Page 15 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER TWELVE

T he first thing Iona noticed when she woke was that Ruaridh's sleeping area looked exactly as it had the morning before. His blankets were folded away where he kept them during the day so the servants wouldn’t notice they were not sharing the bed, and there was no sign that he'd prepared his sleeping space at all.

He never came back

Pale morning light filtered through the chamber windows, telling her she'd slept later than usual.

She sat up in bed, a flutter of unease stirring in her chest as she stared at the undisturbed corner where he should have slept.

She listened for sounds of movement from the adjoining chamber or the corridor beyond but heard only the distant clatter of castle life beginning another day.

He'd missed dinner last night. She'd waited in the great hall, making conversation with Niamh and picking at her food while glancing toward the doors every few minutes.

When the meal had dragged on and still no sign of him appeared, she'd finally excused herself and returned to their chamber, telling herself she wasn't disappointed.

He probably had clan business. Or maybe he forgot. It's not like it was a formal engagement.

But even as she'd prepared for bed, she'd found herself listening for his footsteps in the corridor, for the familiar sound of the door opening and his quiet movements as he arranged his sleeping area.

She'd waited, sitting on the edge of the bed with her hands folded in her lap, straining to hear any sign of his approach.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, as her eyelids grew heavy despite her determination to stay awake.

In the end, sleep had overtaken her where she sat, and she'd woken hours later to find herself alone in the empty room with a cold hearth as her only companions.

Now, dressed in one of her new gowns and with her hair braided back, she made her way through the castle corridors toward the great hall. Perhaps he'd risen early and was already breaking his fast, or meeting with his father about clan matters.

But when she entered the hall, she found only Niamh and a handful of servants clearing away the remains of the morning meal.

"Good morning, dear," Niamh said, looking up from her discussion with Cook. "Ye're up late today. I hope ye slept well?"

"Aye, thank ye." Iona glanced around the nearly empty hall. "Have ye seen Ruaridh this morning? He wasn't... that is, I wondered where he might be."

Something flickered across Niamh's face—an expression too quick to read but that sent a flutter of unease through Iona's chest. "He's nae returned yet, lass."

"Returned?" Iona's voice came out sharper than she intended. "Returned from where?"

"He took a patrol out yesterday afternoon tae check the southern borders. They haven't come back yet."

The casual way Niamh delivered this information did nothing to ease the growing knot of anxiety in Iona's stomach. "Is that... normal? Fer patrols tae stay out overnight?"

"Sometimes, if they're daein’ a thorough sweep of the area." But Niamh's tone was carefully neutral, the sort of voice used to avoid causing alarm. "I'm sure they'll be back soon."

Iona nodded, accepting the reassurance even though something in Niamh's manner suggested there was more to the story. She broke her fast with little appetite, her thoughts circling around questions she couldn't answer.

How dangerous are these border patrols? If they're just checking fer signs of MacNab activity, why would they need tae stay out all night?

After the meal, she tried to lose herself in the festival preparations, helping Niamh with the final details of menu planning and decorations. But her concentration kept wandering, and she found herself glancing toward the great doors whenever she heard hoofbeats in the courtyard.

It was mid-morning when Alba found her in the solar, attempting to focus on a piece of embroidery that would decorate one of the feast tables.

"Me lady?" Alba's voice was hesitant, almost apologetic. "Might I have a word?"

"Of course." Iona set down her needle, noting the serious expression on the maid's usually cheerful face. "What is it?"

Alba glanced around to ensure they were alone, then moved closer. "It's about Laird Ruaridh and his patrol, me lady. I thought... I thought ye should ken what's being said."

Ice formed in Iona's veins. "What's being said?"

"Word came back from one of the border scouts.

There was fighting yesterday afternoon—MacNab warriors ambushed the patrol near the old mill.

" Alba's voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

"They fought them off, but... but they took casualties, me lady.

That's why they didn't come home last night. "

The embroidery fell from Iona's suddenly nerveless fingers. "Casualties? What kind of casualties? Who was hurt?"

"I dinnae ken, me lady. The scout who brought word said there were bodies on the ground, MacNab bodies mostly, but some of our lads too."

Sweet Mary, nay. Please nae Ruaridh. Nay when we've just wed...

"Did he say..." Iona had to clear her throat to get the words out. "Did he mention Ruaridh specifically? Whether he was among the injured?"

Alba's face crumpled with sympathy. "That's just it, me lady. He couldn't tell. Said a scout brought news to their patrol for the laird. And that they'd taken shelter somewhere fer the night rather than risk moving injured men in the dark."

Iona's hands were shaking now, and she clasped them together in her lap to hide the trembling. Images flashed through her mind—Ruaridh's blood-soaked body lying motionless on the ground, or worse, captured by MacNab warriors and facing the kind of torment Murray delighted in inflicting.

This is me fault. If I hadn't married him, if I hadn't brought me troubles tae his clan, he wouldn't be out there risking his life against Murray's men.

"Me lady?" Alba's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are ye all right? Ye've gone quite pale."

"I'll be fine," Iona managed, though her voice sounded thin and breathless. "Dae ye ken what Laird Alistair is doing about this report?"

"Aye, me lady. He's called a meeting with the Council, and they're discussing whether tae send out a search party."

"A search party?" The implications of that made Iona's stomach lurch. If they needed to search for the patrol, it meant something had gone seriously wrong. "Why would they need tae search? Dinnae they ken where the patrol was supposed tae go?"

Alba's expression grew even more troubled, but all she could do was look at Iona with pity.

Or they could all be dead. Or captured. Or Ruaridh could be bleeding tae death somewhere while I sit here worrying about embroidery.

"I need tae speak with Laird Alistair," Iona said, rising abruptly from her chair.

"Me lady, I dinnae think?—"

"I need tae ken what's being done tae find them." Her voice was steadier now, fueled by determination rather than fear. "If there's anything I can dae tae help, any way I can be useful..."

"Me lady, please," Alba said gently. "The laird and his Council ken what they're about. And surely Ruaridh is skilled enough tae take care of himself and his men. He's been fighting longer than most, and he's never lost a patrol yet."

The reassurance should have been comforting, but all Iona could think about was how different this situation was from normal clan conflicts.

This wasn't a border dispute with neighboring clansmen who fought by Highland codes of honor.

This was Murray MacNab, a man whose cruelty knew no bounds, whose hatred of her was deep enough to drive him to acts of savage vengeance.

If Murray has captured Ruaridh, he'll make him suffer fer marrying me. He'll use him tae get tae me, or worse—he'll torture him just fer the pleasure of destroying someone connected tae me.

The thought hit her like a physical blow. When had she started caring about Ruaridh beyond gratitude for his protection? When had his welfare become something that could make her hands shake and her breath come short?

"Me lady?" Alba was watching her with growing concern. "Should I fetch Lady Niamh? Or perhaps some tea tae settle yer nerves?"

"Nay," Iona said, forcing herself to stand straighter. "I'm fine. Just... worried about me husband, as any wife would be."

But even as she spoke the words, she knew they didn't capture the depth of what she was feeling.

This wasn't the detached concern of a political bride for her spouse's welfare.

This was the gut-wrenching terror of a woman who was beginning to realize that somewhere in the careful dance of their arranged marriage, something inside of her had started to become involved.

After Alba left, Iona returned to their chamber, unable to concentrate on anything else. The castle felt different somehow with Ruaridh gone—less secure, more vulnerable. She'd grown accustomed to his steady presence, to knowing he was somewhere within these walls even when they weren't together.

The room seemed too quiet, too empty. Her eyes kept drifting to the corner where he slept. The sight of it bothered her more than it should have—the blankets he used should have been spread beside her bed by now.

He said he'd them closer every night. But last night, he never had the chance.

Without quite understanding why, she found herself crossing to the drawer where he kept them. The wool blankets were soft beneath her fingers. She positioned it where she thought he might have placed it—perhaps close enough that they could speak quietly without raising their voices.

Foolish lass. He'll think ye've overstepped when he returns.

Standing back, she studied her handiwork. It looked right, somehow. Less lonely than the empty space had been.

She left it as it was and moved to the window, pulling the heavy curtains aside to peer out at the courtyard below. Guards walked their posts, servants hurried about their business, but there was no sign of returning riders.