Page 10 of A Highland Healer Captured (Scottish Daddies #3)

Z ander leaned against the edge of his desk, hands braced wide, staring down at the maps spread before him.

The ink bled faintly where damp had touched it, curling at the corners.

He hadn’t noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere…

down the corridor, in the solar, where a MacLennan witch crouched over his boy.

Mason’s voice broke the silence. “Ye’ve stirred a hornet’s nest, Zan.”

Zander lifted his eyes. His oldest friend lounged in a chair, boots crossed at the ankles, looking for all the world as if they were discussing sheep, not war. But there was steel under his calm.

“They’ll be sharper than hornets,” Mason went on. “Crawford. Muir. MacLennan. Ye ken they’ll come rattling at yer gates once word gets out ye stole their lass.”

“I daenae care if the whole Highlands rattle at me gates,” Zander said flatly. “So long as Grayson breathes.”

Mason tilted his head. “And if they bring fire with them?”

Zander’s hands clenched the edge of the desk. “Then we put it out.”

Silence stretched. The fire crackled.

Mason leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I ken what ye’re feeling. But ye’re pacing the cliff’s edge, man. Kidnapping a laird’s daughter isnae a move ye can simply talk yer way out of.”

Zander’s chest ached. “Would ye have me watch him waste away? Another week, maybe two, and I’ll be carrying him to the kirkyard. I’ll nae do it. Nae again.”

Mason’s gaze softened. “Nay. I wouldnae ask it of ye.”

The old guilt pressed heavier. His wife’s body shielding their son, his own too-late hands dragging them apart. Every choice since had been a penance. He’d razed clans, spilled blood, broken oaths. But still he woke in the dark, hearing her last breath.

He straightened, shoving the memory back where it belonged. “I’ll cross the bridge with MacLennan when I must. Until then, the MacLennan lass stays.”

Mason blew out a long breath, then grinned faintly. “Then may God help her. She’s got more fire than ten men, that one. Ye’ll nae keep her chained easy.”

“I daenae need her chained,” Zander said. “I need her hands on me son.”

A knock interrupted them. Zander’s head lifted, his temper sparking.

“Enter,” he barked.

The door creaked, and Cora slipped in. Her dark hair was neatly braided, her expression bright as she bobbed a quick curtsy. “Welcome home, Zan. I heard the commotion. They say ye’ve brought someone back with ye.”

Zander sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Ye hear everything too quickly, Cora.”

She smiled sweetly. “Nae everything . Only what yer men let slip.” Her eyes sharpened, curious and anxious. “She’s to help.”

“Aye.”

Relief shone across her face, genuine enough to ease Zander’s tight shoulders. “Thank God,” she breathed.

In that moment, he wasn’t sure if Cora was speaking about Grayson fully, or him. Even at seventeen, she had a funny way of speaking in riddles sometimes. Zander reckoned that he got it from her brother, perhaps.

Zander forced his voice back to command. “Take her through the healing rooms tomorrow. Show her the apothecary, the stores. Whatever herbs, salves, or supplies we have, she’s to see them. Anything she needs, she’ll have.”

Cora bobbed her head again a sheepish smile spreading across her lips. “Of course. I’ll see to it.”

“Ye’ve already met her?”

“Somewhat.”

Zander’s eyes slid to Mason. “Ye’ll follow her. Make sure she doesnae try to slip a knife between our ribs while she’s at it.”

Mason’s brow arched. “So, a nursemaid and a jailer, is it? She’ll be thrilled.”

Zander ignored the quip, turning back to his maps. “Can ye bring her to me just now?”

“Aye, I’ll fetch’er then.”

His chest felt hollow. He had secured the healer, faced down his council, silenced his doubts. But all he could do now was wait, and pray that God himself worked through Skylar Dunlop’s hands.

Cora sat in her favorite chair in the corner, picked out her favorite novel, and melted away into the shadow.

Mason brought her to him just past dusk. Zander had been waiting, hands braced on the edge of his desk, a half-read letter spread beneath his palms. He hadn’t read a word in the last quarter hour.

The door opened. Mason’s voice rumbled, “The lass.”

“Leave us,” Zander said without lifting his eyes.

A beat of hesitation, then the door closed again. He heard Mason’s tread fade down the corridor. Silence stretched, and then her voice was sharp as ever.

“Do ye always order folk about like hounds?”

Zander finally looked at her. She stood near the hearth, arms crossed tight, chin lifted as if daring him to strike her down for her insolence.

“Do ye always bare yer teeth like a cat?” he countered.

Her lips parted as though to snap back, but then her gaze flicked to the far corner. He followed it.

Cora .

The girl lingered half in shadow, perched on a low stool with her skirts neatly arranged. She hadn’t stirred since Skylar entered, though her eyes followed with keen interest.

“Ye’ve met,” Zander said, watching Skylar.

“Aye,” she answered carefully. “Briefly. But nay names were given.”

“Then I’ll remedy it.” He gestured toward the girl. “This is Cora Hughes. She keeps the surgery and the apothecary. She’ll see ye from yer chambers come morning.”

Cora rose with quiet grace, dipping her head. “It’ll be me pleasure, mistress. The halls twist here. I’ll show ye the way.”

Skylar’s voice softened a fraction. “Thank ye. The surgery is well-kept.”

Cora smiled faintly, then slipped out the door, silent as she’d come.

When it shut, Zander was left with Skylar alone again. He felt the air change. He forced himself behind his desk, gesturing to the chair opposite. “Sit.”

She scowled. “I prefer to stand.”

His brows lifted. “I insist.”

She sighed and flung herself onto the edge of the seat, muttering, “What now? Another lecture on how clever ye are for kidnapping me?”

He ignored her jibe. Instead he drew a sheet of parchment forward, placed a quill atop it, and set the inkwell within her reach. “Ye’ll write to yer family.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“Ye’ll tell them ye’ve arrived at yer destination. That ye’re well. That ye’re occupied. Nothin’ more.”

“Ye’d have me lie to them?”

He met her glare steadily. “Or let them believe ye’re dead in a ditch. Choose.”

Her jaw clenched, but at last she dipped the quill.

Zander watched her work, watched the furrow form between her brows, the quick flick of her eyes as she weighed each word. He knew that look. He knew it from council chambers and from enemies across the field. It was the look of someone planning a game inside a game.

When she slid the page aside, he caught it up at once. His eyes scanned the lines.

She’d written cleverly. Too cleverly. Phrases chosen for double meanings, half-hints tucked like blades in folds of cloth. Her kin would read them and smell danger. That was her aim.

Good lass.

Zander smiled but his hand closed around the parchment, crushing it to a ball.

Her eyes flared, outrage sparking. “Ye bastard! That was me one chance —”

He was already moving, heat roaring in his veins. In two strides he rounded the desk and caught her chin in his hand, her body half out of the chair, forcing her to look up at him.

She spat venom through her gritted teeth.

“Daenae,” he growled.

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t look away.

Saints, those eyes — furious and unyielding.

She trembled under his grip, not with fear but with fury, and the heat of it seared straight through his palm into his chest.

“Daenae try to outwit me with veiled words,” he said, his voice low, close, rough. “Ye’ll nae risk me son’s life on the hope yer maither’s clever enough to read what ye daenae say.”

Her lips parted slightly, a sharp retort ready. But the words didn’t come. Not immediately. She stared at him, wide-eyed, breath shallow, and for a heartbeat too long the world shrank to just her face tilted in his hand, the warmth of her skin, the bare inches between his mouth and hers.

His pulse hammered. He thought against every rule he’d set for himself that he might kiss her.

Her eyes flicked to his mouth.

God help him, he almost did.

But he dragged himself back with the force of will he’d honed on battlefields and in grief alike. With a rough exhale he released her, stepping back as if distance could scorch the thought from his head.

“Rewrite it,” he ordered, voice rawer than he liked. “Plain words. Nay riddles.”

She swallowed hard. “Ye can command me to write, but ye cannae command what I feel.”

A corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching in the shadow of a smile. “I wouldnae dare try.”

He slid a fresh sheet before her. “Again.”

She obeyed, though her hand shook faintly as she wrote. The second letter was bland, stripped of her cunning, nothing that would raise an alarm in MacLennan. He closed without ceremony, wax dripping red on the fold, and sealed it with his own seal.

That should be point enough to show them where she is.

“Come,” he said, pushing the door wide.

They walked in silence, her satchel brushing her hip, his stride steady at her side. Once, their hands brushed, the faintest touch of skin to skin, and the fire it sparked nearly undid him again.

At her chamber door he paused. She turned, gaze still searing, lips parted as if she might demand something more from him — words, truth, maybe even that kiss he’d denied them both.

He nearly bent toward her. Nearly gave in.

Instead he straightened. “Sleep, Skylar. Ye’ll need yer strength.”

And he closed the door firmly before he could betray himself further.