Page 13 of A Highland Bride Disciplined
And that mouth. That defiant mouth that had cursed him one moment and drawn him closer the next.
He could have taken her. She wouldn’t have stopped him. She might have even thought it was her duty. But that wasn’t enough.
Not for him. Taking what wasn’t freely given.Thatwasn’t duty.Thatwas barbaric.
And that realization unsettled him more than anything else had in years.
Kian Murray had spent a lifetime in control. Of his keep. Of his men. Of himself. But something about his new wife scraped at the edges of that control like wind wearing down stone.
He yanked open the shutters and leaned out into the cold air. He thought the cool night might douse the heat under his skin.
It didn’t.
Foolish.
Brave.
I daenae ken which…
And worse was he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Would she hate me come morning? Would she respect that I’d walked away, or would she feel hurt? Would she understand?
He let out a low growl and scrubbed a hand down his face.
He wasn’t here for softness or love. He was here for legacy. For security. For duty.
Kian turned from the window, eyeing the empty bed with reluctance. He knew that sleep would not come easy. Not with the image of Scarlett standing in the firelight, looking at him like he was both the enemy and the answer.
He lay back on the mattress, arms folded behind his head.
“She’ll be the ruin of me,” he muttered aloud.
Aye, leaving for Edinburgh will be good. Time enough to free her from me mind and focus on what truly matters… closing this deal.
3
8 MONTHS LATER
“If I find another petticoat stuffed in the butter churn, Effie, I swear I’ll have ye strung up by yer apron ties.”
“I was improvisin’!” came the outraged reply from somewhere beneath the large woven basket she was carrying. “The wash line snapped, and it were windy. Daenae act like it’s acrimeto want soft linens and clean butter!”
Her grimace was plain but playful all the same. “Itisa crime if the next loaf tastes like lavender starch.”
Scarlett swept past her maid with a ledger tucked under one arm and the weight of the keep under the other. Already that morning, she’d walked the inner wall, inspected the kitchen garden, and spoken with the smith about the cracked hinges on the granary gate.
Now, as the sun crept above the eastern tower, she was halfway through balancing the books while mentally drafting her next letter to the absent laird.
Crawford Keep was hers in all but name.
She passed two of the scullery boys scrubbing the great hall floor and gave them a sharp nod. They straightened instantly, working harder at the tiles.
It hadn’t been easy. Especially during the first weeks after Kian left. Half of the staff had expected her to weep quietly in her solar and wait for the next set of orders to come. Instead, she’d rolled up her sleeves, torn through the accounts like weeds in spring, and dragged the Crawford name out of its grave with ink-stained fingers and stubborn grit.
And Effie. Effie had been the one thing she hadn’t planned for.
The girl trailed after her now like a badly trained pup. She was overly eager, under-skilled, and entirely too opinionated, but she was loyal.
