kian said. “Nay victory parades. We’ve work enough. Send word to the parson. We’ll set a christening. McTavish means to sponsor, and I’ll have it under truce and under every saint we can name. Nay swords, nae even for show.”

Tam hooked a thumb toward the door. “Ye’ll tell Lady Scarlett yerself?”

Kian looked once more at the shawl. The thought of it around Elise’s small shoulders made his throat go tight. “Aye.”

He felt the shape of a reply forming as he spoke. It would be brief, and clean, Your letter received. Your son returned. Your contrition noted. The child is safe.

He would send out about the offer of trade, too, when the time was decent. Shared patrols on the ridge line come spring. Beeswax for the chapel candles. Timber for the coopers. If they could twist a feud into a market, the Highlands might sleep easier.

“Tam,” he added, and the big man paused, hand on the latch. “Good work. All of it.”

Tam’s mouth did a quick, surprised thing, almost a smile. “Go see yer lass and the bairn before Morag catches ye at the desk and sets ye to dusting.”

When the door shut, the study felt suddenly larger.

Kian set the letter on the corner of the desk and rested his palms beside it.

For years, he’d believed safety came only by his hand tightening.

He’d been right, in part. But this past week had taught him what all his ledgers hadn’t — sometimes the thing that held best was the thing you didn’t choke.

He tuned his ears beyond the fire, beyond the distant clang of hammer and anvil, and found the quiet he wanted. Scarlett’s laugh floated faintly down the corridor from the nursery, rich as the whiskey aging in their casks. The bairn answered with a string of nonsense that sounded nearly like words.

He slipped the shawl into his pocket, careful not to crease it, and took up a fresh sheet of paper. The pen hovered. He wrote the salutation and the first line.

Your letter has been received — he started then stopped.

This could wait an hour.

He stood abruptly, and left the reply uncapped before he strode through the study, and down the hall.

He paused on the threshold a heartbeat to take them in. Scarlett stood by the window with the afternoon light caught in her hair, and Elise babbled playfully against her shoulder.

Kian sat quietly so as to not interrupt them. He sat and watched.

The nursery was warmer than usual, though Scarlett couldn’t tell if it was the fire, the midday sun spilling in through the high window, or the shawl of nerves she’d wrapped around herself all morning.

Elise cooed against her shoulder, tugging at a loose curl as though the bairn sensed her mother’s restless mind.

Kian sat nearby, a folded parchment in his hand, his jaw clenching in thought. When his gaze lifted, he caught her watching him, and instead of speaking he offered the letter.

“From McTavish,” he said.

Her stomach knotted, but she took it, smoothing the vellum flat with careful fingers. Kian leaned back, arms crossed, waiting.

She read in silence. Each line twisted and unknotted her chest. McTavish condemned Roderick’s actions, returned thanks for his son’s burial, admitted his shame.

And then, the part that made her throat close, he wrote that he wished for Elise to remain here at Crawford, as Nieve had wished.

That they were to raise her. That he would honor the choice of the bairn’s mother.

Scarlett read the passage twice, then a third time, her lips moving without sound. She barely noticed Morag entering until the woman harrumphed loudly.

“Too warm in here by half,” Morag scolded, bustling toward the window. She tugged the shutter open, letting in a wash of cool air. “Child’ll sweat herself raw if ye keep her bundled like a Christmas goose.”

Scarlett blinked, startled back to the room. Elise gurgled in response, as though to agree.

Morag turned next to the hearth, poked the fire with unnecessary vigor, then adjusted the lamp wick until its glow softened. “Light’s poor too. Nay wonder yer eyes are squintin’. Where’s Effie gone off to?”

Kian, lounging in his chair like a cat who’d swallowed something smug, only quirked a brow. He didn’t answer.

Scarlett bent over the letter again, suddenly very intent on rereading the bit about beeswax and barley.

That was when Effie peeked in through the door, her cheeks pink, her hair a little mussed. Tam loomed behind her, broad shoulders filling the frame, his one good eye sharp as ever.

“Well,” Morag declared, crossing her arms with satisfaction, eyeing the two of them presumptively. “It’s about time.”

Effie froze, mortification blooming crimson across her face. Tam scowled. “Shut it, woman,” he warned, his voice low enough to rattle the shutters.

For one beat, the room was stiff with silence.

Then laughter cracked it wide open. Scarlett giggled helplessly into her hand, Kian’s deep chuckle rumbled beside her, even Effie half-snorted despite herself.

Morag sniffed, pretending innocence, and Elise squealed at the noise as if she’d joined the joke.

The bairn kicked her heels, her little mouth working around a sound that made everyone fall still.

“Da,” she chirped.

Scarlett’s heart jumped. She looked at Kian in disbelief, who had already straightened, chest swelling with pride.

“Da,” Elise repeated, delighted with herself, and patted her father’s jaw with sticky fingers.

“Of course,” Scarlett muttered, her voice sharp though her lips twitched. “Unfair, that is. Plain unfair. I’ve carried her, fed her, sang her to sleep, and her first word is da ?”

Kian grinned, wicked as a fox. “Cannae blame the lass. I’ve made her laugh more. I deserve this. That’s just plain fact.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes, though the warmth in her chest belied the scowl. “I’ll nae hear the end of it now, will I?”

“Never,” he agreed cheerfully.

Scarlett sighed dramatically, shifting Elise in her arms, then looked back at her husband. His smile softened, losing the edge of jest, and she felt her throat tighten once more with something fierce and tender all at once.

Kian leaned in, brushing his lips over hers. It was simple. Steady.

Scarlett kissed him back, letting Elise’s little hand press between their cheeks, the bairn’s giggle tangled in their breath.

The letter from McTavish lay open on the table. The fire crackled low. And for the first time in too many days, Scarlett let herself truly believe their family was whole.