Page 24 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER NINETEEN

" I cannae stand another moment in these walls."

Ruaridh had been gone since dawn, and every minute that passed felt like another stone wall had been built around her.

Sweet spices and market goods. Things I could have helped with if he wasnae so bloody stubborn.

She grabbed her shawl and headed for the door. Castle grounds, he'd said. She could walk the castle grounds. Well, the gardens were part of the castle grounds, weren't they?

The morning air was crisp against her face as she made her way through the courtyard and down the stone steps toward the older section of the grounds.

The cherry trees were in their final bloom, petals drifting like snow across the worn pathways.

The gardens had always been her refuge as a child—a place where she could think without the weight of stone walls pressing down on her.

Just a few minutes of peace. That's all I need.

She wandered deeper, breathing in the sweet scent of late blossoms and letting the tension ease from her shoulders. The familiar paths soothed her, reminding her of simpler times when her biggest worry was avoiding her governess long enough to climb trees with Ruaridh.

Movement caught her eye near the old fountain. A MacDuff guard stood with his back to her, but something about his posture struck her as odd. He was too still, too focused on something beyond the garden walls.

Is he watching for something? Or someone?

Curiosity overrode caution as she approached him. "Are ye well? Ye look?—"

The man spun around, and Iona's blood turned to ice. The face beneath the MacDuff colors was one she recognized—scarred, brutal, with the cold eyes of a killer. This was no MacDuff guard.

"What are ye doing here?" she demanded, taking a step back. "Who are ye?"

His answer was steel sliding from its sheath.

"MacNab sends his regards," he snarled, lunging forward with his blade raised.

Iona threw herself sideways, the sword whistling past her ear close enough to cut strands of her hair. She hit the ground hard, rolling behind the stone fountain as her attacker's second strike sparked off the carved rim where her head had been.

"Help!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the garden walls. "Attack in the gardens! Help me!"

The assassin vaulted over the fountain with predatory grace, his blade seeking her heart. Iona grabbed a handful of gravel and flung it at his face, buying herself precious seconds to scramble away.

She sprinted toward the main path, her skirts tangling around her legs as branches tore at her clothes. Behind her, she could hear the assassin's boots pounding against the stone walkway, gaining ground with every step.

A second figure emerged from behind the cherry trees—another false MacDuff guard with murder in his eyes.

"There's nowhere tae run, lass," he called out, moving to cut off her escape route.

"Nay!" she gasped, veering toward the castle walls. "Help! Someone help me!"

The castle alarm bell began to ring, its bronze voice calling out across the grounds. Someone had heard her screams.

But even as real MacDuff guards began pouring from the castle doors, more false soldiers emerged from their hiding places throughout the garden. The disguises were perfect—MacDuff colors, MacDuff weapons, even the faces of men she'd seen around the castle.

How many of them are there? How long have they been here?

"There are more of them!" she tried to shout a warning as the first wave of real guards reached the garden. "They're disguised as?—"

Her words were lost in the clash of steel as chaos erupted within the once-peaceful garden. The real MacDuff soldiers rushed to defend what they thought was their lady being protected by their own men, only to find themselves fighting for their lives against enemies wearing similar uniforms.

A blade whistled past her head, embedding itself in the bark inches from her face. One of the assassins had broken free from the melee, his scarred face twisted with murderous intent.

"Should have stayed in yer tower, MacNeill whore," he snarled, raising his sword for the killing blow.

Iona drew the small dagger from her belt—the same blade she'd carried since her first night at the castle—and met his strike with desperate strength. The impact jarred her arms, nearly tearing the weapon from her grip, but she held on.

Fight back. Dinnae let him take ye without a fight.

She slashed wildly with the dagger, forcing the assassin to step back as she fought with the fury of a cornered wildcat. Around them, the battle raged on, but she was trapped in her own deadly dance with death.

The assassin's sword swept toward her again, and she barely managed to deflect it. The force of the blow sent her stumbling backward toward the fountain.

This is it. I cannae hold him off much longer.

Her arms ached from the effort, and she could feel her strength failing with each desperate parry. The assassin sensed her weakness, pressing his attack with renewed vigor.

If only Ruaridh were here. If only he hadnae gone tae the village. God help me, I'm going tae die alone in this garden, and he'll never ken how much he means tae me.

The blade descended for what she knew would be the final time. She raised her dagger one last time, knowing it wouldn't be enough.

But just as the blade descended for the final time, the thunder of hoofbeats echoed through the garden, and a familiar war cry split the air.

"Fer MacDuff!"

Her heart nearly stopped with relief and desperate joy.

He’s back. Thank God, he came back. I'll nae die alone.

Ruaridh charged through the garden entrance astride his horse, his sword already drawn and gleaming in the morning light. His eyes found her instantly across the chaos, and she saw something terrible and beautiful in his face—the cold fury of a Highland warrior protecting what was his.

Without hesitation, he leaped from his saddle and threw himself into the fray, his blade cutting down the assassin threatening her before the man could react. Steel met steel as Ruaridh positioned himself between Iona and the remaining attackers, his movements fluid and deadly.

"Stay behind me," he commanded, never taking his eyes off the enemies surrounding them.

The remaining MacNab infiltrators quickly found themselves outnumbered and outmatched.

Real MacDuff soldiers, finally able to distinguish friend from foe and with their laird among them, pressed the attack with renewed fury.

One by one, the disguised assassins fell or surrendered, their clever plan undone by superior numbers and Highland steel.

As the dust settled and the last of the fighting died away, Ruaridh turned to Iona. His green eyes swept over her, taking in her torn dress, the small cut on her throat, the dagger still clutched in her trembling hand.

"Are ye hurt?" His voice was rough with concern and barely controlled rage.

"Nay," she whispered, though her whole body was shaking now that the danger had passed. "I'm alive. Ye came back."

"Aye," he said simply, reaching out to gently touch the thin line at her throat. "I came back. And, it seems, just in time, too."

The gentle contact of his fingertips against her skin sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with fear. But when he pulled his hand away and saw the blood there, something terrible transformed his face. His jaw went rigid, his green eyes blazing with a fury so cold it made her step back.

"How?" The word came out flat, deadly. She'd never heard his voice carry such menace. "How did MacNab bastards get inside our walls?"

Duncan approached them cautiously, blood on his sword and wariness in his weathered face. Even he seemed afraid of Ruaridh's mood.

"They may have been here fer days, sir. Studying our routines and everything to fit in easily."

"Someone gave them information?" Ruaridh's voice dropped to a whisper that made Iona's blood run cold. "Someone helped them."

She watched him survey the surviving guards with eyes sharp as winter steel. These men had just fought and bled to protect her, but Ruaridh looked at them like he was weighing each one for treachery.

"Line up every soldier in this castle," he commanded, his voice carrying absolute authority. "Every guard, every man-at-arms, every stable boy who can hold a blade. Training grounds. Now."

"Sir?" Duncan's eyebrows rose.

"We're going to find out how many more wolves are hiding in our fold." Ruaridh sheathed his sword with a sharp snap that made her flinch. "And God help any man who fails tae convince me of his loyalty."

When he turned to her, his expression softened only slightly. She could still see the rage burning beneath the surface, carefully banked but ready to explode.

"Come. We're going inside."

The walk through the castle corridors felt endless. Ruaridh's boots struck the stone floor with sharp, angry reports that echoed like hammer blows. She'd never seen him like this—so cold, so controlled, so dangerous.

This is what he becomes when someone threatens what's his.

The thought sent another shiver through her, though she couldn't say if it was fear or something else entirely.

When they reached their chamber, he closed the door and leaned against it. That was when his control finally cracked.

"Christ!" The word exploded from him as he slammed his fist against the wooden door hard enough to make the hinges rattle. "They were inside these walls. They could have killed ye while I was buying bloody spices!"

She moved to the washbasin, her hands surprisingly steady as she reached for a clean cloth. "But they didnae."

"They came close enough." His voice was rough with emotion as he watched her dab at the cut on her throat. She saw him wince when the cloth made her gasp with pain. "Too damn close."

"Ruaridh." She set down the cloth and turned to face him. "I'm alive. Ye saved me."

"I shouldnae have ever left ye." He began pacing the small space like a caged wolf, his movements sharp and restless. "Should never have?—"

"Dinnae." The steel in her own voice surprised her. "Dinnae blame yerself fer this. Ye couldnae have kent."

"I should have kent." His hands clenched into fists. "It's me job tae ken."

She studied his face—the guilt and rage and something that looked almost like despair—and felt her heart clench. He was tearing himself apart over this, taking responsibility for an attack no one could have predicted.

"All I want right now," she said quietly, "is a warm bath. Can ye arrange that?"

The simple request seemed to cut through his rage better than any argument could have. His shoulders relaxed slightly, and when he looked at her, she saw something almost vulnerable in his green eyes.

"Aye," he said, his voice rough. "I'll see tae it."

A knock at the door interrupted them. "Enter," Ruaridh called.

Two servants appeared, carrying his saddlebags between them. The leather was torn and dirty from being trampled in the fight.

"Found these in the courtyard, me lord," one of them said, setting the bags carefully on the table. "Thought ye might want them back."

After the servants left, Ruaridh opened the bags with careful movements. She watched him check the contents, saw his relief when the spice pouches proved intact. But when his fingers found something at the bottom, his expression changed.

He pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle, and even from across the room she could see his disappointment when he unwrapped it.

"What's that?" she asked, moving closer.

"Nothing." He started to wrap it back up, but not before she caught sight of crumbled pastry and crushed nuts. "Just... it was supposed to be..."

She caught his wrist, stopping him. The ruined sweet in his hands made her breath catch.

"Ye bought those? Fer me?"

He blushed and she was struck by how young he looked in that moment. "It's ruined now. I should have?—"

"It's perfect."

He stared at her like she'd lost her mind. "It's destroyed, Iona. Look at it."

But she was already reaching for a piece, her fingers gentle as she broke off a small portion. The moment the sweet taste hit her tongue, she was eight years old again, giggling with a boy who'd shared his stolen treasures.

"Just like when we were bairns," she said softly, her eyes closing briefly.

"Ye remember."

"Of course I remember." She broke off another piece and held it out to him, just as she had all those years ago. "We used tae steal them from the kitchens."

She watched him take the offered morsel, saw the memories flicker across his face as the familiar taste brought back summer afternoons and shared secrets. For a moment, the present fell away, and they were just children again.

They ate the rest of the pastry in comfortable silence, passing pieces back and forth. It should have felt strange, this quiet sharing in the aftermath of violence. Instead, it felt like something healing—a bridge across all the years that had separated them.

When the last crumb was gone, Ruaridh brushed his hands clean and stood up.

"I need tae see tae the men," he said, moving toward the door. "Make sure there are nay more surprises waiting."

"Ruaridh." Her voice stopped him at the threshold. "Be careful. There could be more infiltrators anywhere."

He turned back to look at her, noting the worry in her hazel eyes. "Aye. That's exactly what I'm going tae find out."

"How will ye tell who's loyal and who isn't?"

"I'll find a way." His hand rested on the door latch, but he hesitated. "Iona, while I'm gone—lock this door. Dinnae open it fer anyone except me. I dinnae trust anyone but Duncan, me faither, and me maither. Nay one else."

Her eyes widened slightly. "Ye think there might be more of them inside the castle?"

"I think I cannae afford tae trust anyone right now." The words came out harsher than he intended, but they were true. "Promise me. Nay one else gets through that door."

"I promise."

He nodded once, then stepped into the corridor. She heard him wait until he heard the heavy bar slide into place behind him and then listened to his footsteps receding.

Alone in their chamber, Iona touched her fingers to her throat where his fingertips had been so gentle. The fury she'd seen in him should have frightened her. Instead, it had made her feel something she'd never experienced before—truly protected. Truly cherished.

He would burn the world down tae save me.

The thought filled her with a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth.