Page 48 of A Highland Healer Captured (Scottish Daddies #3)

EIGHT MONTHS LATER

“ I f I find another petticoat stuffed in the butter churn, Effie, I swear I’ll have ye strung up by yer apron ties.”

“I was improvisin’!” came the outraged reply from somewhere beneath the large woven basket she was carrying. “The washing line snapped, and it was windy. Daenae act like it’s a crime to want soft linens and clean butter!”

Her grimace was plain but playful all the same. “It is a crime if the next loaf tastes like lavender starch.”

Scarlett swept past her maid with a ledger tucked under one arm and the weight of the keep under the other. Already that morning, she’d walked the length of the inner wall, inspected the kitchen garden, and spoken with the smith about the cracked hinges of the granary gate.

Now, as the sun crept above the eastern tower, she was halfway through balancing the books while mentally drafting her next letter to the absent Laird.

Crawford Keep was hers in all but name.

She passed two of the scullery maids scrubbing the Great Hall floor and gave them a sharp nod. They straightened instantly, working harder at the tiles.

It hadn’t been easy, especially during the first weeks after Kian left.

Half of the staff had expected her to weep quietly in her solar and wait for the next set of orders to come.

Instead, she’d rolled up her sleeves, torn through the accounts like weeds in spring, and dragged the Crawford name out of its grave with ink-stained fingers and stubborn grit.

And Effie. Effie had been the one thing she hadn’t planned for.

The girl trailed after her now like a badly trained pup. She was overly eager, under-skilled, and entirely too opinionated, but she was loyal.

Scarlett found herself smiling. “Come on, then. If ye can go a full hour without topplin’ somethin’, I might just let ye eat early.”

“I’ll take that as a challenge.” Effie beamed.

The two women wove through the corridors of the keep and then out into the courtyard where Scarlett turned to appreciate how well the keep had bounced back over the past few months. Ivy, tamed. Windows and sills, cleaned. That was when Scarlett smiled to herself, recalling a memory.

“And if I see another stocking pinned to the curtain rod…”

The maid gasped, pressing both hands to her chest in exaggerated horror. “That happened one time , M’Lady! And I told ye, it was dryin’ faster with the window open!”

Scarlett shook her head, biting back a smile. “Faster or nae, Lord help me if the next guest passin’ by the south wing gets a lacy surprise flappin’ like a bawdy banner of surrender.”

“Och, it wasnae as bad as that!”

They walked together through the west garden where new rows of lavender and chamomile had finally taken root in the stone-edged beds. A few hens scratched near the hedge. They had escaped from their pen again, no doubt, but Scarlett let them be. She had bigger victories to savor.

The keep was no longer crumbling or drafty. The drafty corners in the main hall had been mended, and now, it stood proud. Food stores were replenished. Trade with the local villagers had improved, thanks to a few modest changes in how the clan’s harvests were shared and stored.

Scarlett had written it all in her monthly letters to her husband. Each one was carefully worded, polite, but not overly warm. And always with the numbers.

Three new dairy cows from Muirhold. One wagonload of barley sold to the MacKinnons. A modest investment in the keep’s stone ovens, already paying off in bread that didn’t taste like burnt dust.

She’d signed each letter as Lady Crawford , sealed them, and sent them.

And yet she had received not one word from Kian Murray. Not a letter. Not a scratch of ink. The silence was louder than any insult he could have sent.

Clearly, he couldn’t have been bothered.

Coward, she often thought. If he wanted me silent, he could’ve just said so. If he dinnae like what I’ve done, he could’ve written back.

Instead, nothing. Eight months of silence. Eight months of ruling a keep, a clan , without a husband. Eight months of trying, and failing, not to remember the heat of his breath against her neck.

Scarlett brushed that thought aside and tilted her face up to the sky. Spring had returned to the Highlands, and she wouldn’t let her mind wander to things better left in the past.

“Have I truly improved nothin’?” Effie asked, skipping a stone along the garden wall.

“Oh, ye’ve improved. Ye only broke one plate last week instead of five. That’s what I call progress, but Mrs. Morag wouldnae call it that.”

Effie grinned. “I’m nay good at scrubbing, but I have a knack for loyalty.”

“Aye, that ye do.”

Their moment of quiet was shattered by a clatter and a strange thudding sound from the far courtyard.

Scarlett turned around, frowning. And then she saw her.

Mrs. Morag Drummond, the keeper of order, destroyer of nonsense, and sworn enemy of any improper hemline, was running directly toward them .

Running?

Her heavy ring of keys clanked wildly against her hip. Her skirts were bunched in one fist, and her grey braid flapped behind her like a battle flag.

Scarlett’s stomach sank. “Effie…”

“I see her. What… what in heaven’s name could make Morag run?”

Mrs. Morag skidded to a halt before them, bent double, a hand on her knee, breathing like a bellows.

Scarlett stepped forward, her heart rate quickening. “Mrs. Morag, what’s happened?”

The housekeeper waved her hand wildly, still panting.

Effie’s eyes widened. “Is there a fire? Did I leave the bread too close to the hearth again? I kent it smelled wrong.”

Scarlett glanced sharply at the housekeeper’s face. Morag wasn’t angry or cross. She was startled. Frazzled. There was a sheen of sweat on her brow, and her lips trembled slightly.

Scarlett touched her arm. “Morag? Breathe . Tell me what’s wrong.”

“ Christ above, Morag!” Effie exclaimed. “Is someone dead? ”

The older woman finally found her voice, breathless and clipped. “A maid. Kitchen girl. She came screamin’ into the hall nae five minutes past. Said there was a bundle… a bundle left at the front gate. Wrapped in a blanket. Cryin’.”

Scarlett’s blood ran cold.

“A bundle ?” Effie echoed, blinking. “Like… laundry?”

Morag gave her a withering look. “Like a baby , ye foolish cow!”

Effie gasped.

Scarlett’s heart stopped for half a beat.

A baby?

Morag straightened and continued, gesticulating wildly with her hands. “I sent the girl straight to the healer with the child, and I came runnin’ to tell ye.”

Scarlett didn’t wait another second. She was already turning toward the east hall. Her skirts billowed behind her as she broke into a run, her heart thudding like a drumbeat in her chest.

Effie followed close behind, her chest heaving. “A baby? But why would anyone?—?”

Morag puffed beside them. “Hush, ye useless girl!” she scolded.

“Hey!” Effie protested but then fell silent as Morag continued.

“The wee bairn wasnae just left alone. There was a letter, too.”

Scarlett said nothing. Her feet pounded the stone corridor, and her mind raced faster.

A child. Left at the keep. With a letter.

She wasn’t sure what scared her more—that someone would trust her with such a thing or that, deep down, some part of her wanted to be worthy of it.

“A bairn ,” Effie panted, trailing a step behind. “Could be a goat. Might be a trick. A changelin’, maybe?—”

“Effie,” Scarlett snapped though not unkindly. “Now’s nae the time.”

They rounded the corner to the healer’s chamber, their skirts flying, Morag huffing and puffing behind them like a boiling kettle.

“Do ye think it’s hurt?” Effie asked. “The baby, I mean. Or starvin’? What if they’re twins? What if?—”

“Effie!” Morag barked. “If ye keep askin’ questions instead of movin’ yer legs, I’ll see ye that ye are assigned to haul sheep dung for a month!”

That quieted the maid.

Scarlett’s heart hammered with every step. A new worry clawed at her ribs as her mind unraveled.

What if someone had given birth in secret? One of the village girls? A servant? Could it be abandoned? Left for me?

The thought tightened her chest like a corset cinched too tight.

She didn’t slow down until they reached the healer’s door. She barely knocked before pushing it open.

Inside, the room was quiet, save for the soft cooing of old Brighde, the healer, who stood beside the low table by the hearth.

And on that table was a baby. A small bundle wrapped in soft, worn wool.

Her cheeks were rosy, her lashes long and golden against her skin. She looked about six months old, maybe a bit less, and she was sucking softly on her fist like she’d made peace with the chaos around her.

Scarlett couldn’t speak.

Effie sidled up to her, peeking over her shoulder. “Och. She’s… perfect .”

Morag, surprisingly gentle, stepped up beside them. “By the looks of it, someone’s looked after her. Recently even. Just nae anymore.”

Scarlett couldn’t stop staring.

The room felt unnaturally silent, as if even the stone walls were holding their breath. The healer’s chamber, once familiar and orderly, now felt foreign. The scent of dried rosemary and crushed lavender hung thick in the air, usually comforting, but today it clung to her throat.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting a soft amber glow over the wooden beams above. Shelves lined the walls, laden with neatly labeled jars of comfrey, poppyseed, and powdered charcoal. A pot of barley tea simmered quietly nearby, forgotten in the corner.

The baby didn’t cry. She just… stared.

Those wide blue-grey eyes blinked up at the rafters, peaceful as a morning tide. Her tiny fingers curled and uncurled beside her cheek, her lips still wrapped around her thumb.

Scarlett’s knees felt oddly weak.

She didn’t move closer. She wasn’t sure she could.

This was no ledger to balance. No crumbling wall to mend. This was life, untouched and vulnerable, dropped like a stone in her hands.

She wasn’t prepared for this.

Not emotionally. Not practically. Not even remotely.