Page 2 of A Highland Healer Captured (Scottish Daddies #3)

It should have soothed her. Instead, it felt like being bound and gagged while Ariella gasped for air miles away. Skylar forced herself to nod, because she would not shame him in front of his hall. “Thank ye, Da.”

Astrid sagged, keys jingling faintly as she exhaled. “Shioban will pack what ye need from the stillroom. Ye’ll ride well-provisioned.”

Hamish kissed Skylar’s brow, lingering just a moment. “Be ready,” he said.

Later, in her chamber, Skylar laid out the satchel herself, because she trusted no hands but her own when it came to medicine.

Honey sealed in wax, sprigs of thyme wrapped in linen, comfrey, willow bark, valerian root, a pinch of foxglove she prayed she wouldn’t need.

She rolled fresh bandages, tucked in a small knife, and set her boots by the fire to dry.

Dawn? They wanted me to wait until dawn?

But every instinct screamed that dawn would be too late. She could almost hear Ariella’s ragged breath, the fever burning through her cousin’s rail-thin body.

Skylar pulled her cloak around her shoulders, her decision settling like iron in her chest. “Forgive me, Da,” she whispered. “But I cannae wait.”

She blew out the candles, snatched up her satchel, and slipped into the storm.

The castle’s stones seemed to breathe with her, each step echoing louder than it ought in the dark corridors.

Skylar slipped down the stairwell, clutching her satchel, cloak clinging damp to her shoulders.

She moved like a thief, though she told herself saints had stolen into worse nights for the sake of the sick.

The postern gate groaned faintly but gave way under her hand. Rain slapped her cheeks as if to scold, cold and hard, needling through cloak and gown in seconds. She hunched into the downpour, boots splashing across the courtyard toward the stables.

Daisy greeted her with a low whicker, tossing her head as though she’d known Skylar would come.

“Aye, lass, I ken,” Skylar whispered, stroking the mare’s damp nose. “We’ve nay leave, but Ariella’s breath cannae wait.”

In moments she had Daisy saddled, the kit strapped tight, and her own pulse hammering louder than the storm. The stable lad stirred from a pile of hay, blinking blearily.

“Lady Skylar? Where in God’s name —”

“Ye never saw me,” she cut in, swinging into the saddle with one practiced motion. “Say it.”

He gawped, then muttered, “Never saw ye,” before Daisy carried her mistress into the rain.

The road stretched like a ribbon of mud and shadow, pine trees bowing beneath the gale. Daisy’s hooves found their footing, steady even as water slicked the stones. Skylar leaned low, the hood of her cloak snapping at her face, the satchel thumping against her thigh.

She murmured her healer’s litany as she rode, half prayer, half inventory. “Honey, thyme, willow, comfrey…” The rhythm steadied her heart. Every step brought her closer to Ariella. Every heartbeat mattered.

Thunder rumbled like giants rolling boulders in the clouds. Lightning split the sky, white for an instant, and the ford’s roar answered from the valley below.

Skylar tightened her hold on the reins. Almost there. Almost.

And then Daisy balked.

The mare’s ears pinned back, hooves skittering on the slick road. Skylar’s head snapped up.

A figure loomed ahead, cut from the storm itself.

For a moment, the night itself seemed to hesitate, holding its breath. Then lightning flashed again, searing bright, and Skylar saw him clear.

Tall, broad-shouldered, astride a black horse that looked bred for war. A cloak snapped behind him, rain slicking his hair to his brow, beard glistening. His pale eyes were sharp and found her as if he’d been hunting her through the dark.

And the plaid across his shoulder bore colors she knew too well. Blue and black, striped with iron-grey.

Her stomach dropped. Clan Strathcairn.

Every tale she’d heard rushed back like cold water: the laird who’d razed an entire clan, who’d left no enemy standing. Merciless. Dangerous.

Skylar’s hand went to the knife strapped at her belt, though she knew steel against a Highland warrior was as useful as a thistle against thunder.

The man’s horse shifted, its breath steaming. His voice carried even through the storm, deep and unyielding.

“Are ye Skylar Dunlop?”

Her name on his lips scraped her spine raw. She swallowed, tried to keep her chin high. The river roared beside them; the rain battered down. She said nothing.

Her silence must have told him enough, because his mouth curved with certainty.

“I’ve an offer for ye.”

An offer?

As if he were inviting her to a fair, not blocking the road in the black of night. As if Strathcairn men ever offered anything without blood in the bargain.

Skylar felt her jaw tighten, fire sparking in her chest.

“Keep yer offer,” she snapped, voice sharp enough to cut the storm.

Daisy surged under her, muscles coiling. Skylar gave her the reins, and the mare leapt forward with a spray of mud.

Behind her, the man gave a low, dark, mirthless laugh. The kind of sound that promised that the chase was only beginning.