Page 85 of A Highland Healer Captured
Her fingers curved into his beard. His palm cupped the side of her neck, thumb angling her just so, a question and an answer in the same breath. The world narrowed to breath and the small sigh she didn’t mean to make; broadened again when he pulled back and pressed his brow to hers.
“Thank ye,” he said, voice roughened, not for what they’d just done but for the thing before it.
“Ye’re welcome,” she managed.
Mason cleared his throat behind them then, Grayson asleep in his arms.
They turned together.
“Sacked,” Mason said, a grin playing at his mouth as he moved into the room without another word.
Skylar moved next, clearing a path for the man to bring the boy to his bed. Zander stood frozen in place.
Grayson had blinked himself into a lucid awareness, brown eyes hazy, connecting with Zander’s just over Skylar’s shoulder. “Da?” the lad whispered, uncertain in the strange hush.
She turned to look at him as well.
“I’m here, wee man,” Zander said, his voice gentling. He stepped forward then, and reached for the boy’s hand. Skylar tucked the blanket closer and took the other, fitting her fingers into his small palm as if she’d been made for just that shape.
“Did I sleep through it?” Grayson asked, brow puckered. “The stranger… the—” His gaze snagged on the bandage at Katie’s head, and his breath hitched. “Is she goin’ to be well?”
“Aye,” Skylar said quickly. “She bonked her head, that’s all. She’ll be cross with me in the morn, which is how I ken she’ll live.”
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Sheiscross when ye make me drink the bitter ones.”
“Well then, tonight ye get the sweet,” Skylar said, letting cheer creep back into her tone. She unhooked a small vial from her belt. “Honey with a whisper of thyme. For brave laddies who mind the healer and never ever sneak a sip from cups left alone.” She let the jest sit—the caution slipped inside the sugar.
He made a face and swallowed it anyway. Zander smoothed a hand over his hair, eyes going soft in a way Skylar had learned to love and fear. “Ye were very brave tonight, laddie,” he said.
The boy leaned into both of them without thinking, little body lodging in the space where their arms overlapped. For a breath they stood like that, a small fortress built of three quiet hearts. “Skylar helped me be brave.”
Skylar’s heart warmed, as she watched his exhaustion take hold. They both eased him back down onto his pillows, and she checked his breath once more, then looked up. Zander had already lifted his gaze to her, some shared understanding passing between them like the transfer of a weight both were willing to carry for a while longer.
“I’ll send for basins and cloth,” he said. “And men to help with whatever ye’ll need.”
“I’ll have need of needles and oil,” she added, counting in her head. “And that stillroom key ye teased me with?—”
“It’s yers,” he said, quick and sure. Then, softer, “And the keep, while ye remain.”
She didn’t trust herself to answer without spilling too much. Instead she squeezed his forearm once, a firm press that saidaye, I’m here,and turned back to tidy the chaos—set the stool upright, gather the spilled satchel, wipe the smear of blood from the floor by the bed. Ordinary motions to keep her hands busy while her heart found its shape around this new vow.
Stay. Fight. Heal. Later, leave—maybe. But nae tonight.
Behind her, Zander moved to the door and spoke to the men posted there in a low rumble, sending orders down the spine of the keep. The house stirred; the night deepened; a hawk could’ve flown in through the solar window and perched on the carved lintel, and she would not have been surprised. War had a way of making rooms feel holy.
Skylar tucked the dirk back into her belt. It felt different now, less a symbol and more a tool. She touched the pommel once, as if sealing a pact with herself. Then she stepped back to the boy’s bedside and sat, letting her shoulder rest for a heartbeat against the laird who stood close enough to lend strength without asking anything in return.
For now, that was enough.
His study smelled of damp wool, tallow, and old vellum. Mason had raked the embers and set two fresh candles on the mantle.
A map of the keep and outbuildings was sprawled across the table. Inked walls and lanes and hedges, a sketch of the elm, the byre, the granaries, the north and west gates. Zander had written half those lines himself years ago. Tonight, they felt like the bones of something he meant to keep alive.
“Again,” he said.
Mason’s big forefinger tapped the west lane. “He rides heavy, or he wants ye to think it. Either way, he’ll funnel men through here. Ye see the bog sign? A smart man keeps to the flagstones. Marcus never was smart—just proud. Pride takes the lane.”
Zander’s jaw worked. “That wall-walk?”
