Page 26 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

M acNab castle

"Failure."

The word hung in the air of Castle MacNab's great hall like the stench of rotting meat. Murray MacNab stood with his back to the trembling messenger, his hands clasped behind him as he stared out at the grey waters of the loch beyond his walls.

"Say it again," he commanded, his voice deceptively calm.

The messenger's voice cracked. "The... the infiltration failed, me laird. All our men are dead or captured. Lady MacDuff survived."

Murray's knuckles went white where his hands gripped each other. Weeks of planning and careful infiltration. Men he'd trained personally, positioned perfectly within MacDuff walls. All of it undone by one Highland bastard's protective instincts.

"And Dougal?"

"Nay news, me laird. We think they may still be holding him in the castle."

"Leave me," Murray said quietly.

The messenger fled with unseemly haste, his boots echoing off the stone walls as he escaped to spread word of their laird's black mood. Smart man. Murray's rages were legendary, and today's news would test even the most considerable restraint.

He moved to his desk, spreading out maps of the MacDuff lands he'd studied until he could navigate them in his sleep. Every path, every watchtower, every weakness in their defenses. But none of it mattered if Ruaridh MacDuff had taken to guarding his wife like a rabid dog with a bone.

A knock at his solar door interrupted his brooding. "Enter."

Bruce MacNab slipped inside—a thin, clever man whose loyalty had been purchased with gold and threats in equal measure. Murray's most trusted strategist, though trust was perhaps too strong a word for their relationship.

"I heard about the garden," Bruce said carefully.

"Aye. Twenty men lost, and the bitch still draws breath." Murray turned from the map, his pale eyes cold as winter stone. "But perhaps it's time fer a more... subtle approach."

"What did ye have in mind?"

Murray moved to a locked chest in the corner, withdrawing a small leather pouch that clinked softly with its contents. "A gift. Something special fer the newly wedded couple."

Bruce's eyebrows rose. "What kind of gift?"

"The kind that ensures their marriage is cut tragically short." Murray's smile was sharp as a blade. "I want ye tae commission something from our friends in the south. Something that looks innocent, festive even. Perfect fer a solstice celebration."

"And what should this gift accomplish?"

"It should make certain that the MacNeill bitch never lives to see another sunrise. And if her devoted husband gets caught in the same fate..." Murray shrugged. "Well, that would be a tragedy indeed."

Bruce shifted uncomfortably. "Me lord, if this fails?—"

"It willnae fail." Murray's voice carried absolute certainty. "Because if it daes, I'll have nay choice but tae take more extreme measures. And I assure ye, Bruce, extreme measures would be... unpleasant fer everyone involved."

The threat was clear. Bruce had seen what Murray did to those who disappointed him, had helped dispose of the evidence more than once.

"What kind of extreme measures?" Bruce asked, though he looked like he'd rather not know.

Murray returned to his maps, his finger tracing the borders between MacNab and MacDuff lands. "Open war. Every clan I have compromising information on called to arms. A Highland-wide conflict that would make the last rebellion look like a children's game."

"That would bring the king's attention?—"

"Aye, it would. And in the chaos of such a war, many inconvenient truths might be lost forever. Along with anyone who might speak them." Murray's pale eyes found Bruce's. "Including the MacNeill whore and anyone fool enough to protect her."

The strategist swallowed hard. He'd always known Murray was ruthless, but this... this was madness. The kind of scorched-earth thinking that destroyed everything in its path.

"Ye'd risk everything? Yer lands, yer title, yer life?"

"I'd risk anything tae bury me secrets with that bitch." Murray's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "She has a letter, Bruce, I ken she has it. Evidence of dealings that could see me hanged fer treason. As long as she lives, as long as that letter exists, I'm a dead man walking."

"And if the gift succeeds?"

"Then the letter dies with her, and I can return tae more... conventional methods of maintaining power." Murray rolled up the maps with sharp, precise movements. "But this needs tae be perfect. Nay room fer error, nay chance fer survival. Dae ye understand?"

Bruce nodded slowly. "Aye, me lord. I understand."

"Good. See that it's done within the week. The MacNab name depends on it."

As his strategist left to arrange Murray's deadly commission, the laird returned to his window. Somewhere across the loch, in the safety of MacDuff walls, Iona MacNeill thought herself protected. Thought her warrior husband could keep her safe from his reach.

Enjoy yer last days of breathing, lass. It's about tae come tae an end.

Because Murray MacNab would see her dead and buried before he'd let her destroy everything he'd built. Even if it meant burning down the entire Highlands to do it.

The special gift would be just the beginning.

"Double the guards at every entrance," Ruaridh commanded for the third time that morning, his eyes scanning the great hall where servants bustled about preparing for the evening's festivities. "And I want every gift inspected before it reaches the high table."

Duncan nodded patiently, though Ruaridh caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "Aye, sir. Already arranged. Every package, every barrel of ale, every tray of food."

"And the musicians? Have they all been questioned?"

"Twice, sir. They're the same men who've played here fer the past five years."

Ruaridh knew he was being excessive, but the memory of MacNab soldiers wearing MacDuff colors haunted his every waking moment. Three days had passed since their last attack, three days of relative peace that only made him more suspicious.

Too quiet. Murray's planning something.

The sound of hoofbeats in the courtyard drew his attention to the window. A small party was approaching the gates—visitors arriving early for the solstice celebration. His hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt until he recognized the banners.

Clan Chattan. And leading them was a familiar figure whose easy posture in the saddle brought back a flood of childhood memories.

"Gordon," he murmured, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders.

"Who's arrived?" Duncan asked, following his gaze.

"An old friend. One of the few men in the Highlands I'd trust with me life." Ruaridh moved toward the door. "Make sure he's given a proper welcome."

By the time Ruaridh reached the courtyard, Gordon Mackintosh was already dismounting, his movements still carrying the athletic grace that had made him such a formidable opponent in their childhood wrestling matches.

At twenty-five, he'd grown into his height, his chestnut hair still unruly despite obvious attempts to tame it fer the journey.

"Ruaridh MacDuff!" Gordon's voice boomed across the courtyard, his grin bright enough to light the grey morning. "Look at ye, all stern and lairdly. What happened to the lad who used tae dare me to jump from the battlements?"

"He learned that broken bones hurt," Ruaridh replied, but he couldn't suppress his own smile as they clasped hands in greeting. "Gordon. It's been too long."

"Aye, well, some of us have been busy keeping our own borders secure instead of getting married and causing Highland-wide scandals." Gordon's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Speaking of which, where's this mysterious bride who's got all the clans talking?"

Before Ruaridh could answer, movement in the castle's main entrance caught his attention. Iona appeared in the doorway, her arms full of decorative garlands, her auburn hair catching the morning light. She took a few steps into the courtyard before stopping short, her eyes wide with recognition.

She remembers him.

"Sweet Mary," Gordon breathed beside him. "Is that little Iona MacNeill? She's..." He trailed off, clearly struggling for words.

"She's me wife," Ruaridh supplied, watching his wife's face carefully.

Gordon was already striding toward her, his arms outstretched and his face alight with genuine pleasure. "Iona! God's bones, lass, look at ye! When Ruaridh said he'd married a MacNeill, I never imagined?—"

"Gordon Mackintosh," Iona said softly, setting down her garlands to accept his enthusiastic embrace. "I cannae believe it's really ye."

Watching them together—his wife and his oldest friend—Ruaridh felt something settle in his chest that he hadn't realized was tense. Here was a piece of his past that was purely good, unmarked by war or betrayal or political necessity.

"The three of us together again," Gordon said, stepping back to look between them. "Just like old times, except we're all considerably less muddy and considerably more dignified."

"Speak fer yerself," Iona said with a laugh that sounded more carefree than any Ruaridh had heard from her. "I was always the dignified one."

"Ha! Ye were the one who convinced us to steal honey cakes and then blamed it on the castle cats when we were caught."

"That was a sound strategy," she protested. "The cats couldn't be punished."

The familiarity between them should have made Ruaridh jealous, but instead it filled him with something warmer.

This was what Iona had lost during her years of exile—easy friendship, shared laughter, the simple joy of being understood.

Seeing her reclaim even a piece of it made his chest tight with emotions he couldn't name.

The morning passed in a blur of final preparations.

Iona threw herself into hostess duties with enthusiasm that spoke of genuine excitement, while Gordon regaled anyone who would listen with increasingly embellished tales of their childhood adventures.

But even surrounded by the comfortable chaos of preparation, Ruaridh couldn't shake his vigilance.

His eyes constantly scanned the crowd, cataloguing faces, watching for anything out of place.

As evening approached and the first guests began arriving for the celebration proper, Gordon found him standing near the high table, surveying the great hall with military precision.

"Ye ken, ye look like a man expecting an attack rather than hosting a party," Gordon observed, following his gaze.

"Maybe because I am expecting an attack."

"Ah." Gordon's expression sobered slightly. "MacNab. I heard news of the recent troubles, especially since ye married Iona."

"More than troubles. Murray MacNab wants me wife dead, and he's proven he's willing tae go tae extraordinary lengths tae achieve that goal."

Gordon was quiet for a moment, studying Ruaridh's face. Then, unexpectedly, he grinned.

"What?" Ruaridh demanded.

"Nothing. It's just... ye won in the end, didn't ye?"

"Won what?"

"Come now, dinnae play daft with me." Gordon's eyes sparkled with mischief. "We both had the most enormous crush on her when we were lads. Used to compete fer her attention something fierce, remember? And now look—she's yer wife."

Ruaridh felt heat creep up his neck. He'd forgotten about that particular aspect of their childhood friendship, the way both he and Gordon had vied fer Iona's smiles with the intensity only possible in ten-year-old boys.

"That was a long time ago?—"

"Was it?" Gordon's grin widened. "Because the way ye look at her now suggests some things haven't changed much."

Before Ruaridh could formulate a response, Iona appeared beside them, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the hall and her efforts as hostess.

"What are ye two plotting?" she asked suspiciously, looking between their faces.

The accusation was so accurate, so perfectly delivered in the same exasperated tone she'd used as a child, that both men burst into laughter.

"Naething at all," Gordon said innocently.

"Just discussing old times," Ruaridh added, though he could feel his smile betraying him.

Iona's eyes narrowed. "That's what ye said right before ye convinced me to help ye put salt in Cook's sugar jar. And before ye talked me into hiding a frog in Father MacLeod's vestments. And before?—"

"We were model children," Gordon protested. "Paragons of virtue."

"Aye, and I'm the Queen of Scotland." But Iona was smiling now, the same bright, mischievous smile that had lit up their childhood summers.

"Just remember, if either of ye embarrass me in front of the guests tonight, I'll tell everyone about the time ye both got stuck in the dovecote trying tae impress me. "

"Ye wouldnae," Ruaridh said, though he wasn't entirely certain.

"Try me," she replied sweetly, then turned and glided away to greet a group of newly arrived guests.

Gordon watched her go with obvious appreciation. "Ye're a lucky bastard, Ruaridh MacDuff."

"Aye," Ruaridh agreed, his eyes following his wife as she moved through the crowd with natural grace. "I'm beginning tae realize just how lucky."