Page 13 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken questions. She could feel his eyes on her back, could sense his confusion at her sudden change in mood.

Finally, his voice came quietly through the darkness. "Goodnight, Iona."

She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back tears. He deserved better than a wife who brought nothing but secrets and danger. He deserved the peace he thought was coming, the happiness she'd glimpsed in his laughter.

But as long as Murray MacNab drew breath, peace would remain nothing more than a beautiful dream.

The next morning brought a list of tasks from Niamh that sent Iona all over the castle grounds. She had to check the herb gardens for fresh mint and rosemary, inspect the outdoor ovens that would roast the celebration feast, and ensure the great courtyard was properly cleared for dancing.

It was while walking through the gardens that she discovered it—a section tucked away behind the main herb plots, overgrown with brambles and choked with weeds.

But underneath the neglect, she could make out the bones of what had once been a beautiful space: stone pathways, a small fountain long since dry, raised beds that had once held flowers.

The children's garden.

She took a sharp intake of breath, remembering the place.

During her childhood visits, she and Ruaridh had spent countless hours there.

It had been designed as a miniature version of the main gardens, where young ones could plant their seeds and tend their own small plots.

She could almost see her younger self kneeling in the dirt, helping Ruaridh coax carrots from the soil while his mother looked on with patient amusement.

"What happened tae ye?" she murmured, pushing aside a tangle of brambles to reveal a stone bench, cracked but still intact.

The neglect made sense, she supposed. Ruaridh had gone to war, his sisters had married and moved away, and there had been no children to tend the space. But it broke her heart to see it so forgotten.

I'll restore ye. Once the celebrations are over, once I have time. Ye deserve better than this.

She made a mental note of what would be needed—clearing tools, fresh soil, new plants. It would be a massive undertaking, but the thought of bringing life back to that forgotten corner filled her with purpose.

By late afternoon, the preparations were nearly complete. Iona found Niamh in the kitchens, overseeing the final details of the feast planning.

"I think that's everything," Niamh said, wiping her hands on her apron. "The musicians arrive tomorrow, the extra tables are being set up in the great hall, and Cook assures me the honey cakes will be plenty."

"Thank ye," Iona said, meaning it with all her heart. "Thank ye fer allowing me tae help with all of this. I... I needed tae feel useful."

Niamh's eyebrows rose. "Ye shouldnae be thanking me, dear. This was yer husband's idea. Said ye were feeling lost and needed purpose. I was grateful fer the suggestion, as I told ye yesterday." Niamh smiled warmly. "He cares about yer happiness, Iona. More than ye might realize."

"Thank ye fer telling me," Iona said softly. "I... I need tae find him."

"He'll be at the training ground this time of day," Niamh said. "Mind the weapons practice—they can get quite vigorous."

“I will.”

Iona made her way across the castle grounds toward the sound of clashing steel and shouted commands.

The training ground was a large courtyard surrounded by high walls, designed to contain the chaos of mock combat.

She could see Ruaridh in the center, stripped to his shirt and breeches, his sword moving in practiced arcs as he sparred with one of his men.

As she moved closer, she stopped dead at the edge of the courtyard, her breath catching in her throat.

Sweet Mary.

This was Ruaridh as she'd never truly seen him—every defined muscle in his chest and arms gleaming sweat on bronzed skin as he moved with lethal grace.

His dark hair clung to his forehead, and the intensity in his green eyes as he fought made her pulse quicken in ways that had nothing to do with fear.

She should look away. It wasn't proper to stare at her husband like that, to let her gaze linger on the play of muscles across his shoulders, the way his breeches clung to his powerful thighs. But she couldn't seem to make herself move.

He was magnificent. Dangerous and beautiful and completely in his element, like some ancient Highland god of war. The scars she could see scattered across his torso only added to his appeal—proof of battles survived, of strength that couldn't be broken.

Heat pooled low in her belly, a sensation so unexpected and intense that she had to grip the stone wall for support. This was her husband. This powerful, beautiful man was bound to her by law and God, and someday—when she was ready—he would be hers completely.

The thought sent another wave of heat through her, followed immediately by a flutter of nervousness. How could she ever be worthy of such a man?

"Me lady?" A young voice broke through her concentration. "What brings ye tae the training ground?"

She turned to find a soldier approaching—young, perhaps twenty, with sandy hair and a friendly smile. His practice sword was sheathed at his side, and he carried himself with the easy confidence of youth.

"I was looking fer me husband," she said, suddenly self-conscious about staring.

"Ah, the laird's busy showing younger soldiers how tae properly hold a sword without cutting off their own fingers," the soldier said with a grin. "I'm Euan, me lady. One of the newer lads here, and still in training."

"Lady MacDuff," she replied, offering a polite nod. "Are ye enjoying yer training?"

"Aye, though I'm beginning to think I'll never be half as skilled as our future laird. Yer husband fights like the devil himself when he's in the mood fer it."

There was genuine admiration in the young man's voice, and Iona found herself smiling. "He's always been determined tae excel at whatever he sets his mind tae."

"Ye kenned him before the war, then?" Euan asked with obvious curiosity.

"We were children taegether," she said simply. "A very long time ago."

"Well, ye chose well then, me lady. There isn't a man in this clan who wouldn't follow Maister Ruaridh intae the depths of hell itself."

The loyalty in his voice was unmistakable, and it made something warm unfurl in Iona's chest. Whatever darkness Ruaridh carried from his experiences, his men still believed in him completely.