Page 32 of A Highland Healer Captured (Scottish Daddies #3)

S he slipped away while the pipers tuned for another reel, her heart hammering in rhythm with their drone. The noise of the yard pressed into the walls like a tide, covering her steps, covering the sound of her own breath. Perfect for slipping out of sight.

“Saints above, lass,” Mason rumbled, levering himself off the wall, a flagon dangling from his hand. “If ye’re slippin’ away to escape the dancin’, the stables willnae be quieter. Fool lads are already bettin’ who can stand longest in a cider barrel.”

Skylar pressed a palm to her chest. “Ye startled me.”

“Aye, so it seems.” His eyes narrowed, less fogged than his ale would suggest. “Ye’re a bit out of breath too, Lady Skylar.”

“I just wanted to quickly check on Grayson, so I was rushin’ up that hill.”

“Daft habit, all that rushin’ is. But —” he sniffed, scratching his beard— “keep the lad warm, eh? He needs ye more than the revelry.”

Her mouth went dry. She nodded quickly, shifted past him, and let his muttering fade back into the stairwell.

The corridor turned dim, the torches sputtering low. Skylar nearly jumped out of her skin when a shape stirred in the shadows by the stair.

In her chamber she moved quickly, steady hands belying the storm inside her. The gown she’d worn for the festival lay tossed across the chair, still smelling faintly of smoke and cider.

She folded it roughly, stuffed it deep into her satchel along with her cloak. A second gown followed, practical wool, and the shawl Katie had thrust at her two days ago when the wind cut sharp across the solar. Skylar’s hands lingered on the weave.

She shoved it in as well.

From the small table she took her journal, the margins crowded with notes about Grayson’s pulse, his breath, every tincture tried and failed. She tore out two pages that had instructions for Katie, and laid them on the table where they’d be found. The rest she kept.

The satchel dragged at her shoulder until the strap bit skin. She nearly cursed aloud. Still, she stuffed the notes deeper—Ariella would need every scrap of it, even if it tore her back bloody on the road.

Her fingers brushed the dirk at her belt, and she paused.

Zander’s gift. She almost set it aside, then tightened her grip and slid it into the satchel as well. “I’ll nae walk roads without teeth,” she whispered, steeling herself.

She blew out the candle and slipped into the corridor. Instead of turning toward the gate, her feet carried her to the surgery.

A scrape of boots startled her, and a knuckle rapped clumsily on her chamber door.

“Lady Skylar, is it?” Fergus’s voice came through, thick with drink and cheer. “Ye’ve near worked yerself to the bone these weeks. Come — take a dram with an old man.”

Skylar froze. “I— I?—”

“It’s Kirn — nay healer should be sober at Kirn.”

Her heart thudded so loud she thought he must hear it. “I cannae just now. I’m just on me way to the solar to check on the lad now,” she called, forcing her voice steady.

“Aye, aye.” The man chuckled, the sound trailing off into a hiccup. “Well then. Saints keep the healer. Saints keep the boy.” His boots scraped away, the sound weaving back toward laughter and pipes.

She loosed a shaky breath, rolled her shoulders back, and took the steps down to the surgery two-at-a-time.

The door creaked open, the familiar bite of vinegar and herbs enveloping her. The place smelled of her own sweat and work, of hours bent over pestle and flame. She lit a single taper and moved with purpose. Ariella would need more than Skylar’s bare hands.

She took two vials of Iceland moss infusion, corked tight. A jar of honey, thick and golden. A twist of dried angelica root — sharp on the nose, bitter on the tongue, but good for clearing lungs. She added thyme bundled in twine, the last of the willow bark, and a small cloth sack of coltsfoot.

The mortar was too heavy, but she tucked a smaller stone pestle into her satchel. She wrapped three glass bottles in a length of linen, slid them carefully beside the herbs.

On impulse she grabbed one of the clean jars of vinegar. It sloshed faintly as she stuffed it into the bottom of the bag. For wounds, for infection.

I willnae be caught unprepared .

The satchel strained at the seams. She pulled the strap across her shoulder and tested the weight. It was heavy. Almost too heavy for the road she had ahead, but better her back than Ariella’s breath.

She blew out the taper, let the dark swallow the room, and closed the door behind her. The hall was silent here, only the faint thrum of music and laughter drifting from the yard. She walked soft, her footsteps swallowed by stone.

Her path turned not to the front door, but to the laird’s study next. She could not leave without a word. Not after what they had shared.

The study smelled of ink and leather, of maps left half-rolled and dust that had not yet had time to settle. The fire was cold. She stood a moment, listening, certain she would hear his step, his voice, the deep growl that had undone her the night before. But only silence answered.

At the desk she found paper, ink, and quill. She sat, her breath uneven, her hand steady out of habit.

She wrote with a healer’s hand — steady even when the heart shivers.

Zander—

Thank you. For your son’s breath. For the room you made mine.

For trust I didn’t earn, and for patience I didn’t ask for.

I go because I must. There’s a lass whose name keeps me from sleep every day that I stay.

Keep the boy warm and in the air. Mind the cups.

Tell him the kestrel’s tail is wrong on page nineteen.

—S

Her throat closed as she laid down the quill. The last letter bled where a tear had dampened the ink. She folded it once, left it in the center of the desk where his hand would fall.

Skylar lingered, palm pressed flat against the wood, as if she might feel his warmth there. The silence pressed back against her ears.

She wanted— God , she wanted to stay.

But want had never saved a soul. Duty might.

She lifted the satchel, squared her shoulders, and left the study door ajar behind her. The celebration roared outside, loud enough to hide the sound of a heart breaking.

Her feet turned on their own down the passage she knew best. One more thing. She could not take the road without touching the boy she’d held on the edge. She owed herself that theft.

The solar door stood on the catch the way Katie kept it, a finger’s width of invitation. Inside, the banked fire was friendly, the air warm with wool and sleep. Grayson lay on his side, cheeks flushed from too much joy, lashes dark on his face. Skylar felt her chest loosen just for seeing.

“Katie?” she whispered, stepping soft. Her eyes taking longer to adjust to the darkness than she anticipated.

Then she saw it.

The shape on the floor near the hearth.

It was strange, and in a way wrong.

Skylar dropped to her knees so fast she jostled the stool. “Katie?” The name came out strangled. She had her hands under the woman’s head before sense had finished warning her.

Warm. Thank saints. Warm.

But slick blood pooled black at the back of the skull.

“Katie, hen, stay,” Skylar ordered, slipping from gentleness to command as if she’d stepped across a line drawn on stone. She snatched the shawl from the chair, pressed it to the wound. “Stay with me. Daenae try to rise. Where —”

A shadow shifted by the bed.

Skylar’s eyes snapped up.

A cloaked figure stood over Grayson, one hand outstretched toward the boy’s blanket. The hood hid the face, but the shape and the intent was clear enough to freeze her blood.

She didn’t think.

She moved.

The dirk Zander had given her was in her palm before the thought finished forming.

She lunged.

“Get away from him!” Her voice wasn’t hers; it was iron.

The stranger jerked back, cloak swirling. Skylar slammed the table with her hip, so that the cup toppled, bouncing to the floor with a hollow clatter. Whatever poison had been meant, it spilled harmless.

The figure struck at her, fast and precise, fingers like steel. They grappled in a desperate, silent blur. A stool went over with a loud crash; a tin clattered against the wall. Grayson stirred, whimpered, and Skylar’s heart split even as she fought.

The cloaked head jerked forward, a brutal knock to her cheekbone.

Stars burst behind her eyes. Skylar reeled but answered in kind, her skull cracking against cloth and bone. The stranger faltered just enough; she caught an arm, twisted. Wiry strength met her stubborn leverage. They crashed to the floor, rolling across the rug.

A flash of steel glinted. The intruder had a blade—small, sharp, quick. Skylar’s dirk met it in a spray of sparks. They snarled against each other, breath hot, locked close.

“Ye’ll nae touch him!” she spat, teeth bared, driving her weight down.

The stranger hissed, wordless, shoving back with a force that belied their slight frame. They were no brute, but quick as a fox.

Skylar stamped her heel onto the wrist that held the knife. It clattered free, skittering under the bed. She seized the chance, grabbed the fallen shawl slick with Katie’s blood, and wrenched it around the figure’s wrists. Her hands shook, but she tied fast, healer’s knots turned to fetters.

The intruder writhed, bucked, nearly threw her off, but she planted her knee hard between shoulder blades and leaned with every ounce of fury she had.

“Skylar…” Katie’s weak croak came from behind her.

“Stay still!” Skylar barked, not looking back. “Daenae move, Katie.”

A rustle came from the bed.

“Miss Skylar?” Grayson’s small, groggy voice wavered. “Wha — What’s happenin’? Why is Katie on the floor?”

Skylar’s heart seized .

Saints, nae now.

“Shh, lad,” she called, her voice a forced calm while her knee dug harder into the intruder’s back. “Ye must stay in bed. Daenae come from yer bed, ye hear?”

But the boy pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes, confusion thick on his face. “There’s… there’s someone here?”

“Aye, Grayson. But I’ve got them under me knee here. See?” Skylar said gently.

His eyes traveled from hers down to her shadowed knee, then back up to her face again.

“I want ye to just look at me, though, aye? Only me. Katie’s had a tumble, that’s all.”

The cloaked figure beneath her bucked suddenly, a guttural hiss tearing from the hood. Skylar nearly lost her grip.

Grayson yelped, scrambling toward the edge of the bed. “Da! Where’s Da?”

“Grayson!” Skylar’s tone cracked like a whip. “Stay on that bed! If ye move, lad, I’ll be too slow to keep ye safe. Do ye understand me?”

The boy froze, his little chest heaving. “Safe?”

“Aye, safe. Ye’re safe if ye stay just there. Watch me, Grayson — eyes on me.”

Katie groaned, trying to lift her head. “Sky…lar?—”

“Damn it, daenae move, Katie!” Skylar snapped, panic laced with command. “Hold the shawl where I pressed it. Keep yer hand there. That’s all ye need do.”

The intruder writhed beneath her knee, forcing her to press down harder, her dirk trembling in her grip. She risked one more glance at Grayson.

The boy’s wide eyes glistened, but he nodded, voice small. “I’ll stay. I’ll stay.”

“There’s a good lad,” she breathed, forcing steadiness into the words as her whole body shook with effort. “That’s me brave little hawk. Yer da will be here soon. Till then — ye and me’ll keep each other strong.”

Her heart thundered, her cheek ached, her hands shook from adrenaline.

Every inch of her wanted to tear back the hood, to see the face, to know.

But something colder, sharper, stopped her.

Not yet. The knowing would come, but not here, not now, not with Katie bleeding and Grayson sleeping in reach of this devil.

The shawl held tight. The stranger stilled at last, chest heaving under the cloak.

Skylar pressed the dirk point-down into the boards beside their ear, close enough that they’d feel the tremor of it. “Ye’ll stay there till the laird comes,” she growled, her voice shaking but steady enough.

Then the door burst wide as if on command.