Page 22 of A Highland Healer Captured
“Daenae try to outwit me with veiled words,” he said, his voice low, close, rough. “Ye’ll nae risk me son’s life on the hope yer maither’s clever enough to read what ye daenae say.”
Her lips parted slightly, a sharp retort ready. But the words didn’t come. Not immediately. She stared at him, wide-eyed, breath shallow, and for a heartbeat too long the world shrank to just her face tilted in his hand, the warmth of her skin, the bare inches between his mouth and hers.
His pulse hammered. He thought against every rule he’d set for himself that he might kiss her.
Her eyes flicked to his mouth.
God help him, he almost did.
But he dragged himself back with the force of will he’d honed on battlefields and in grief alike. With a rough exhale he released her, stepping back as if distance could scorch the thought from his head.
“Rewrite it,” he ordered, voice rawer than he liked. “Plain words. Nay riddles.”
She swallowed hard. “Ye can command me to write, but ye cannae command what I feel.”
A corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching in the shadow of a smile. “I wouldnae dare try.”
He slid a fresh sheet before her. “Again.”
She obeyed, though her hand shook faintly as she wrote. The second letter was bland, stripped of her cunning, nothing that would raise an alarm in MacLennan. He closed without ceremony, wax dripping red on the fold, and sealed it with his own seal.
That should be point enough to show them where she is.
“Come,” he said, pushing the door wide.
They walked in silence, her satchel brushing her hip, his stride steady at her side. Once, their hands brushed, the faintest touch of skin to skin, and the fire it sparked nearly undid him again.
At her chamber door he paused. She turned, gaze still searing, lips parted as if she might demand something more from him — words, truth, maybe even that kiss he’d denied them both.
He nearly bent toward her. Nearly gave in.
Instead he straightened. “Sleep, Skylar. Ye’ll need yer strength.”
And he closed the door firmly before he could betray himself further.
8
The door opened just as the first strands of daylight spilled into her chamber. Skylar blinked away the remnants of a restless night. The memories of Zander’s steel-grey eyes and a rough, and his calloused hand gripping her chin had plagued her dreams. She heard the latch and wrenched her body from the bed, standing stiffly awaiting the stranger at the door.
Cora stood there, slim and tidy as a church candle, her dark hair in a neat braid. Her hands folded politely in front of her skirt, but there was a brightness in her gaze that made Skylar think of someone with too many thoughts bubbling at once.
“Come with me,” Cora said softly. “The laird asked that I show ye the keep.”
Skylar hesitated. “And if I say nay?”
Cora’s lips quirked. “Then ye’d be next to young Grayson or just sit here all day and stare at the same stones ye stared at yesterday. I prefer the walk.”
There was no malice in the words, only a wry humor that caught Skylar by surprise. She stood, slipping her satchel over her shoulder, and nodded. “Fine. But if ye lead me to the gallows, I’ll haunt ye.”
Cora only tilted her head. “I’ve worse company already.”
They started through the corridor, Cora’s steps light, Skylar’s a touch slower as she studied every turn. Mason lingered at a distance behind them, arms crossed, pretending to be disinterested though his eyes missed nothing.
Cora began pointing things out in her calm, lilting voice. “That stair, steep as hell’s teeth, leads to the east wall walk. Ye can see the river bend from there, if the mist isnae sulking.Thatdoor hides the stores. The barrels are stacked like soldiers. Daenae open it unless ye want flour dust in yer hair for a week.”
Skylar found herself smiling despite herself. Cora’s manner was twisty. She never answered anything straight on but instead danced around with observations that, in the end, made their meaning clearer. It was endearing.
“And here,” Cora continued, guiding Skylar down a turn where the light dimmed, “is the hall where the laird’s council likes to bicker. Loud as crows at harvest, they are. Sometimes I sitoutside the door just to listen. Better than any minstrel’s tale, though less tuneful.”
