Page 9 of A Highland Healer Captured (Scottish Daddies #3)

S kylar paced the length of the small chamber, her boots tapping furiously against the stones.

She had worn a line into the floor already, from window slit to hearth and back again.

The air was thick, heavy with the smoke of the fire she hadn’t tended.

She couldn’t keep still, not when her chest was packed with indignation, fear, and the mounting weight of helplessness.

Every time she thought of Ariella lying pale and fevered, her throat closed tight. And every time she thought of Zander Harrison, the brute, the kidnapper, the devil himself, pacing somewhere within this keep, calmly planning what to do with her, her fists curled hard enough to sting her palms.

So when the latch finally lifted and the door swung wide, her temper snapped loose like a whip.

“Ye left me locked like a hound,” she spat, whirling on him. “I’m nae some beast to be caged. Do ye think yerself clever, Laird Strathcairn, throwing me scraps of food while ye keep me from the very bairn ye claim to care so much about?”

But she fell silent the moment she caught his face.

He wasn’t smirking, or coolly amused the way he had been on the road, when he’d baited her with every reply. His expression was carved from iron, his jaw set, eyes shadowed deep. There was no glimmer of humor in him tonight. Only fury.

Not fury at her, she realized belatedly, although the heat of it made her stomach flip. Fury that seemed to belong to something not entirely unrelated to her.

For once, he did not answer her tirade. He simply stepped aside and jerked his head in a gesture that brooked no refusal. “Come.”

Skylar hesitated, caught between outrage and curiosity. She wrapped the satchel around her body, lifted her chin, and followed.

The hallways twisted with torchlight, voices echoing in the distance, the shuffle of boots on stone. She walked a half pace behind him, her questions sharp on her tongue, but something about the way he moved, shoulders rigid, that made her hold them.

They reached a chamber that was warmer than the rest of the keep, looked similar to the solar in MacLennan Keep. A fire glowed bright in the hearth. A boy lay propped in a bed much too large for his frail frame, his hair damp with sweat, lips pale. At his side was the woman she knew to be Katie.

Her attention snapped instantly to them as they entered, and she stood.

“Grayson,” Skylar whispered.

“Aye,” she heard Zander mutter over his shoulder.

Her heart softened against her will. He had his father’s dark lashes, but his face was thinner, sharper. He blinked sluggishly, yet his lips curved faintly when he saw Zander stride in.

“Da,” he whispered, voice too weak for a child so young.

The giant brute of a laird bent his head and kissed the boy’s damp hair. The movement was so tender it startled Skylar more than any threat could have.

Zander straightened, his voice clipped as he turned to her. “Do what I’ve brought ye here to do. If ye wish to leave this place, ye’ll earn it here .”

And then, without another word, he left the chamber.

Skylar’s lips parted, outrage catching in her throat.

He had kidnapped her, threatened her, dragged her miles from her family, and now he dared throw her at his sick son as if she were a servant brought to prove herself.

Fury surged hot. But then she looked again at the boy, at his thin arms, at the faint rattle of his breath.

All her anger drained out of her feet, leaving only the steady ache of a healer’s instinct.

She dropped her satchel by the bed and bent low, brushing a gentle hand across his brow. Heat clung there, not a raging fever, but a lingering warmth that spoke of nights gone restless. His pulse fluttered quick beneath her fingers. His lungs labored faintly, each breath an effort.

“Grayson, is it?” she asked softly.

He blinked at her, exhausted but curious.

“Aye,” Katie said brightly, filling the silence. “Grayson is six years and bold as a knight, arenae ye, laddie?”

The boy gave the smallest of grunts.

Skylar’s throat ached. She reached into her satchel, pulling out sprigs of thyme, a vial of willow tincture, linen for compresses. She meant to set to work, to let her hands take over where her heart twisted, but Katie’s voice bubbled on, eager and open.

“The men all say that ye pulled a Fergus MacReady out of death’s own hand last winter, and saved some lass named Bess’s bairn when she was born too soon. Ye’ve a reputation across the Keep already, Skylar.”

Skylar’s jaw tightened. “He didnae fetch me, Katie. He stole me.”

Katie winced, but not from shame. “That sounds like him,” she admitted. “He doesnae ask, he takes. But he takes for those he loves.”

Skylar kept her eyes on Grayson, brushing damp hair from his temple. “And is that what ye call love? Kidnappin’ and threats?”

Katie fell quiet, then said softly, “Half of himself is that laddie, there.”

Skylar frowned and rolled her eyes, but she knelt beside the boy anyway.

Her braid slipped forward over her shoulder as she worked.

She pressed the back of her hand against Grayson’s chest, feeling the shallow rise and fall.

She wanted to hate Zander Harrison with every fiber of her being, but this frail child, so sweet and so trusting, had nothing of his father’s brute force.

And damn her, but she wanted to save him.

Katie hummed as she bustled around, fetching warm cloths, telling stories of the keep, of how the laird walked the halls sleepless at night, of how fiercely the men loved their laird even when they cursed his temper.

Under different circumstances, Skylar realized, she might have liked Katie. Might even have called her friend.

But here, surrounded by walls not her own, tethered by a bargain she never chose, friendship felt like another chain.

She set her jaw and bent closer to Grayson. “I’ll help ye, laddie,” she whispered. “If only to spite yer faither.”

The boy’s lips curved faintly, as though he understood, “Me da is a good man.”

“He’s a funny way of showin’ it, laddie.”

The boy nodded thoughtfully. “I think it’s because no one can help me. He’s afraid that I’m going to die. He’s nae ready.”

The candor stole Skylar’s breath. He was so sure of his fate. No child should ever have to feel that way. The lad’s surety was heartbreaking and motivating all at once.

She squeezed his small hand, then, voice firm but warm. “Och, lad, yer da’s fought half the Highlands and never flinched, but aye, ye scare him. Because ye’re the only fight he cannae win with steel. That’s why he brought me here. Because I daenae lose either. I’m the best healer in Scotland.”

“I kent he’d find ye,” Garyson said, mid-yawn, his eyes falling heavily.

“Aye, he did, indeed,” Skylar hummed softly as she watched the lad drift off to sleep, a smile still on his lips.

Only a few moments later, as Grayson’s breathing evened out. She leaned back from the bed, eyes connecting with the Katie.

“Do ye think I can see the surgery?” Skylar asked quietly over the boy so as not to wake him. If she was going to help this child, she would need more than what was just in her satchel.

She was brisk as ever, no-nonsense as she led Skylar from the chamber and across the cold corridor.

“The surgery’s kept well,” Katie said over her shoulder. “A few of us see to it and check stocks twice a week. Ye’ll find it better organized than most keeps.”

Skylar clutched her satchel against her hip, her braid swinging as they climbed a flight of stairs that smelled faintly of herbs and resin.

The castle’s upper passageways grew narrower the higher they went, until Katie stopped before a door banded with iron, unlocked it, and pushed it inward with her hip.

“There ye are,” Katie said, setting the lantern on a hook inside. “Everything ye’ll need should be in order. I’ll wait up here.”

Skylar frowned. “Here?”

Katie nodded toward the stairwell. “One way in, one way out. I’ll see nay one troubles ye, but the laird’s orders are plain. Ye’re nae to wander.”

Skylar’s lips tightened, but she bit back the retort that threatened. A barred door was still better than the locked chamber she’d endured. At least here she might work with her hands, remind herself who she was. She stepped inside.

The surgery smelled of dried lavender, camphor, and the sharp bite of vinegar.

A wide worktable stretched beneath the narrow windows, lined with stoppered jars of dried leaves, powders, and tinctures.

Mortars and pestles, bandages neatly rolled, bowls stacked clean.

There was even a row of clay cups for infusions, each rim darkened by long use.

Skylar ran her fingertips along the jars, whispering the names she recognized.

“Comfrey, willow, yarrow, mullein...”

There was a steadiness in the familiarity. It was a balm. Here, she could almost forget she was a prisoner. Almost.

Her breath slowed. She moved toward the shelf at the far end, tugging one jar down to check its contents.

Marigold petals, still bright. Good.

“Ye’re her , then?”

The voice made Skylar start, nearly fumbling the jar. She turned swiftly.

A young girl stood by the doorway, half-hidden in the shadows cast by the lantern Katie had left.

Sixteen or seventeen years old at most, pale in the soft lantern light, her hands clasped before her skirts.

She hadn’t opened the door because it had been left ajar, but somehow she had slipped inside as silently as a ghost.

Skylar set the jar down carefully, smiling despite her surprise. “I daenae ken who ye mean by ‘her,’ lass.”

The young girl’s eyes were wide, unblinking. “The witch.”

Skylar blinked, then laughed. It was the kind of laugh she gave frightened children when they whispered about banshees in the dark. “Nay, nae a witch, love. Just a healer. Witches spin curses. I only mend what I can.”

The girl tilted her head, unconvinced. “Folk say ye’re here because ye’ve powers.”

Skylar shook her head, still smiling. “The only powers I have are herbs, hot water, and patience. Nothin’ darker than that.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed a little, though her tone softened. “If ye’re nae a witch… then why did the laird bring ye? Is it true ye’re his new wife?”

Skylar nearly choked on air. “What?”

The incredulity burst from her in a laugh so sharp and startled it echoed against the stone walls. A wife? To Zander Harrison? The brute who had dragged her through storm and mud, who had shackled her freedom with no more thought than binding a hawk?

Saints preserve her, the very notion was absurd. And yet, traitorously, her mind betrayed her.

In an instant, unbidden, came the memory of him pinning her to the ground that night in the ruin. The weight of him pressed firm against her body, the raw heat of his chest against her cheek, the way his voice had rumbled when he growled her name.

Another flash. His broad hand cupping the reins above hers, his head bent low to kiss his son’s brow. The strength in him, the tenderness he had thought no one saw.

Skylar’s stomach lurched. She spun away from the child, fixing her eyes hard on the jars before her, as if the neat row of comfrey and willow could scrub those images from her head.

She was not here to think of Zander Harrison’s body. She was here to save his son and escape. Nothing more.

She dragged in a breath, forcing her voice calm. “Nay, lass,” she said, though the words caught. “I’m nae his wife. Heaven forbid.”

The girl was silent. Skylar felt the weight of her gaze on her back. She turned at last, ready to put the foolish rumor to rest, and maybe ask the girl her name.

But the doorway was empty.

Skylar frowned, moving quickly across the chamber. She pushed the door wider, peered into the stairwell. Empty. The only sound was Katie humming faintly down in the hall, the same tune she always seemed to hum when she sorted linens or stacked pots.

The girl had vanished.

Skylar’s lips pressed tight. She returned to the surgery, unsettled in a way she couldn’t name. She had meant to scold, to tell the lass not to repeat such wild gossip. Instead, she had been left with her own thoughts. Thoughts that betrayed her more cruelly than any whisper could.

She set her hands firmly on the worktable, staring down at the jars until the labels blurred. “I’m nae his wife,” she muttered under her breath. “Nae now, nae ever.”

But the heat that crept up her neck told another story, and Skylar hated herself for it.