Page 40 of A Highland Bride Disciplined
That softened her. Barely.
She took the glass.
And for the first time that day, she drank.
Scarlett sat stiffly on the edge of the chair, her spine ramrod straight, arms folded tight across her middle. The wood creaked beneath her, and she felt every grain of it like it meant to etch itself into her bones.
This was ridiculous.
It was just a plate of food. Just her husband watching her like a hawk.
And yet, the water he’d handed her still sat half-full on the table, little beads of condensation dripping onto the polished wood.The fire in the nearby hearth cast golden light across the alcove, warming the stone, casting soft shadows up the curve of Kian’s cheekbone where he leaned back in his own chair, studying her like she might vanish again if he blinked.
She hated how her heart reacted to that look.
Because it fluttered. Like a fool.
He’d dragged her from the nursery not with shouting or demands, but with quiet insistence, a grip on her hand that wasn’t forceful, just firm enough to be felt. And now he sat across from her, legs slightly spread, elbows resting on the arms of his chair like he was ready to deliver a sermon.
“I daenae require handholding,” she muttered, mostly to herself.
His brow lifted. “And yet ye’ve not touched a bite.”
She scowled, her eyes tracing the edges of the cold plate of cheese and meats in front of her. The undeniable smells of stew was swirling around the hall, and she knew that more was on the way from the kitchen.
Kian leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Takin’ care of yerself is part of yer duty, Scarlett.”
There it was again. Duty.
Her eye twitched. “Ye mean to say that if I daenae eat, I’ll be failin’ in me role as Lady Crawford?”
He didn’t flinch. “I mean to say if ye keel over out of hunger, I’ll be stuck holdin’ a squallin’ bairn and explainin’ to the clan, and yer faither’s clan, how their lady starved herself out o’ spite.”
Her lips parted, ready to cut him down because howdarehe, but Kian lifed one hand, steady as iron.
“Hush,” he said calmly. “Just sit.”
It was the “just sit” that stung. Like she was a caught muddy-booted on clean floors.
Scarlett’s jaw locked, every nerve bristling for the fight, and yet she didn’t rise. Didn’t argue. Her body betrayed her first, sinking deeper into the chair while her mind clawed for the words she ought to fling back.
She’d spent six days pushing herself to the edge of exhaustion. She’d held that child through every nap, every feed, every fretted tear. She’d scolded Effie and soothed Morag’s nerves and sent letters and managed half a dozen tasks no one had thought to thank her for.
And now, sitting across from her husband, who with nothing more than two words had silenced her, the strength to fight seemed to drain clean out of her bones.
Her mind reeled, scrambling for a reply, when the kitchen door opened and two servants stepped in.
A large tray of food was set down before her with quiet efficiency.
Scarlett blinked.
A steaming trencher of barley stew, thick with carrots, leeks, and chunks of salted beef, the broth so rich it clung to the serving spoon. Two oat bannocks, still warm from the griddle, crisp-edged and buttered till glistening. Beside it, a smear of jam, a fistful of pickled turnips, and a slice of apple tart that looked stolen straight from a hearth goddess’s dream.
Her stomach lurched at the scent, curling inward from raw, aching hunger. Still, she sat frozen and eyed it all warily.
Kian watched her from across the table, silent.
The aroma hit her first. Her stomach curled in on itself. Not in revulsion. In sheer, desperate need.
