Page 11 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

He reached for his leather jerkin when he caught her watching him from her seat by the window. Her hazel eyes were fixed on his bare chest before the shirt covered it, and when their gazes met, color flooded her cheeks like sunrise over the loch.

Holy Mary.

The sight of her blush sent heat waves through his veins. She looked so tempting sitting there in the morning light, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders, her lips slightly parted in embarrassment.

He cleared his throat roughly, and she immediately turned away, pretending sudden fascination with the view from the window. "What dae ye plan tae dae today?" he asked, needing to fill the charged silence as he fastened his jerkin.

She shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. "Maybe read. There are some books in yer maither's solar I havenae started."

"That’s good. Are ye enjoying the ones ye’ve read?"

"Aye. But what about me duties as yer wife? When can I start those?" she asked, finally turning back to face him though the blush hadn't entirely faded. "I feel like I should be daeing something more than just... existing."

"Ye must remember that me maither is still the lady of this clan," he said carefully. "Fer now, ye should find ways tae assist her and the other staff around the castle. Learn how things are done here."

"I've tried," she said, frustration creeping into her voice.

He glanced at her. Sensing there was more. "And… what?"

"And I get the feeling I'm more hindrance than help. I dinnae ken where I fit."

The defeat in her voice made his chest tighten. He'd been so focused on keeping her safe, on managing clan business and border threats, that he hadn't considered how isolated she might feel.

"Surely there are tasks that need yer input. I'm sure Maither would appreciate?—"

"Maither is daeing great," Iona said firmly. "But I can see it in everyone else's eyes. They're waiting tae see if I'll bring disaster down on their heads."

Which isn't entirely wrong, he thought grimly, but kept the observation to himself.

"Give it time, lass. These things?—"

"Time," she repeated with a bitter laugh. "Aye, I suppose that's all I have, isn't it? Time tae sit and wait and try nae tae be too much trouble."

The defeat in her voice hit him harder than he cared to admit.

He wanted to offer more comfort, to find words that might ease the frustration he could see eating away at her.

But what could he say? That she was right to feel useless?

That the clan's wariness of her was justified given the danger she'd brought to their doorstep?

Instead, he cleared his throat roughly. "I should... there are patrols tae organize. Border security tae review."

"Of course," she said, turning back to the window with that same listless expression that had greeted him when he'd found her sitting there hours earlier. "Duty calls."

He hesitated at the doorway, watching the dejected set of her shoulders.

There has tae be something she can dae. Some way to make her feel less like a burden and more like... what? A wife? A clan member? What exactly am I trying tae make her intae?

But the questions had no easy answers, and his men would be waiting.

The conversation stayed with him as he made his way to the bailey, where his men were already assembled for the morning patrol. Cormac MacRae, his most trusted lieutenant, approached with the easy stride of a born warrior.

"Any word from the border scouts?" Ruaridh asked, checking his sword belt. “Aye, sir. MacNab riders were spotted near the old mill early today, but they rode off before our men could engage."

"How many?"

"Six, maybe eight. Hard to tell in the mist."

Ruaridh cursed under his breath. "They're testing our defenses, seeing how far they can push without triggering a response."

"What are yer orders?"

"Double the patrols along the southern border. I want tae ken the moment any MacNab sets foot on our land." He mounted his horse, settling into the familiar comfort of the saddle. "And Cormac? If they're spotted again, pursue them. It's time we sent a message of our own."

The morning patrol took them along the clan borders, through dense forest and across rolling moorland. Ruaridh spoke with each group of guards they encountered, checking their alertness, reviewing their positions. But even as he focused on military matters, his thoughts kept drifting back to Iona.

The way she'd looked at him that morning—not with fear or revulsion, but with something that might have been desire. The blush that had painted her cheeks when she realized he'd caught her staring. And underneath it all, the quiet desperation in her voice when she'd spoken of feeling useless.

She's drowning. Trapped in a life that isn't quite hers, with people who see her as an outsider.

"Sir?" Cormac's voice broke through his thoughts. "The mill ruins are just ahead. Should we investigate the tracks?"

"Aye, but carefully. I want tae ken what they were looking fer."

They spent an hour examining the abandoned mill, finding clear signs that MacNab scouts had been studying the area. Boot prints, horse tracks, even the cold remains of a small fire. They were definitely planning something.

But as the investigation continued, Ruaridh found his mind constantly pulled back to the castle and the woman waiting there. By midday, he'd made his decision.

"Take the men back along the eastern route," he told Cormac. "I'm returning tae the castle."

"Is something wrong, sir?"

"I hope nae," Ruaridh muttered, spurring his horse toward home.

One hour later, Ruaridh dismounted in the courtyard, tossing his reins to a waiting groom. The morning patrol had been routine. The MacNab scouts' tracks at the mill suggested they were planning something, but what?

His thoughts turned to Iona as he strode through the great doors. She'd mentioned reading in his mother's solar, perhaps finally finding some peace among the books there.

But when he pushed open the solar door, he found only his mother bent over her correspondence, quill scratching across parchment with practiced efficiency.

"Ruaridh?" Niamh looked up with mild surprise. "Ye're back early."

"Aye, Maither. Have ye seen Iona today?"

"Nae today. I've been busy with the food supplies—we had a delivery from the village that needed sorting." She set down her quill, concern creeping into her voice. "Why? Is something amiss?"

"Nae, just... checking on her." He frowned, scanning the empty chamber. "She said she might read here today."

"Perhaps she changed her mind. Have ye tried the scriptorium?"

The scriptorium—tucked away in the north tower where the clan's collection of books and documents were kept—seemed the next logical place to look. He climbed the winding stone stairs two at a time, his boots echoing in the narrow space.

The chamber was empty. A few books lay open on the reading table, their pages turned to illuminated passages about Highland history, but there was no sign of recent use. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light streaming through the narrow window.

Where is she?

A growing sense of unease settled in his chest as he made his way back through the castle corridors.

Servants bowed as he passed, but none offered any information about his wife's whereabouts.

Surely she hadn't tried to leave the grounds?

She'd seemed to accept his reasoning about the danger, but perhaps her frustration had overridden her caution.

He was heading toward the gates to check with the guards when a different possibility occurred to him—one that made his stomach clench with something uncomfortably close to dread.

He turned abruptly and strode toward their chamber, taking the stairs three at a time.

The door was closed. When he pushed it open, he found Iona exactly where he'd left her that morning—sitting by the window in the same chair, staring out at the same view.

The only difference was she had changed out of her sleeping gown into a blue gown.

No book in her hands, no needlework, no activity of any kind.

Christ. She never left the room at all.

"Iona?"

She startled slightly, as if she'd been lost in thought. "Ye're back early."

"Aye." He studied her face, noting the listless expression, the way her shoulders curved inward as if she were trying to make herself smaller. "What are ye daeing?"

"Naething." The word came out flat, resigned. "There's naething fer me tae dae."

"Surely—"

"Surely what?" She stood abruptly, pacing to the other side of the room.

"Surely I can find some way tae make meself useful?

I've tried, Ruaridh. I've offered tae help in the kitchens, in the solar, with the household accounts.

But I told ye this morning, everyone already has their tasks, their responsibilities.

They dinnae need some displaced MacNeill lass getting in their way. "

The frustration in her voice was sharp enough to cut. "I want tae have something tae dae, something that matters. But it seems like everyone here treats me as an outsider nay matter what I try."

"That's nae?—"

"Isn't it?" She turned to face him, her eyes blazing.

"How many days has it been, Ruaridh? Ye've been going about yer duties, but I've been sitting in this room fer three days, that is when I'm nae wandering halls where servants bow politely and then whisper when they think I cannae hear.

I feel like a ghost haunting someone else's life. "

The pain in her voice hit him harder than any physical blow. She was right—he could see it now, the way the clan treated her with careful courtesy but no real warmth. She was the laird's-to-be wife, but she wasn't truly one of them. Not yet.

"What would ye like?" he asked quietly. "What would make ye feel... useful?"

"I dinnae ken!" The words exploded out of her.

"That's the problem! I was raised tae run a household, tae manage a clan's domestic affairs.

But yer maither already daes that beautifully.

I was taught tar care fer the sick, but ye have a perfectly capable healer.

I can keep accounts, but yer steward has managed the books fer twenty years. "

She sank back into her chair, all the fight going out of her. "I just want tae feel like I belong somewhere. Like I have a purpose beyond being the woman ye married out of duty."

Out of duty.

The words stung more than they should have.

"If ye're so set on this," he said, clearing his throat to reduce the roughness, "then I'll find something fer ye tae dae."

He turned toward the door, needing distance from the hurt in her eyes, from the way her words had cut deeper than they should have.

"Ruaridh—"

But he was already leaving, the door closing behind him with more force than necessary. In the corridor beyond, he leaned against the stone wall and tried to understand why her pain affected him so deeply.

Because ye are starting tae care about her more than just a childhood friend. More than duty. More than ye want tae admit.