Page 34 of A Highland Healer Captured
The way her wrist curved as she pushed the lock back looked deliberate, practiced—but saints, mayhap it wasn’t. His neck strained under the heat that shot through him, blood hammering until his tongue felt heavy in his mouth.
“I could and have slept through me own guards’ training, he said, fighting to keep his tone flat. “But an attack? Never. A laird sleeps on his feet with one eye open.”
“That explains the scowl,” she said, and he heard the smile she didn’t show. The sound of it ran a jagged line down his spine, rough and sweet.
He spread his hands to sayfair, then let them fall. His palms itched to climb that stone wall to reach her. “Grayson?” he asked, though he already knew; he would have heard the wrong kind of silence.
“Steady,” she said, and in the tilt of her chin he read a healer’s pride. “Katie’s with him.”
After a beat, she continued, voice softer: “He was cheerful this evenin’. Couldnae get him to sleep. Said ye visited him for a bit.”
Zander hadn’t expected her to mention it. The admissions hung between them, dangerous as a spark in a dry field. He let the pause breathe, then gave only a small nod and a hum of assent. “Aye.”
Skylar stared at him blankly, her mouth tipping down just enough to make her look unimpressed, though the candle-glow from the hall gave it the shape of a pout. He fought the urge to laugh, kept his face in order, and let the silence draw a line between them.
She straightened suddenly, as if she’d caught herself leaning too far into him. The shift of her shoulders pressed the linen tighter against her chest, and he cursed inwardly at himself for noticing. For burning.
“The draught sits well when the air is clean,” she said briskly, business sliding back into her tone.
He nodded, jaw tight. “I’ll set more men to sweep the hearths tomorrow. Less smoke.”
Her gaze dipped briefly, lashes sweeping dark. He couldn’t tell whether that small motion was acknowledgement or something else—some thought she wasn’t ready to air. The quiet thickened. His pulse thundered in his throat until he thought she might see it.
The elm creaked above them. A moth battered itself against the torch glass.
Then. “Zander.”
His name in her mouth at that hour felt like he’d been called to the right room in a burning house. Every muscle in his neck went tight, holding him back from climbing to her window like some lad drunk on spring.
“I— I hope ye sleep well tonight — might storm…”
Her fingers lingered against the lattice, pale against the dark. Too long. Too graceful.Is she doin’ it on purpose?
“Aye, ye as well,” he managed, though his tongue felt chick, “And yer aunt will have word by noon two days hence.”
The faintest frown touched her brow, her lips parted but no sound came. For a heartbeat she looked less healer, less prisoner, more woman — one who knew what it was to be kissed against all sense. His own chest tightened at the memory of her mouth under his.
She was silent long enough that he wondered whether he’d broken something by bringing up her family.
“Good,” she said at last, but the word trembled, stretched like a stitch pulled through cloth to hold it from tearing.
Another long moment. It should have broken. He should have left. Instead he stood rooted in the dark, heat coursing through him like he’d taken a blade to the belly.
“Get inside,” he said finally, softer than he meant to. The plead bled through before he could shape it into command. “Ye’ll be cold.”
Her laugh was brief, almost teasing. “Ye, ordering me kindly. Careful ye might get a reputation.”
He almost groaned.
The strain in his neck made his teeth ache as he forced a smile to his mouth, a stiff nod, before turning away from her stare that burned hotter than any torch.
“Ye have nay idea, lass,” he said, though it was too quiet for her to hear.
The shutter drew softly when he reached the landing. He didn’t look back. Couldn’t. His veins burned with want, his hands curled fists at his side. She was supposed to be his son’s salvation, not his own undoing. And still the taste of her kiss lingered, defying every vow he made to care for nothing but Grayson’s breath.
Zander took the inner stair two at a time and made a straight path to the solar.
Katie sat there at a stool with her knitting and lifted her chin in greeting. “All quiet,” she murmured. Grayson slept open-mouthed, hair damp at the temples, breath the even, unremarkable sound that now counted for music.
