Page 1 of A Highland Healer Captured
1
“Skylar, for heaven’s sake, ye eat like a farmhand! Would it kill ye to take a ladylike bite?” Astrid Dunlop’s nagging voice pierced through the sounds of the storm.
Skylar continued to shovel broth into her mouth, and then swallowed noisily and grinned. “If I ate like a lady, Maither I’d starve. And if I starve, who’s going to cure all the coughs, colic, and festering boils of the glen?”
Her mother’s brows shot toward the rafters. “A daughter of mine ought to speak of embroidery, nae boils.”
“Embroidery never saved anyone from dying of fever, maither,” Skylar said cheerfully, dunking her bread so aggressively the broth sloshed onto the table.
Her mother gasped. “Ye’ll ruin the linens!”
Her father choked on his ale, shoulders shaking, beard hiding his grin. “Och, Astrid, linens wash. Lasses do as they’re made to do, and this one’s made for healing, nae dainty nibbling.”
“That tongue will scare off every decent suitor,” Astrid huffed, stabbing at her roasted carrots. “Mark me, Skylar, nay man wants a wife who speaks of boils at table.”
“Naydecentsuitor, aye,” Skylar said sweetly. “But perhaps averyindecent one.”
Hamish Dunlop roared with laughter, the fire spitting with him. While his wife pressed a hand to her forehead as if she prayed for deliverance from the very child she’d birthed. Laird and Lady MacLennan together were a formidable pairing. Astrid had been every inch propriety, and Hamish was every bit indulgence, but even they struggled to tame their youngest daughter’s wild spirit.
The thunder cracked just then, the shutters rattling, and for a heartbeat Skylar wondered if even the storm had decided to join her mother’s side.
Dinner trudged on in the same fashion it usually did. Astrid sharpening her tongue on Skylar’s every movement, Skylar parrying with cheek and wit, and Hamish playing the weary but amused judge. The hall smelled of peat smoke and rosemary, and the hounds lay sprawled near the hearth, twitching in their dreams.
Astrid leaned forward now, eyes glinting. “Scarlett had married by yer age. Mabel too. Both settled, both respected. One is Lady Crawford, the other runs the keep at Muir. And then there’s ye…” she waved a hand at her daughter’s hearty eating, “…ye sit here devouring broth like a ravenous beast!”
“Iamravenous,” Skylar said, licking the last of the bread’s broth from her thumb. “I’ve been away at births and sickbeds since dawn. If ye’d like me to faint prettily into the soup tureen, I’ll happily oblige. Perhaps it would make me more marriageable.”
Astrid’s nostrils flared. “Marriageable. That’s exactly the word ye should be thinking on.”
Skylar groaned. “Mam, ye’ve been reminding me of me duty since I had ribbons in me hair. If suitors truly wished for me, they’d have come knocking already.”
“Theyhaveknocked,” Astrid snapped. “Ye’ve turned every single one away. What of young Ewan Fraser? A fine lad, with lands of his own.”
“He fainted at the sight of blood,” Skylar said solemnly. “Collapsed into me lap when I pulled a splinter from his hand. Do yetrulywant me bound to a man who swoons every time I fetch out a needle?”
Hamish laughed so hard he had to mop his beard with his napkin. Astrid ignored him.
“Then there was Laird MacCulloch’s son,” she pressed on.
Skylar nearly gagged on her broth. “The one who asked if I couldread?”
“Aye, a reasonable question —”
“Mam, the lad didnae ken the difference between a poultice and a pudding. He thought mint leaves were for garnishing a roast. If I’d married him, I’d have buried him inside a fortnight after his first indigestion.”
Astrid looked skyward, as though praying for patience. “Ye must stop holding men to the standard of yer herbs.”
“Better me herbs than their tempers,” Skylar shot back.
Hamish reached across, setting his heavy hand over hers. “Skylar,” he said gently, “yer mam only wishes to see ye safe and protected. She kens what the world demands.”
“And I ken what the world needs,” Skylar replied, softer now, though the fire still snapped in her eyes. “It needs someone who’ll show up when a fever strikes, nae someone who can sit at table and nibble politely while folk die in their beds.”
Her mother sniffed, unimpressed. “Ye speak like some saint sent to save the Highlands.”
“And why nae?” Skylar spread her arms wide in mock grandeur. “Saint Skylar, patron of boils, coughs, and split trousers.”
Hamish bellowed again, and even Astrid had to hide a reluctant smile behind her napkin.
