Page 2 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER TWO

" G et the lass tae safety!" Henry roared, blood streaming down his arm as he fought to stay in his saddle.

Chaos erupted around Iona as MacNab warriors poured from the darkness like demons from hell. The night air filled with the clash of steel, the screams of horses, and the guttural war cries of men bent on murder.

So this is how I die.

A MacNab warrior lunged at her from the left, his sword gleaming in the starlight. Callum appeared between them, his blade meeting the attacker's with a shower of sparks. The young guard's face was set with grim determination, but Iona could see the fear in his eyes.

Dear God, he's just a boy. They're all goin' tae die because of me.

"Ride, me lady!" Callum shouted over the din. "Dinnae look back!"

But there was nowhere to ride. MacNab soldiers blocked every path, their horses forming a deadly circle around her diminishing escort. She counted at least twenty attackers—maybe more in the darkness. Her ten guards were hopelessly outnumbered. How? How had they walked straight into a trap?

Henry wheeled his horse around, his sword dripping red as he cut down a MacNab foot soldier. "Form up! Protect the lady!"

The remaining MacNeill guards tried to close ranks around her, but their formation was already crumbling.

To her right, she watched in horror as young Donald—barely twenty and married just last spring—took a spear through the chest. He toppled from his horse without a sound, his blood dark against the heather.

"There she is!" A voice cut through the battle—cold and familiar. "Take her alive if ye can, but dead will dae just as well!"

Iona's blood turned to ice. She knew that voice, the voice that had whispered threats in her ear just months ago. Murray MacNab himself was there, leading the slaughter.

He came personally tae ensure I die.

A MacNab warrior broke through their weakened line, swinging his sword at her horse's legs. She yanked the reins hard left, feeling the blade whistle past her mount's knees. The horse reared in terror, and she fought to keep her seat.

"Behind ye, lass!" Henry's warning came just in time.

She ducked as another warrior's axe swept over her head, close enough that she felt the wind of its passage. Henry's sword took the man in the neck, dropping him instantly, but two more rushed to fill the gap.

They're everywhere. We cannae hold them.

The sound of steel on steel rang out like a deadly bell as her guards fought with the desperation of doomed men.

She watched the blacksmith's son—a gentle giant who'd taught her to shoe horses—drive his spear through a MacNab's chest, only to take a crossbow bolt in the shoulder that dislodged him from his saddle.

"Fall back to the stones!" Henry commanded, blood now flowing freely from three separate wounds.

The ancient standing stones at the valley's entrance offered the only defensive position available. If they could reach them, maybe they could make a stand. But the MacNab forces seemed to anticipate the move, shifting to cut off their retreat.

They ken these lands as well as we dae. Maybe better.

Iona found herself pressed back-to-back with Callum as the circle tightened. The young guard was breathing hard, his sword arm trembling with exhaustion. Around them, the sounds of battle were growing quieter as more MacNeill voices fell silent forever.

"How many left?" she asked, though she was afraid to hear the answer.

"Six," Callum replied grimly. "Maybe five."

Half our men dead already.

A MacNab warrior charged directly at her, his war cry echoing off the valley walls. Callum moved to intercept, but his tired horse stumbled on the uneven ground. The enemy's sword caught him across the chest, opening a red line from shoulder to hip.

"Nay!" Iona's scream tore from her throat as Callum fell.

The MacNab forces were pulling back slightly, regrouping for one last charge that would finish them all. In the brief respite, she counted her remaining protectors. Four men, all wounded, all exhausted. Against at least fifteen enemies who looked fresh and eager for blood.

This is where it ends.

"Me lady," Henry's voice was growing weak from blood loss. "When they charge, ye ride hard fer those trees tae the north. Dinnae stop fer anythin' or anyone."

"I willnae leave ye," she said fiercely.

"Ye will, because that's an order from yer faither." His eyes were hard despite his pain. "And because if ye die here, all these good men died fer naethin'."

He's right. If I die, their sacrifice means naething.

Murray's voice rang out across the battlefield, cold and mocking. "Iona MacNeill! Come out and face me, and I'll let yer remaining dogs live!"

Liar. He'll kill them all regardless.

She looked at Henry, seeing the same knowledge in his eyes. There would be no mercy. No quarter given. It was about more than politics or clan feuds—it was about Murray's wounded pride and his need to destroy her completely.

"Dinnae answer him," Henry warned quietly. "He wants tae see ye break."

But she was tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of watching good people die because of her choices. She urged her horse forward a few steps, close enough for her voice to carry.

"I'm here, Murray!" she called out. "What dae ye want?"

His laughter was like ice in her veins. "What dae I want? Justice, Iona. Ye tried tae ruin me with yer lies, and now I'm here tae return the favor."

"The only lies told were yers," she shot back. "And everyone will ken the truth eventually."

"Will they? Hard tae speak when ye’re dead."

The MacNab forces began moving forward again, their weapons gleaming in the starlight. This was it—the final moment. Around her, her few remaining guards gripped their weapons with bloody hands, preparing to give their lives.

But as the enemy closed in, a new sound reached her ears—the thunder of hoofbeats approaching fast from the north. Many hoofbeats.

Henry's head snapped up, hope flickering in his tired eyes. "Listen!"

The MacNab charge faltered as their leader raised his hand, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "What in hell?—"

The new riders burst from the tree line like avenging angels, their war cries echoing off the valley walls. Even in the darkness, Iona could see they wore different colors—not MacNab red, but MacDuff blue and silver.

Ruaridh. It has tae be.

But her moment of hope was short-lived. A MacNab warrior, seeing his advantage slipping away, broke from the main group and charged straight at her. His sword was raised high, his face twisted with bloodlust.

She tried to wheel her horse away, but the exhausted animal responded too slowly. The warrior's blade descended toward her head?—

"Got ye now, MacNeill whore," he snarled, raising his spear. "Murray wants ye alive so he can take yer head himself, and by God, he'll have?—"

The MacNab warrior's blade descended toward her head. Her exhausted horse responded too slowly to her desperate attempt to wheel away, and Iona closed her eyes, bracing for the blow?—

Strong hands seized her from behind, dragging her from the saddle just as steel bit into the leather where she'd been sitting. She hit the ground hard in someone's protective embrace, gasping for breath as she looked up to see her rescuer.

Ruaridh.

Even in the chaos of battle, even after fifteen years, she knew him instantly. Gone was the gangly boy she remembered—this was a warrior in his prime, his green eyes intense as he looked down at her.

"Are ye hurt?" His voice was rough with concern, and for just a split second his face softened. Something flickered in his eyes, tender and achingly familiar, like an echo of the boy who used to comfort her scraped knees.

She nodded, at loss for words, and then his expression hardened again, the moment lost as quickly as it had come.

"Stay here," he commanded, his voice turning cold and professional as he rose to his feet, sword already in hand.

The MacNab soldier who'd been about to kill her spun around, snarling as he raised his spear toward them both. But Ruaridh was already moving, his blade finding the man's heart before he could strike