Page 17 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A fter visiting the healer, Ruaridh entered their chamber with careful steps, his injured side protesting every movement despite Moira's tight binding.

The familiar space felt different somehow after a night spent on the hard ground of a shepherd's hut, listening to his men's pained breathing and wondering if more MacNab warriors might find them in the darkness.

But it was the sight of his sleeping mat that stopped him short.

The mat lay unrolled near the bed, positioned closer than it had ever been. His blankets were spread neatly beside it, as if she'd been expecting his return all along.

She laid it and moved it closer.

He looked at her, noting the way she fidgeted with her hands, the flush creeping up her neck. There was something almost guilty in her expression, as if she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't.

Noting where he was looking, the color in her cheeks deepened. "I... aye." She stammered slightly, clearly flustered. "It was getting late, and when I didnae see ye, I wanted tae..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Wanted tae what? Make sure I had somewhere tae sleep when I returned? Or is there something else entirely?

He studied her face, trying to read the emotions flickering there. Embarrassment, certainly. But there was something else—a nervousness that suggested she'd surprised herself with her own actions.

Rather than comment on it, he moved toward the washbasin in the corner, needing to clean the dried blood and grime from his skin. The cold water felt good against his face and hands, washing away the worst of the day's ordeal.

As he bent over the basin, he caught sight of Iona in the polished metal mirror above it. She was watching him with an intensity that made something stir in his chest—her eyes fixed on the movement of his shoulders, the play of muscle beneath his torn shirt.

When he straightened and turned, she quickly looked away, color flooding her cheeks again.

Interesting.

Without a word, he moved to the chest where his clean clothes were stored, pulling out a fresh linen shirt. The movement sent a sharp pain through his injured side, and he had to pause, gritting his teeth against the discomfort.

"Tomorrow I'll question the prisoner, find out what MacNab is plannin’." He pulled the clean shirt over his head, careful not to disturb Moira's bandages.

He saw her swallow hard. "Dae ye think he'll tell ye anything useful?"

"Men talk when they're properly motivated." There was something cold in his voice, something that spoke of experience with such matters. "And this one will tell me why Murray MacNab is so determined tae see ye dead that he'd risk open war with me clan."

Iona went very still at that, her hands clenching in her skirts. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I saw him. The prisoner. When they were taking him tae the dungeons." She looked up at Ruaridh, her face pale. "I ken who he is. His name is Dougal MacNab—he's Murray's cousin. "

Ruaridh's eyes sharpened. "Ye're certain?"

"Aye. I've seen him before, at clan gatherings. He's one of Murray's most trusted men. He kens Murray’s dealings." Her voice grew smaller. "This wasnae some random border raid. They came hunting fer something specific."

"Or someone," Ruaridh said grimly, noting how she wrapped her arms around herself. "Iona, this changes things. If Murray sent his own cousin..."

"Then he's more desperate than we thought," she finished quietly.

"What else could drive a man tae such desperate measures?" He studied her face, noting the way she avoided his eyes. "Whatever happened between ye and Murray, it's more than wounded pride driving him now."

"I've told ye what happened?—"

"Aye, ye have. But I suspect there's more tae the story than ye've shared." He moved closer, ignoring the pull in his side. "Soon we'll have answers, one way or another. And when we dae, we'll end this threat permanently."

"Ruaridh..." Her voice was small, uncertain. "What if the answers are worse than ye expect? What if?—"

"What aren't ye telling me, Iona?" His eyes sharpened, studying her face. "Murray's not just angry about a broken betrothal— there's something else, isnae there? Something that has him so desperate he's willing tae risk open war with the MacDuffs."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, intense tone. "What daes he think ye ken? What secret is worth killing ye fer?"

Her face went pale, and he saw the truth flickering in her eyes—there was indeed something more.

"I can see it in yer face, lass. There's something ye havenae told me, something that explains why he wants ye dead so badly." His voice was firm, unwavering. "Tell me now, before his next move catches us unprepared."

Iona was quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on something beyond the window. He could see the internal struggle playing out across her features—the desire to confess warring with whatever fear kept her secrets locked away.

Finally, she sighed, a sound so weary it made his chest ache.

She turned from the window to face him, her hazel eyes bright with unshed tears. "The assault... that was only part of it. The night it happened, I was in Murray's study..." She swallowed hard. "I discovered something I wasnae supposed tae see."

"What?"

"Letters. Correspondence with other Highland lairds.

" Her voice grew steadier as she continued, as if finally speaking the truth was giving her strength.

"Murray MacNab isnae just a cruel man with wounded pride, Ruaridh.

He's part of a network—lairds across the Highlands who've been blackmailing others, trading secrets fer power and gold. "

The implications hit him like a physical blow. "Blackmail?"

"Aye. Threatening tae expose affairs, debts, political alliances.

.. anything that could destroy a clan's reputation or standing.

Murray has been using these secrets tae gain influence, tae force other lairds into agreements that benefit his clan.

And allying with the English." She wrapped her arms around herself.

"He wants me dead because I ken the truth about his activities. Because I have proof."

"Proof?" Ruaridh's voice was sharp. "What kind of proof?"

Iona met his eyes, and he saw fear there—but also a kind of desperate resolve. "I took one of his letters. The night he... the night he attacked me. I have it hidden away. It shows that he has been involved in some treasonous dealings, it has enough information that would destroy him."

The silence that followed was deafening. Ruaridh stared at his wife, understanding finally dawning with terrible clarity.

"That's why he's so desperate," he said slowly. "It's nae about wounded pride or rejected advances. It's about survival. If that letter becomes public..."

"It would be the end of him." Iona's voice was barely above a whisper. "That's why he wants me dead, Ruaridh. Not because I refused him, but because I ken what he truly is. And because he thinks that if that letter died with me, his secrets would die too."