Page 49 of A Highland Healer Captured (Scottish Daddies #3)

Effie made a soft sound beside her. “D’ye think she kent whoever left her? That this place would be safe?”

Scarlett didn’t answer, but the question lodged in her chest like a thorn.

Safe? Is that what I am now? A place someone could entrust with their child?

The weight of it pressed against her lungs.

She forced herself to take a slow step closer then another. The baby turned her head slightly, as if sensing her.

Scarlett’s heart twisted. She didn’t know this child, didn’t know her story, but something about the calm in her expression struck something deep within her.

Then, her eyes fell on the edge of the swaddle where something stiff was tucked between the folds—a bit of parchment, barely visible.

Scarlett sucked in a sharp breath. “The note?” she managed.

“Aye,” Brighde said flatly, pulling the folded scrap of parchment. “I havenae read it. It’s addressed to yerself and the Laird.”

Scarlett took it with careful fingers. The handwriting was neat but rushed.

This is Elise. Please care for her as if she were your own. We cannot keep her. We only ask that Laird and Lady Crawford show her kindness. She is good. She is loved. She deserves a life better than the one we can give her.

Scarlett read it again. And again.

“Elise,” she whispered.

Effie leaned closer. “That’s a fine name.”

Morag crossed her arms and fixed her narrowed eyes on the babe. “Nay seal. Nay sign of who left her?”

Brighde shook her head. “None.”

Scarlett swallowed past the lump in her throat and looked back at the babe.

Elise .

The moment their eyes met, something inside her twisted. Like a string pulled taut behind her ribs.

“What are we supposed to do?” Effie asked.

“Care for her,” Scarlett replied, her voice steadier than she felt.

The baby gurgled in response, kicking once under her blanket.

Scarlett stepped back and braced her hands on the edge of the healer’s table, her knuckles white.

A child? In me care? What if I cannae keep her alive?

She could command the kitchens, oversee harvest planning, and resolve livestock disputes with a firm tone. But this?

This was a human life. Small, fragile, blinking up at her like she was someone who could fix things.

Scarlett’s hands crept toward the bundle, and she fought the urge to grab the babe and hold her tightly to her chest, but Brighde placed a hand on hers.

“Nae yet, M’Lady. We daenae ken if she’s safe to hold yet.”

Scarlett nodded, but the pounding in her head made it hard to think.

“She’ll need a wet nurse,” Morag said. “If we can find one.”

“I’ll ask around,” Brighde offered. “There’s that woman, Grizel, of Lochanfairn village, who lost her young bairn a few months ago in a drowning accident. She should still have milk and might be willing to come up and help.”

Scarlett vaguely remembered hearing about this report a few weeks ago, and her heart somehow felt even heavier than before. She’s just lost a child… she’s grieving… how could she be willing to come help one that isnae her own?

Effie glanced at her, wide-eyed. “M’Lady… are ye all right?”

“Nay.”

Scarlett turned on her heel and marched out of the room.

Effie scrambled after her. “Where are ye goin’?”

“To me study. Let me ken about the wet nurse by supper, Brighde. Until then, the bairn will sleep in yer chamber.”

Morag stepped forward calmly. “I’ll send a boy to the village and get ye word soonest, M’Lady. The bairn will be just fine here.”

Scarlett could barely see anything. Her hands were shaking as she turned the corner and stormed through the keep, straight to her study.

She took the steps two at a time, bounded down the corridors, and even rounded a corner too suddenly, shoulder-checking the stone wall. The stone bit into her skin painfully, but that didn’t deter her.

In the study, she went straight to the desk and whipped a piece of parchment from the drawer, slamming it atop the wood.

The quill scratched furiously as she began to write.

Laird Crawford,

If you have even a shred of decency beneath that cold, brooding brow of yours, you’ll return at once. This is not a request. I’ve spent eight months waiting. I’ll wait no longer.

Lady Crawford.

She signed it with a hard, final stroke then sealed it before the ink was dry.

Effie lingered in the doorway, her eyebrows raised.

Scarlett looked up, her green eyes landing on Effie’s quiet, lingering figure.

“Find a rider. Tell him to ride like hell. And if me husband asks why I’ve dared to command him,” she said, waving the letter angrily, “tell him that absence forfeits authority, and that he is expected with immediacy. ”

Edinburgh

Three Days Later

Kian broke the red wax seal with his thumb, smearing a streak of ink where it hadn’t fully dried. His brow creased. The courier had handed it over like it held a royal decree.

The handwriting was unmistakable. Bold. Tilted. No frills.

He read the first line.

By the third, he was smiling.

By the last, he was laughing. A menacingly low and dark sound.

If you have even a shred of decency beneath that cold, brooding brow of yours…

God, she is still furious. Good.

He leaned back in his chair, folding the letter once and tapping the edge against his knee. She didn’t once ask for him to come home before, or even ask when he was due to return, but now… she commanded him.

And she thought she could command me without consequences?

His smile flattened. He turned to stare out the window of the Edinburgh townhouse where he’d set up temporary quarters. It overlooked slate roofs and the grey ribbon of the Water of Leith. The city was loud, bustling, full of distractions.

And yet, for weeks now, he’d found himself distracted only by thoughts of her.

He hadn’t expected her to last long at the keep. Not with its harsh winters and long silences. But from what little word he’d received—from her letters but mostly secondhand—Scarlett Murray had turned Crawford Keep inside out and made it stand proud.

She’d made a place for herself without him.

Now, she wanted him back. But not for affection. Not for longing. No, she needed something. Something urgent enough that it made her drop the pretense of courtesy.

He stood up and crossed the room, pulling on his coat.

“She needs remindin’,” he muttered, half to himself, “of who gives the orders in this marriage.”

He wouldn’t send word.

He wouldn’t write back.

He would ride.

And when he returned to Crawford Keep, Scarlett Murray would learn that commanding a man like him came with a price.