Page 66 of A Highland Healer Captured
“Aye,” he said, because fighting her when she’d laid it out so clean would only mean he’d have to fight himself after.
“And when he has,” she added, gaze still on the boy, “I’ll… I’ll send for a horse.”
The words were quiet as cloth folded, but they made a sound in him like a board cracking. He didn’t answer. The right answer would have beenI ken. The wrong one would have beenno. He said neither, because the boy slept between them and some truths should not shout in a child’s house.
Instead he reached across the small table and set his big hand palm-up on the wood. Not touching her. Not asking. Offering, the way a man offers a ride when a woman looks tired, and he’s finally learned not to grab.
She looked at his hand as if it were a new tool. Then she laid her smaller one on it, light, not a pledge, not enough to cost her anything if she pulled away. She didn’t pull away.
Zander spoke at last, voice as even as he could make it. “We’ll make it safe. He’ll hear the pipes.”
“Aye,” she said. “He will.”
21
Zander found her waiting where the shadow of the west arch thinned into sun the following afternoon. Skylar stood with her hands tucked into the folds of her cloak, chin up, hair braided and pinned, a ribbon the color of wheat hiding in the coil. She looked like trouble disguised as good sense.
“Ye wanted the stalls inspected,” she said before he could speak, as though the notion had been his. “If ye’ve a mind to see what’s what before the crowds swell, now is the hour.”
He almost smiled. “Commandin’ me schedule now, are ye?”
“I’m simply suggestin’ it,” she said, and the dimple that appeared in her cheek punished him for teasing her.
“Aye then.” He lifted a hand to the nearest guard. “Ewan. Give two men at our heel, nae close enough to make folk bow backward. We’re nae courtin’, only sensin’ the festival.”
“Aye, me laird.” Ewan fell in five paces back, another man ghosting the opposite flank. Good. Not a parade, not a challenge—just eyes where he wanted them.
They crossed the inner court and slipped through the postern where the keep’s shadow spilled onto the green. The festival grounds spread wide and half-made—trestles bare, awnings tied but not yet unfurled, lines trampled into the grass where feet would soon pulse the earth. Beyond, the river wrote light in quick strokes. The wind smelled of barley and the promise of rain.
“Where will the drovers come in?” Skylar asked, shading her eyes as she looked toward the track that bent around the mill.
“North gate,” he said. “Pen there—” he pointed to a fenced square still naked of boards— “and overflow along the hedge. We’ll keep the beasts and the pies at polite distance this year, else Fergus will hunt me with a spoon.”
“Hmph.” She kept walking, quick and light, not waiting for him to summon the next answer. “And the cooper’s stall? The ale shouldn’t sit in sun past noon.”
“South line, near the elm shade. I’ve a word in to turn the barrels with the passing hours.”
“Good.” She considered the open green as if it were a body to be mended—finding weak points, measuring breaths. “And the guard rounds? Ye said two men. How many circles of the grounds will they walk between bells?”
He glanced at her. The question was too neat, too layered. “Four rings,” he said anyway. “Outer hedge, stall row, the dancers’ square, and the river track. On the hour and half-hour. Why?”
“For spills,” she said promptly. “And drunken pinchers. A woman’s likelier to ask a guard for help if she kens where a boot’ll appear.”
He grunted.
Plausible.
Sensible.
Still, the back of his neck prickled the way it did when a hunter numbers his snares and the hare counts trees.
They turned up the central row where frames for canvas booths threw black bars on the grass. A smith had already claimed a corner, his portable forge cold for now, but the anvil set like a promise. A pastry woman from the lower village stood behind a table covered in clean cloth, counting her tins as if the air might steal them.
“Morning, Mairead,” Zander said, stopping. “Ye’ll need two trestles. I’ll send a plank for cooling. The lads burn their mouths and curse me when ye put hot tarts near the dancing.”
“A laird with sense,” Mairead said, delighted. “Look at that. And who’s this?”
Skylar started to reply, but Mairead barreled on, eyes shining. “Och! That’s right! Ye’re the healer, aye? Bless ye for that bairn of his. I’m bringin’ sugared apples for the lad if he’s allowed a lick at one. I’ll put by a wee tart for ye as well?—”
