Page 1 of A Highland Healer Captured (Scottish Daddies #3)

“ S kylar, for heaven’s sake, ye eat like a farmhand! Would it kill ye to take a ladylike bite?” Astrid Dunlop’s nagging voice pierced through the sounds of the storm.

Skylar continued to shovel broth into her mouth, and then swallowed noisily and grinned. “If I ate like a lady, Maither I’d starve. And if I starve, who’s going to cure all the coughs, colic, and festering boils of the glen?”

Her mother’s brows shot toward the rafters. “A daughter of mine ought to speak of embroidery, nae boils.”

“Embroidery never saved anyone from dying of fever, maither,” Skylar said cheerfully, dunking her bread so aggressively the broth sloshed onto the table.

Her mother gasped. “Ye’ll ruin the linens!”

Her father choked on his ale, shoulders shaking, beard hiding his grin. “Och, Astrid, linens wash. Lasses do as they’re made to do, and this one’s made for healing, nae dainty nibbling.”

“That tongue will scare off every decent suitor,” Astrid huffed, stabbing at her roasted carrots. “Mark me, Skylar, nay man wants a wife who speaks of boils at table.”

“Nay decent suitor, aye,” Skylar said sweetly. “But perhaps a very indecent one.”

Hamish Dunlop roared with laughter, the fire spitting with him.

While his wife pressed a hand to her forehead as if she prayed for deliverance from the very child she’d birthed.

Laird and Lady MacLennan together were a formidable pairing.

Astrid had been every inch propriety, and Hamish was every bit indulgence, but even they struggled to tame their youngest daughter’s wild spirit.

The thunder cracked just then, the shutters rattling, and for a heartbeat Skylar wondered if even the storm had decided to join her mother’s side.

Dinner trudged on in the same fashion it usually did.

Astrid sharpening her tongue on Skylar’s every movement, Skylar parrying with cheek and wit, and Hamish playing the weary but amused judge.

The hall smelled of peat smoke and rosemary, and the hounds lay sprawled near the hearth, twitching in their dreams.

Astrid leaned forward now, eyes glinting. “Scarlett had married by yer age. Mabel too. Both settled, both respected. One is Lady Crawford, the other runs the keep at Muir. And then there’s ye…” she waved a hand at her daughter’s hearty eating, “…ye sit here devouring broth like a ravenous beast!”

“I am ravenous,” Skylar said, licking the last of the bread’s broth from her thumb. “I’ve been away at births and sickbeds since dawn. If ye’d like me to faint prettily into the soup tureen, I’ll happily oblige. Perhaps it would make me more marriageable.”

Astrid’s nostrils flared. “Marriageable. That’s exactly the word ye should be thinking on.”

Skylar groaned. “Mam, ye’ve been reminding me of me duty since I had ribbons in me hair. If suitors truly wished for me, they’d have come knocking already.”

“They have knocked,” Astrid snapped. “Ye’ve turned every single one away. What of young Ewan Fraser? A fine lad, with lands of his own.”

“He fainted at the sight of blood,” Skylar said solemnly. “Collapsed into me lap when I pulled a splinter from his hand. Do ye truly want me bound to a man who swoons every time I fetch out a needle?”

Hamish laughed so hard he had to mop his beard with his napkin. Astrid ignored him.

“Then there was Laird MacCulloch’s son,” she pressed on.

Skylar nearly gagged on her broth. “The one who asked if I could read ?”

“Aye, a reasonable question —”

“Mam, the lad didnae ken the difference between a poultice and a pudding. He thought mint leaves were for garnishing a roast. If I’d married him, I’d have buried him inside a fortnight after his first indigestion.”

Astrid looked skyward, as though praying for patience. “Ye must stop holding men to the standard of yer herbs.”

“Better me herbs than their tempers,” Skylar shot back.

Hamish reached across, setting his heavy hand over hers. “Skylar,” he said gently, “yer mam only wishes to see ye safe and protected. She kens what the world demands.”

“And I ken what the world needs,” Skylar replied, softer now, though the fire still snapped in her eyes. “It needs someone who’ll show up when a fever strikes, nae someone who can sit at table and nibble politely while folk die in their beds.”

Her mother sniffed, unimpressed. “Ye speak like some saint sent to save the Highlands.”

“And why nae?” Skylar spread her arms wide in mock grandeur. “Saint Skylar, patron of boils, coughs, and split trousers.”

Hamish bellowed again, and even Astrid had to hide a reluctant smile behind her napkin.

The storm rattled the shutters. Skylar smirked, but the sound cut through their laughter like a warning. It was a reminder that the night wasn’t as safe as the fire made it seem.

She tore another hunk of bread and dunked it deep into her broth, defiantly loud. “If the good Lord intended me for quiet eating, He wouldnae have given me teeth.”

Astrid threw up her hands. “He gave ye a sharp tongue too, mayhap sharper than is wise. I only hope some man finds it charming before I’m too dead to care.”

Skylar leaned back with a grin. “Daenae fash, Mam. If nay man claims me, I’ll claim meself. And I’ll still have me herbs for company.”

Her mother sighed so deeply it stirred the candle flames. Hamish only smiled, eyes warm as he looked at his youngest daughter. She was the apple of his eye, spunky and stubborn, and as untamable as the storm thundering outside.

If anything, the storm had grown bolder, hurling buckets of rain at the shutters as though it wished to join the family quarrel in the hall. Skylar scraped the bottom of her bowl for the last carrot, determined to enjoy it before her mother found a fresh reason to scold.

Astrid lamented, “Yer sisters never gave me this much grief, and look how well married they are —”

The hall doors banged open hard enough to shake the rafters.

“What in God’s bleeding name?” Skylar said, standing from her chair to see the cause of the noise.

A messenger stumbled in, hair plastered, cloak soaked, chest heaving. He clutched a leather case like it held his very life.

Hamish stood at once, the way a laird did when danger, or news, pressed into his hall. “What brings ye out in this storm, lad?”

The boy dropped to one knee, holding out the case. “Beggin’ pardon, me Laird. I’ve an urgent letter. From yer sister.”

The air shifted in an instant. Astrid’s hand flew to her cover her chest in surprise, her mouth thinned and brow knit together tightly. Hamish broke the seal with his thumb, eyes running quick over the lines. His face was always steady as stone, but Skylar watched as it faltered and fell.

Her spoon slipped into her bowl, forgotten. “What is it?”

Hamish glanced at her. “It’s Ariella.”

Her heart clenched so tight she felt dizzy. “Ariella?”

“Yer cousin has taken fever.” His voice had gone lower, heavier. “Three days running, hard breathing. The village healer’s to a birthing. The priest has prayed, but…” He folded the letter, pressing it closed with his palm. “They ask for ye, Skylar.”

She was around the table before she knew it, letter in hand, and eyes furiously assessing the contents.

“I’ll ride tonight,” she said, placing the letter on the table.

Astrid gasped. “Tonight? In this ?” She gestured sharply at the storm. “The ford will be a raging torrent. Ye’ll drown yerself before ye reach the far bank! Hamish! Please?”

“Better I drown trying than do nothin’ while Ariella burns alive,” Skylar shot back, voice hot and sharp. “Ye didnae read the letter, Mam. It reeks of desperation. I ken what a fever unchecked can do.”

Hamish set the letter on the board, slow and deliberate. “Ye’ll ride when it’s safe.”

“When she’s dead ?” The words slipped out raw before Skylar could bite them back.

Astrid gasped again. Clearly hurt. Hamish’s eyes narrowed, not with anger, but with the kind of iron patience that had carried him through battles and clan councils alike. “Ye’ll nae speak death into this hall, lass.”

Skylar bit her lip hard, guilt sparking beneath her temper. “Forgive me. But Da — Ariella needs me. Now.”

“She’ll need ye more alive than drowned,” Hamish said. “The ford’ll be impassable in the morning. Even then, I’ll nae have ye ride alone. We’ll send Ioan ahead, and ye’ll follow with a proper escort, when the worst has blown through.”

“That’s days,” Skylar argued. “A fever steals hours, not days. She might nae have that long.”

“A fever steals nothin’ God does nae measure,” Astrid said firmly, though her voice wavered at the edges.

Skylar rounded on her. “Would ye sit here if it were Scarlett on that bed? Or Mabel? Or me?”

Astrid’s lips parted, her face paling. “Daenae put such thoughts in me mouth.”

“Then daenae stop me from putting breath back in Ariella’s.” Skylar turned to her father again, pleading. “Da, please . Ye ken what I can do. If I reach her tonight —”

“Ye’ll break yer neck in the crossing.” Hamish’s voice rose, just slightly, the way it did when he was done hearing the same argument three times. “I’ve hauled men from rivers before, Skylar. I’ll nae haul me own daughter’s body from the stones because she thought herself wiser than the storm.”

Skylar’s throat tightened, fury coursing through her veins. She wanted to stamp her foot like a child, to scream that she was no weakling to be coddled. But the sight of her father’s set and grim face, the lines deeper than usual, halted her tongue. He would not bend, not tonight.

Astrid, seizing the silence, pressed forward. “At dawn, ye’ll have proper riders at yer side. Supplies, dry clothes, food in yer saddlebag. Ye’ll go as a Dunlop, nae a mad lass galloping into a flood.”

Skylar’s hands fisted in her skirts. “At dawn,” she repeated, hollow as a church bell.

Hamish softened then, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Aye. At dawn. With me blessing. That’s the best I can give.”