Page 16 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

The afternoon stretched endlessly. She tried to read, attempted some embroidery, even considered returning to help Niamh. But she couldn't shake the restless energy that had settled in her bones, the need to be there, in that room, where she would know the moment he returned.

If he returns.

She pushed the dark thought away as soon as it formed. Ruaridh was skilled, experienced. He'd survived whatever war had left those scars on his soul—surely he could handle a skirmish with MacNab raiders.

The sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon when movement in the courtyard caught her eye. A group of riders was approaching the gates, their horses moving slowly, carefully. Even at that distance, she could see that some of the men were slumped in their saddles, supported by their companions.

Please, God, let him be among them.

She pressed her face to the glass, straining to make out individual figures.

There—a tall man on a dark horse, sitting straight despite what looked like bloodstains on his shirt.

Even from this distance, even with her heart hammering against her ribs, she knew that posture, that way of holding himself.

"Ruaridh!"

She was running before she'd consciously decided to move, her skirts gathering in her hands as she flew through the castle corridors.

Servants pressed themselves against walls to let her pass, and she barely noticed them.

All that mattered was reaching the courtyard, seeing with her own eyes that he was alive and whole.

She burst through the great doors just as the patrol rode through the gates.

The scene that greeted her made her stomach clench—several men bore obvious wounds, bandages dark with dried blood, and young MacLeod was slumped over his horse's neck, supported by the rider beside him.

Grooms rushed forward to help the injured men dismount, while other soldiers carefully secured a bound figure—the MacNab prisoner—his head lolling from what looked like a severe blow.

Cormac was barking orders to the gathering servants. "Get these wounded men tae the healer immediately! And someone fetch hot water and clean cloth—move!"

But Iona's eyes found only one figure in the chaos.

Ruaridh sat on his horse near the center of the group, directing the organized activity around him despite the exhaustion etched in every line of his face.

Blood stained his shirt in dark patches that made her heart race with fear, but he was upright, conscious, giving commands with quiet authority.

"Ruaridh!" She hurried toward him as he slowly dismounted, favoring his left side. "Thank God ye're safe. What happened? Are ye alright?"

He turned at the sound of her voice, one hand still gripping his horse's bridle for support. Relief flickered across his features when he saw her, quickly replaced by that familiar mask of control.

"Iona." His voice was rougher than usual, strained with pain or fatigue. "Ye shouldnae be out here."

"I was worried sick," she said, reaching his horse's side and looking up at him with searching eyes. "When ye didnae come back last night, and then Alba told me there'd been fighting..." She gestured helplessly. "Nay one could tell me if ye were among the wounded."

For a moment, something flickered in his green eyes—surprise, perhaps, or something warmer that he quickly suppressed. "I'm fine, lass. Just tired."

But she could see the careful way he held himself, the slight tremor in his hands as he gripped the reins. She didn't know whether to touch him and check or hold back." There's blood—are ye hurt?"

"It's naething serious." His tone carried that familiar edge of authority, the voice of a man accustomed to having his word accepted without question. "A scratch, naething more."

Before she could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed across the courtyard. Alistair and Niamh appeared in the doorway, their faces tight with concern as they took in the scene before them.

"Ruaridh!" Niamh's voice carried a mother's relief and worry in equal measure. "We heard there was an attack. How many casualties? How serious are the wounds?"

"Three men injured, none fatally," Ruaridh reported, his voice automatically shifting to the clipped tones of military briefing. "We took one prisoner for questioning. MacNab forces numbered about fifteen—we killed twelve, one was made prisoner, the rest scattered."

Iona caught sight of the Macnab prisoner as he was being dragged toward the dungeons. The man's head lolled forward, blood matting his hair, but as they passed, he lifted his face just enough for her to see his features.

Her blood turned to ice.

She knew that face. Had seen it in Murray's company more than once, heard him called by name in conversations she wasn't supposed to overhear. That wasn't just any MacNab warrior—it was Dougal MacNab, Murray's own cousin and one of his most trusted men.

He was here fer me. This attack wasn't random—Murray sent his own family tae finish what he started.

But if Dougal was there, acting as Murray's agent, then what other plans were already in motion? What other threats were moving, even now, against the MacDuff clan?

The prisoner's eyes found hers across the courtyard. Even battered and bloodied, his gaze held a promise that made her stomach lurch with recognition.

This was far from over.