Page 14 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER ELEVEN

W hat in hell's name is wrong with ye?

The practice sword slammed into Ruaridh's opponent's shield with enough force to send the younger man staggering backward, but the violent satisfaction of the blow did nothing to ease the knot of fury building in his chest.

Across the training yard, Iona stood talking to young Euan, her face animated in a way he hadn't seen since their wedding night.

The lad was grinning at something she'd said, standing far too close for Ruaridh's liking, his sandy head bent toward hers with an intimacy that made Ruaridh's grip tighten on his sword hilt until his knuckles went white.

She's yer wife, nae some tavern wench tae be chatted up by every pup with a sword.

The thought came unbidden and unwelcome.

He had no right to feel possessive of a woman he barely touched and who he had no claim on beyond the legal bonds of their marriage.

And yet the sight of her laughing with another man, especially a young, unmarked warrior who probably still believed in honor and glory, sent something dark and violent churning through his veins.

"Sir?" His sparring partner's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are ye all right? Did I dae somethin’?"

Ruaridh forced himself to lower his weapon, dragging his gaze away from his wife and the boy who was making her smile. "Nay. Trainin's over fer today," he said, his voice sharp enough to cut through an inch of glass. "See tae yer weapons."

Without waiting for a response, he stalked across the yard toward the couple, each step closer revealing more details too fed his inexplicable anger—the way Euan's eyes lingered on Iona's face, the flush of pleasure in her cheeks, the easy way she seemed to be talking to him.

She never talks tae me like that. Never looks at me with that kind of warmth.

The comparison hit him like a blow to the gut. When had he started caring whether his wife smiled at him? When had her attention become something he wanted rather than something he endured?

"Euan." His voice cut across their conversation like a blade.

Both heads turned toward him, and Ruaridh saw the exact moment Iona's expression shifted from animated pleasure to wary concern. Her hazel eyes searched his face, clearly reading something in his posture that alarmed her.

"Laird Ruaridh," Euan said quickly, straightening to attention. "I was just telling Lady MacDuff about the training exercises. She was asking about?—"

"I'm sure she was." Ruaridh's tone was carefully controlled, but ice ran through every word. "Dinnae ye have duties tae attend tae?"

The young warrior's face flushed, understanding the dismissal for what it was. "Aye, sir. Of course." He turned to Iona with a respectful bow. "Thank ye fer the conversation, me lady. I hope ye'll find the training yard interesting tae visit."

Ruaridh's jaw clenched at the invitation, but before he could respond, Euan was already backing away, clearly eager to escape whatever storm was brewing in his laird's expression.

When they were alone, Iona continued to study his face with that unnerving perceptiveness that made him feel stripped bare.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

Everything. Naething. I dinnae ken why the sight of ye talking tae another man makes me want tae run him through with a blade.

"Naething's wrong," he tried to keep his tone cool, but even to his own ears the words sounded strained.

"Ruaridh." Her voice was gentle but firm. "I can see ye're upset about something. Was it... was I nae supposed tae be here? I ken ye said the training yard was where ye came fer peace and quiet."

The uncertainty in her voice cut through his anger like cold water, reminding him that she was still finding her place there, still unsure of her welcome. Whatever madness had gripped him, she didn't deserve to bear the brunt of it.

"I came tae find ye," she continued before he could speak, her hands twisting together in that nervous gesture he was beginning to recognize. "I wanted tae thank ye again."

"Thank me?" The words came out sharp, confusion instantly replacing some of his earlier fury.

"Fer speaking tae yer maither. Fer asking her tae include me in the festival preparations." Her voice grew softer, more uncertain. "It... it means more than ye probably realize. Having something meaningful tae dae."

The last of his anger drained away so completely that he felt momentarily dizzy. She wasn't there to flirt with young guardsmen or seek attention from other men. She'd come to thank him for trying to help her find her place in his clan.

Ye jealous bastard. She was trying tae show gratitude, and ye nearly started a fight over naethin’.

"It was naethin’," he said. He cleared his throat, trying to find words that wouldn't reveal how much her thanks affected him. "Me maither needed help. Ye needed something tae dae. It made sense."

"Still." She took a half-step closer, and he caught the faint scent of lavender that always seemed to cling to her hair. "It was thoughtful of ye tae think of it. Tae... tae notice that I was struggling."

I'm starting tae notice more things about ye than I care tae say.

"Aye, well." He shifted uncomfortably, unsure what to respond. "Like I said, it was naething special."

She smiled then—not the animated expression she'd worn while talking to Euan, but something smaller, more private. Something meant just for him. "Well, it was special tae me."

The words hit him somewhere in the chest, in a place he'd thought was safely armored against such things. Before he could think of a response that wouldn't reveal too much, she was already stepping back.

"I should return tae the preparations. Yer maither will be wondering where I've gone." She paused, glancing around the training yard. "Will ye... will ye be joining us fer the evening meal?"

The question caught him off guard. She was asking him to dinner—not commanding his presence as was her right as his wife, but asking, as if his answer mattered to her.

"Aye," he heard himself say. "I'll be there."

Her smile widened just a fraction. "Good. I'll see ye then."

He watched her walk away across the courtyard, her blue skirts swaying with each step. He told himself he wasn't studying the graceful way she moved. Wasn't noticing how the afternoon light caught the auburn threads in her hair, or the confident set of her shoulders now that she had purpose again.

Ye're nae looking. Ye're just... making sure she reaches the castle safely.

But even his own inner voice sounded unconvinced.

"Sir?"

Ruaridh jerked his attention away from his wife's retreating figure to find Cormac approaching, fully armed and ready for patrol.

His lieutenant's weathered face showed nothing, but Ruaridh caught the slight quirk of his mouth that suggested he'd noticed exactly where his laird's attention had been focused.

"Time fer the perimeter rounds," Cormac said simply.

"Aye." Ruaridh forced himself to turn away from the castle doors where Iona had disappeared. "Gather the men. I want a full sweep of the southern borders today—the scouts reported movement near the old mill yesterday."

"How many men, sir?"

"Eight. Full weapons and armor." Ruaridh strode toward the armory, his mind already shifting from domestic concerns to military matters. "Post sentries at the north and east gates while we're gone. Double watch until we return."

"Should we send word tae Laird Alistair about the patrol?"

"Nay need. We'll be back before full dark." Ruaridh checked his sword belt, ensuring his weapons were secure.

Within minutes, his small patrol was mounted and ready.

Ruaridh felt the familiar shift that came with command—the weight of responsibility, the heightened awareness of everything around him.

This was where he belonged, where the complexities of marriage and emotions gave way to the clear, simple demands of leadership.

"Brodie, take point. Keep yer eyes on the tree line—if there are MacNab scouts about, they'll use the forest fer cover." His voice carried easily across the group, each word crisp with authority. "MacLeod, watch our rear. I dinnae want any surprises."

"Aye," came the immediate responses.

"We'll ride hard tae the mill, sweep the area thoroughly, then work our way back along the border.

Anyone who sees anything—tracks, smoke, a bird flying wrong—ye speak up immediately.

" He looked each man in the eye, ensuring they understood.

"MacNab's been testing our defenses fer weeks.

Taeday might be the day he decides tae dae more than test."

They rode out through the castle gates at a steady canter, Ruaridh leading from the front as was his way. Behind him, he could hear the easy conversation of men who'd ridden together for years, the comfortable banter that spoke of absolute trust in their leader and each other.

This is what I'm good at. Leading men. Making tactical decisions. Fightin’ when fightin's needed.

Unlike the tangled mess of trying to be a husband to a woman who flinched at his touch but thanked him for small kindnesses with smiles that made his chest tighten.

The patrol made good time across the moorland, following well-worn paths that skirted the worst of the boggy ground.

The afternoon sun was warm on their backs, and the Highland landscape stretched endlessly around them—purple heather and golden gorse, ancient stone walls marking boundaries that had stood for centuries.

It was Brodie who saw them first.

"Movement in the trees ahead, sir!" he called back, his voice sharp with warning. "Armed men, maybe a dozen."

Ruaridh's hand went immediately to his sword hilt as he urged his horse forward for a better view. Through the gaps in the forest canopy, he caught glimpses of red and black—MacNab colors.

"Ambush," he said grimly, loud enough for his men to hear. "It's a trap. They've been waiting fer us."

Even as the words left his mouth, the forest erupted in war cries as MacNab warriors poured from the trees on three sides, their weapons glinting in the afternoon light. They'd chosen their position well—the patrol was caught in the open with nowhere to run.

"Form up!" Ruaridh roared, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. "Defensive circle! Protect each other's backs!"

His men responded instantly, years of training taking over as they wheeled their horses into formation. But even as they moved, arrows began to whistle through the air, and Ruaridh felt one graze his shoulder, tearing through leather and drawing blood.

Dae the bastards want a fight? They'll get one.

"Fer MacDuff!" he bellowed, spurring his horse toward the largest group of attackers.

The battle that followed was vicious and desperate. The MacNab warriors fought with the fury of men who knew they were deep in enemy territory with no hope of retreat if they failed. Ruaridh's patrol fought with the grim determination of Highland warriors defending their clan's honor.

Steel rang against steel as Ruaridh cut down two men in quick succession, his horse dancing beneath him as he sought the next target. Around him, he could hear grunts and curses from his men, the screams of wounded horses, the wet sound of blades finding flesh.

A MacNab spearman lunged at his horse's flank, and Ruaridh leaned down to drive his sword through the man's chest. But as he straightened, pain exploded through his left side as another warrior's blade found the gap in his armor, sliding between ribs with burning precision.

God in heaven save us!

He stayed in the saddle through sheer will, turning to face his attacker even as blood began to soak his shirt. The MacNab warrior—a grizzled veteran with scars crisscrossing his face—raised his sword for another strike.

Ruaridh's blade took him through the throat before he could complete the motion.

"Sir!" Cormac's voice cut through the din. "Ye're bleeding!"

"I'm fine," Ruaridh snarled, though the wound in his side was sending waves of agony through his body with every breath. "Keep fighting!"

The battle raged on until the last MacNab warrior fell, while eight of Ruaridh's men remained standing, breathing hard and spattered with blood both their own and their enemies'.

"Casualties?" Ruaridh asked, fighting to keep his voice steady despite the pain.

"MacLeod took an arrow in the thigh, but he'll live," Cormac reported. "Brodie's got a nasty cut on his sword arm. Ye're the worst hurt, sir."

Ruaridh looked down at his side, where blood was steadily seeping through his torn shirt. The wound wasn't immediately fatal, but it was deep enough to be serious. "Any prisoners?"

"One, sir. Took a blow to the head and went down hard. He's breathing, but unconscious."

"Good. We'll take him back fer questioning." Ruaridh swayed slightly in his saddle, the blood loss beginning to affect him. "Can ye bind this wound well enough fer the ride home?"

Cormac's experienced hands were already working, tearing strips from a dead MacNab's shirt to use as bandages. "Aye, but we need tae go slow and careful. Too much jostling and ye'll start bleeding worse."

"Then we'd best get moving before—" Ruaridh's words were cut off as his vision blurred and the world tilted sideways.

Strong hands caught him before he could fall from his horse. "Easy, sir. We've got ye."

When his head cleared, he found himself propped against a tree with Cormac's concerned face hovering over him. The sun was noticeably lower in the sky, and the pain in his side had settled into a constant, throbbing ache.

"How long was I out?" he asked.

"Just a few minutes. But ye've lost more blood than I'd like." Cormac's voice was grim. "I've got the wound bound tight, but ye need proper care. A healer's attention."

Ruaridh tried to sit up straighter and immediately regretted it as fire shot through his side. "Can I ride?"

"Aye, but nae fast and nae far. And certainly nae all the way back tae the castle taenight." Cormac glanced around at the gathering darkness. "There's an old shepherd's hut about a mile north of here. We could shelter there until morning, give ye time tae rest and get yer strength back."

The thought of lying still for hours while Iona wondered where he was made Ruaridh's jaw clench. She'd be expecting him for dinner, and when he didn't appear...

She'll think I broke me word. Or worse, that something's happened .

"Sir?" Cormac was watching him with growing concern. "We need tae move soon, before it gets full dark. What are yer orders?"

Ruaridh closed his eyes briefly, weighing his options.

Push through the pain and try to make it home, risking opening his wound wider and possibly bleeding to death in the saddle?

Or accept that he was in no condition for a hard ride and spend the night in a drafty hut while his wife waited for him?

"The hut," he said finally. "We'll shelter there until dawn."