Page 23 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

" G ood afternoon, maither." Ruaridh's stomach growled as he entered the solar.

He'd missed breakfast again—another restless night followed by an early morning patrol had left him with no appetite until now.

The castle kitchens were busy preparing for the evening meal, but he knew his mother often kept small provisions in the solar for her long afternoons of correspondence.

"How's yer wound healing?" Niamh asked without looking up from the parchments spread across her desk.

He found a plate of oatcakes and cheese on the sideboard and took a large bite, savoring the simple food as he prepared to make his escape back to his duties.

"Well enough," he replied around another bite. "The stitches can come out in a few days."

"Good. And ye've been taking care nae tae overexert yerself?"

"Maither, I am nae a bairn or even a lad." The edge in his voice was not because of his mother's questions. It was because they reminded him about how he'd been working himself harder than ever these past few days, anything to avoid thinking about Iona's terrified face as she'd fled from his study.

Niamh finally looked up, her sharp eyes taking in his appearance. "Aye. But ye will always be me son. Ye look tired. Are ye sleeping?"

Sleeping? He almost laughed out loud. He'd been lying awake listening to Iona's breathing, torturing himself with the memory of that kiss and his complete lack of control.

"Hmm." Niamh turned to a list beside her, frowning. "Oh, damnation. We're missing saffron fer the celebration feast. And cinnamon. Cook will have me head if we can't?—"

"I'll go," Iona's voice came from the doorway, and Ruaridh's head snapped up. She entered the solar with a stack of linens in her arms, her face carefully neutral. "Tae the village, I mean. Tae get what ye need."

Every muscle in Ruaridh's body went rigid. "Absolutely nae."

"It's just the village," Iona said, not meeting his eyes. "A quick trip?—"

"Nay." He set down the oatcake and faced her fully, his voice carrying the authority of command. "There's nay chance ye're leaving these walls when MacNab soldiers could be anywhere."

"I'm tired of being stuck in this castle like a prisoner," she said, finally looking at him. There was frustration in her hazel eyes, but also something that looked like hurt. "I need tae feel useful, tae dae things that matter."

"Yer safety matters more than spices."

"But if I take an escort?—"

"An escort willnae stop a crossbow bolt or a well-placed knife." His voice was flat, implacable. "The answer is nae, Iona. And it will remain nae."

She opened her mouth to argue further, but something in his expression stopped her. Good. He was in nay mood fer defiance, nae when it came tae her safety.

"Then how dae we get the ingredients?" Niamh asked carefully, clearly sensing the tension between them.

"I'll go meself," Ruaridh said, still holding Iona's gaze. "This afternoon, with a full escort. Iona stays on castle grounds."

"Ye cannae keep me here by force," Iona said quietly, but there was no real challenge in her voice. She could see he was serious, could read the steel in his expression.

"I can and I will if necessary." His tone brooked no argument. "Yer life is worth more than yer freedom tae wander the countryside. If ye cannae see that, then I'll make the decision fer ye."

For a moment, they stared at each other across the solar. He could see her weighing her options, could practically feel her considering whether to push back against his authority. But finally, she looked away, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Very well," she said stiffly. "I'll stay on castle grounds."

"Good." He turned back to his mother. "Make a list of everything ye need. I'll leave within the hour."

As he moved toward the door, he caught Niamh's knowing look.

His mother had always been too perceptive for her own good, and she could probably read the protective instincts driving his harsh words.

But he didn't care. Iona could hate him for being controlling, could rage against his high-handed decisions. As long as she was alive to do it.

"Ruaridh," Iona's voice stopped him at the threshold.

He turned back, noting how she stood with her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "Aye?"

"Be careful. In the village." Her voice was soft, almost reluctant. "MacNab soldiers—they might be watching fer MacDuff riders too."

The concern in her voice, offered despite her anger at his decision, hit him harder than it should have. "I'll be careful," he said gruffly.

Then he was gone, leaving the two women to their meal planning.

"Be careful in the village."

The words was almost a whisper.

Those few words followed him down the corridor like an echo.

She'd said it as if it meant something to her. As if he meant something to her.

Dinnae read more intae it than there is. She was bein’ polite.

The stable yard was shrouded in mist, the air sharp with the promise of a harsh winter. Angus had his horse ready—a steady bay gelding that could handle the rough roads to the nearby town. The old groom handed him the reins with a grunt.

"Market day's always busy, me lord. Ye sure ye dinnae want an escort?"

"I can handle a few merchants and farmers, Angus."

"Aye, but with all the trouble lately?—"

"I'll be fine." Ruaridh swung into the saddle, settling his weight as the horse danced beneath him. "Keep the gates locked while I'm gone. Nay one enters without Duncan's approval."

The ride to town took him through countryside he'd known since childhood—rolling hills dotted with stone cottages, ancient oak groves where he'd played as a boy, streams that sang their way down from the mountains toward the loch.

The familiar landscape should have calmed him, but Iona's whispered words kept echoing in his mind.

Be careful.

Had there been worry in her voice? Affection? Or was it simply the automatic concern any wife might show?

Why daes it matter what she meant?

But it did matter, though he couldn't say why.

The town was already bustling when he arrived, merchants setting up their stalls in the market square while early customers examined goods by lantern light.

Despite the familiar routine of market day, Ruaridh kept his senses sharp, his eyes scanning the crowd for anything out of place.

MacNab soldiers could be anywhere, disguised as traders or farmers, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Stay alert. Too many people, too many places tae hide.

He found the spice merchant's stall near the center of the square, a weathered man named MacLeod who'd been trading here since before Ruaridh was born.

"Laird Ruaridh!" MacLeod's weathered face broke into a genuine smile. "What brings ye tae market so early?"

"Me maither's in need of saffron and cinnamon fer the solstice feast," Ruaridh replied, his eyes still moving over the crowd even as he spoke. "And she made it clear that anything less than the finest would reflect poorly on her kitchen's reputation."

MacLeod chuckled, already reaching for small cloth pouches. "Aye, Lady Niamh has particular tastes. Lucky fer ye, I've got both fresh from the southern traders. It’ll cost ye a fair bit, but ‘tis worth every copper."

As MacLeod measured out the precious spices, Ruaridh continued his vigilant watch.

A group of men lingered near the blacksmith's stall, their conversation too quiet for the bustling market.

Two strangers examined pottery with unusual intensity, their eyes darting toward him more often than their supposed interest in ceramics warranted.

Could be naething.

"That'll be two silver pieces fer the spices," MacLeod said, drawing back his attention.

Ruaridh paid the merchant, tucking the precious pouches safely into his saddlebag.

He moved through the rest of his mother's list with practiced efficiency—salt from the fishmonger, dried herbs from the herb wife, candlewax from the chandler.

Each transaction was completed quickly, his attention divided between commerce and the constant scan for potential threats.

It was as he finished the last purchase that a sweet scent caught his attention. The baker's stall was doing brisk business, the aroma of fresh bread and honey cakes filling the air. One particular tray made him pause—small, delicate pastries glazed with honey and sprinkled with nuts.

Iona's favorite. She used tae steal them from the kitchen when we were children.

The memory came unbidden: Iona at eight years old, her face sticky with honey, giggling as she shared her pilfered treasure with him behind the castle stables. She'd always had a weakness for sweet things, especially the honey pastries Cook made for special occasions.

She wanted tae come tae the market. Wanted tae feel useful instead of trapped. Maybe I should have let her enjoy the day with me.

The thought stirred something uncomfortable in his chest. He'd been harsh with her, had used his authority to keep her confined like a prisoner. She may not have liked it, but he had done it for her safety.

"Those honey pastries," he found himself saying to the baker, a plump woman with flour-dusted hands. "Are they fresh?"

"Made this morning, me laird. Still warm from the oven." She beamed at him. "How many would ye like?"

Just one. A small gesture.

"Give me five, please."

The baker wrapped the pastry carefully in clean cloth, her movements gentle as if she understood this was more than a simple purchase. "Sweet things fer a sweet lass, I'm guessin'?"

Heat crept up Ruaridh's neck, but he nodded. "Somethin’ like that."

He tucked the wrapped pastry into his saddlebag next to the spices, taking care not to crush it. The gesture felt both foolish and significant—a peace offering wrapped in honey and memories.

With his purchases complete, Ruaridh mounted his horse and turned toward home. The suspicious men he'd noticed earlier had disappeared into the crowd, and no obvious threats had materialized. But he didn't relax his vigilance until the familiar towers of Castle MacDuff came into view.

The ride back passed without incident, his horse eager for the warmth of its stall and the promise of oats. Behind him, the carefully wrapped pastry bounced gently in his saddlebag—a small token of remembrance for the woman waiting within those stone walls.

Be careful.

Maybe, just maybe, he'd found a way to show her that he was taking care of more than just clan business.