Page 122 of A Highland Bride Disciplined
He lowered his brow to hers. “Nae that easily, lass.”
Her shoulders began to shake. All the iron she’d poured into herself went liquid at once. “It was me,” she blurted, the confession bursting out hot and clumsy. “It was me who nearly… If I had just listened to ye — God, Kian, I let him in here with me foolishness —”
“Scarlett,” he warned softly.
“Me own guilt,” she forced on, because stopping meant drowning. “I couldnae bear what happened to Nieve, and I let it crack me open, and I dinnae see what was walkin’ through the crack —”
He drew her in and held hard. “Enough.”
She couldn’t stop shaking. She buried her face in the blood-scented leather at his breastbone. He gathered her even closer, forearm a wall across her back, his hand cupping the base of her skull like she might come apart if he didn’t hold that one place.
Behind them, Effie made a small sound. It was half-sob and half-laugh. And Elise hiccupped a drowsy sigh. Scarlett could not look, though, because she knew that if she did, she’d fall to pieces entirely. She just held Kian, and Kian held her, and for long moments the world shrank to that.
He was the first to shift. Not away. Just enough to tip her chin, enough to bring her eyes up to his. She’d never seen that particular mix there: tenderness like velvet laid over something bright and fierce, and heat banked to a coal. “I’m here,” he said.
“I ken.” Another tear fell. She didn’t bother to hide it. “Thank God.”
“Thank Tam and a dozen good men besides,” he said, but the words were gentle, almost easing. “And thank the devil that Roderick was nae half the warrior he fancied himself.”
“Roderick is —” She couldn’t make herself say dead with Elise within hearing. “Dead.”
“Aye.”
She let out a breath that left her empty and shaking and oddly light. “Then it’s done.”
“For now. I have to write to his faither,” he said. The honesty of it steadied her more than any lie would have. He skimmed his knuckles across her cheek, the backs of them cleaner than the rest of him. “How are ye?”
“Me?” She huffed. “I’ve a ruined gown, my heart is beatin’ too fast, and I have a sudden urge to be sick on Morag’s good rugs, but otherwise, I’m,” she swallowed. “I’m whole.”
He almost smiled. Almost. “That’ll do.”
She slid her arms around him again and held on because there was nothing else to do with a body that had just learned how easily it could be left behind. She felt him breathe with her, slow and deep, until her own breaths matched his.
“Effie,” Kian said at last, not raising his voice. “All is well.”
Effie had the grace to pretend she hadn’t been crying. “Aye, m’laird. All’s well.” She bounced Elise once, and the babe made a small, contented sound, unconcerned by the blood and fear of grown folk.
Scarlett pulled back and swiped at her cheeks. “I almost lost the two most important things in my life today,” she said softly.
“Scarlett,” he said, and just the sound of her name on his lips made her close her mouth, as if he had commanded her to. His thumb caught her last tear, and he tasted it shamelessly.
The corridor behind them stirred. It was full of low voices, a boot scraping, someone clearing a throat with the nervousness of a man who’d rather face swords than interrupt his laird.
“M’laird.” A young guard, tunic smeared with mud and ash but eyes clear, hovered at the threshold, hat crushed between his hands.
Kian kept his palm on Scarlett’s waist and turned. “Report.”
“The west walk was aflame, but the stone held. We’ve doused it. The door to the kitchens was demolished. Seven men with deep wounds, three with broken bones. The rest — just bruises and pride.”
“None dead?”
“None of ours.” The lad’s jaw set with the simple brutality of that. “Nae the MacLennan or Muir men, either?”
“Nay, m’laird.
Scarlett’s hand tightened against his jawbone, a small flinch she tried to hide. He covered her fingers with his for a heartbeat. “Get the injured to the hall by the kitchens,” he told the guard. “Tam will see to triage and Brighde the rest. Make sure the men eat. And water the horses before any fool even breathes a word of celebration. We’ll clean up whatever wreckage there is tomorrow.”
“Aye, m’laird.” The lad dashed away without another word.
