Page 15 of A Highland Healer Captured (Scottish Daddies #3)

The stone walls gave no comfort. Her body remembered the scent of the draught, the sound of Zander’s low voice reading about birds, the warmth in his eyes when she said his name.

Shouldnae have said it ? —

The way it had felt leaving her lips had been more intimate than the kiss they shared…

The kiss…

Her breath caught. She pressed her fingernails into her palms as if she could crush the memory away. But her lips tingled traitorously, her skin alive with heat.

He had lost control that night, and I had let him.

Now her veins thrummed as though the man himself had been in her very chambers just then.

“Ariella. Grayson,” she chanted softly, as if their names would pull her from the furious feeling burying itself in between her thighs.

She rolled again. The journal hard under her shoulder, as if mocking her for crossing out the brief unsettling note she thought she’d smelled when she lifted the cup.

She had crossed it out in her journal. Better to think herself overtired than mad.

Better not to invite shadows where the boy needed only light.

Better nae wonder whether Zander’s eyes burned of gratitude or somethin’ else.

Her belly ached.

He hadn’t turned away when she had leaned into the lattice as though daring him.

Fool.

She should have shuttered the window at once. Instead, she’d let him stand there, both of them held taut by something neither of them wished to admit.

The restlessness pressed.

At last she shoved the quilt aside, swung her legs down, and hissed when her bare feet touched the chill of the stone. She tugged on her cloak and tied it tight, as though the wool could bind her sense back in place.

She needed to check on the lad. Just to be sure. Just to count the pulse once more with her own fingers.

At least that’s what she told herself she needed as she slid into the corridor.

The keep was hushed—just the mutter of guards at the yard, the wind pressing at shutters. She climbed the stair slow, holding the rail, breath shallow. Her heart pounded too hard for the errand she claimed. She told herself it was for Grayson, for certainty, for the lad who she was trying to heal.

But when she reached the landing and saw the faint glow seeping from the solar door, she knew it wasn’t only for him.

Warmth bled into the hall, carrying the faintest sweetness of herbs and smoke.

Her fingers hesitated only for a moment, and she hated herself for hoping that Zander would be there.

His broad shoulders bent over his son, dark head lifting when she entered.

That maybe he would look at ther again with the raw, unguarded heat that left her marrow burning.

She eased it open with care. Saints, if ye’ve ever granted me one thing, let it be that he isnae in here just now. Please —

Her pulse betrayed her. Her mouth betrayed her.

Katie alone sat on her stool by the hearth, mending in her lap, lips moving with a half-song. A lullaby, Skylar thought, though too quiet to be meant for ears. The fire burned low and steady, painting the stones with amber.

And Grayson lay sleeping beside her. Propped on pillows, his mouth open, breath making the faint whistle Skylar had begun to learn as his ordinary song. One small hand rested against the blanket as though he had been reaching for something before slumber caught him.

Katie looked up, smiled, and lifted a finger to her lips. Then she tilted her head toward the bed as if to say, See? He’s all right. Ye need nae worry.

Skylar crossed to the boy’s side anyway, heart easing only when her fingers found his wrist. Steady. A rhythm she could count without fear. She stroked back a curl that had fallen damp across his temple. He didn’t stir. His lashes fluttered once, then stilled again.

“He had a restful sleep, at last,” Katie whispered, setting aside her needle. “Wouldnae close his eyes until near midnight, though. As if unable to catch sleep, but when he did, it was deep.”

Skylar’s hand stilled at the boy’s temple. She had heard him say it earlier—that his father had come. But to have Katie confirm it sent a strange warmth through her chest, fierce and reluctant at once.

She straightened, glanced at the empty chair by the bed. “The laird didnae stay?”

“Nay, he just looked in. About an hour’s past, now. He’ll look in come morning — always does.” Katie’s smile softened.

Skylar nodded, eyes fixed on the small rise and fall beneath the blanket.

The guilt that had gnawed her since the storm outside MacLennan Keep shifted then—not gone, but threaded now with something harder to name.

Relief. Gratitude. The dangerous thought that perhaps she wasn’t carrying the boy’s healing alone.

She drew the quilt higher beneath Grayson’s chin and let her palm rest a moment on the blanket, not touching him, just feeling the faint heat his body gave. “Sleep well, little hawk,” she murmured.

Katie hummed again, tuneless and soft, as Skylar turned toward the door.

Back in her chamber, she sat at her table with the journal open, pen hovering. All well. Draught tolerated. Breathing quiet in sleep. She hesitated, then added, Boy restful. Hard to settle.

She stared at the line until the ink dried. Then she closed the book with more force than was needed, blew out the candle, and slid beneath the quilt again.

This time, sleep came—but full of dreams where a laird’s shadow leaned over a boy’s bed, and a pair of dark eyes lifted toward a window where she stood, unable to turn away.