Page 3 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER THREE

R uaridh MacDuff's sword took the MacNab bastard through the spine before the sentence fully left his mouth. The man dropped like a stone, his spear clattering harmlessly to the ground beside the woman he'd been about to murder.

Iona.

Even in the chaos of battle, even after fifteen years, he'd known her instantly.

Auburn hair catching starlight, those defiant hazel eyes that had gotten them both into trouble as children.

But she wasn't the laughing girl who'd dared him to climb the highest tower in her father's castle.

She was a woman—curves where there had been sharp angles, grace where there had been skinny limbs.

Focus. The battle first. Everythin' else can wait.

"Ye’re safe now" He kept his voice clipped, professional, as he extended a hand to help her up.

She stared at him for a moment. "Ruaridh? Is it really?—"

"Aye. It’s me. Can ye stand?" He cut her off, pulling her to her feet with perhaps more force than necessary. He ignored the shuttered look that came over her features.

Around them, his men were finishing off the remaining MacNab soldiers with ruthless efficiency. The tide had turned completely—what had been a massacre was now a rout.

Good. Let them run back tae their master with tales of MacDuff steel.

"Aye, I can stand," she said, brushing dirt from her torn dress. "But Ruaridh, Murray is here. I saw him meself, leading the attack."

Murray MacNab had come personally to oversee Iona's murder. The insult, the threat, the sheer audacity of it made his blood sing with rage.

This ends taenight.

"Where?" His voice came out as a growl.

"I’m nae sure… "

"Brodie!" Ruaridh barked at his lieutenant. "Take the lady to safety. Guard her with yer life. "

"Ruaridh, wait—" Iona started, but he was already moving.

He turned back long enough to state between gritted teeth, "Ye’ll be safe with Brodie. I'll come tae ye when it's over."

The battlefield stretched before him, littered with bodies and the groans of the wounded. His men moved like shadows among the carnage, finishing off enemies and checking their own casualties. Professional. Efficient. Deadly.

He picked his way through the gore, eyes scanning for any sign of Murray MacNab. The bastard had to be here somewhere. Men like Murray didn't run from fights—they stood and gloated over their victories, savored the fear in their enemies' eyes.

A movement near the standing stones caught his attention. A figure on horseback, watching the battle's end from a safe distance. Even in the darkness, Ruaridh could make out the MacNab colors, the arrogant set of the man's shoulders.

"There ye are, ye coward."

He sprinted light footed toward the stones, but the horseman had seen him coming.

With a sharp whistle that carried across the valley, Murray MacNab wheeled his mount around and disappeared into the darkness beyond the ancient markers.

Ruaridh cursed as Murray's horse disappeared into the tree line. The coward had been close enough to smell, close enough to end this nightmare permanently. Instead, he'd run like the craven dog he was.

Run then. Run back to whatever hole ye crawled out of. But this isnae over.

"Sir!" A lieutenant appeared at his elbow. "Should we pursue?"

"Nay. He kens these lands too well, and he'll have fresh horses waitin'." Ruaridh spat into the dirt. "But he'll be back. Men like Murray dinnae give up easy."

The man nodded but didn’t move an inch awaiting his master’s orders.

"Double the watch when we reach MacDuff lands. Send riders tae every outpost—I want tae ken if a single MacNab crosses our borders." Ruaridh's grip tightened on his sword hilt. "And send word tae me faither. Tell him Murray MacNab declared open war taenight."

"Aye, sir."

Ruaridh studied the ancient stones around him. How many warriors had made their last stand here? How many had died for causes they barely understood, crushed between the ambitions of their leaders?

"And make sure the lads ken. Any MacNab we catch on MacDuff soil dies. Nay prisoners, nay quarter."

"Even if they surrender?"

"Especially if they surrender." Ruaridh's voice carried the chill of winter wind. "Murray wants tae play at war? Then he'll learn what war truly costs."

Ruaridh stood between the weathered stones, breathing hard, his entire body thrumming with unused violence. He'd been so close. So damn close to ending that threat permanently.

"The battle's over," he announced, his voice carrying across the valley. "Count our dead and wounded. Gather what weapons ye can use."

His men responded with crisp efficiency, their movements sharp and purposeful. They'd learned to read his moods, learned when to speak and when to stay silent. Right now, silence was safest.

Ruaridh looked down at Iona, her face deadly pale and her hands trembling.

"Can ye ride?" he asked.

"Aye." Her voice was steady, but he could see the effort it cost her.

"Good."

Iona stepped toward him, her hands reaching out like she had when they were children. Like she expected comfort, familiarity, the easy affection they'd once shared.

"Ruaridh, I cannae believe it's really ye. When I heard ye were?—"

He stepped back, his expression cool. "Lady MacNeill."

The formal address hit her like a slap. He watched her hands fall to her sides, watched hope die in her eyes. She'd been expecting the boy she'd known—laughing, kind, quick to offer comfort or adventure.

That boy ye kenned as a friend is dead. Has been fer over a year now.

"I... I thought..." she stammered, confusion and hurt warring in her voice.

"Ye thought what? That fifteen years changed naethin'? That we'd pick up where we left off like children playin' at friendship?" His voice was deliberately neutral. "Ye thought wrong."

She flinched as if he'd struck her. "I didnae mean?—"

"What ye meant daesnae matter." He gestured to the bodies around them. "Six of me men are dead because of yer troubles. Good men with families, with children who'll grow up without faithers. That's what matters."

The color drained from her face. "I never wanted?—"

"What ye wanted is irrelevant. What's done is done." He turned away from her, unable to bear the wounded look in her eyes. It reminded him too much of other things, other pain he couldn't afford to feel.

Dinnae think about the cells.

"Gather the dead," he called to his men. "We ride fer home within the hour."

"Ruaridh, please—" Iona's voice broke slightly.

He turned back to her, his green eyes cold as winter stone. "Ye'd dae well tae remember yer place. This marriage is fer convenience only, and that is the way it will remain."

She went very still, her face pale as moonlight. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible. "What happened tae ye?"

Everything. Things that made me realize weakness gets ye killed.

"Life happened, Lady MacNeill. And death.

And the kind of lessons that change a man completely.

" He studied her face, watching understanding dawn in her eyes.

"Ye wanted a husband who'd treat ye with the same kindness I showed ye as a boy.

But that boy is gone, and the man who's left has nay kindness tae spare. "

Something crumpled inside her then. He could see it happen—the last of her hope, her expectation that this marriage might be bearable, might even be happy. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, but he'd already seen the damage.

"I see," she said quietly. "Then I suppose I should thank ye fer savin' me life, Laird MacDuff, and trouble ye nay further with... expectations."

The formal distance in her voice should have felt like victory. Instead, it felt like he'd just lost another piece of his humanity, carved away and discarded.

"That will be best. We have a long way tae go, and I willnae slow the column fer anyone."

He turned away before he could linger on the hurt expression on her face. "Fergus!" he barked at another of his men. "Escort Lady MacNeill tae the rear. She rides with the supply wagon."

"But sir, wouldnae she be safer—" Willelm began.

"Did I ask fer yer opinion?" Ruaridh's voice cut like a blade.

"Nay, sir."

"Then dae as ye are told."

He watched as Fergus helped Iona toward the wagon, watched her shoulders set in lines of rigid dignity. She didn't look back. Not once.

But as he turned to survey the battlefield, organizing his men for the journey home, a memory surfaced unbidden. Iona defending him against older boys who'd called him names. Her fierce little face, her absolute loyalty, the way she'd taken a black eye for him without complaint.

"I dinnae care what they say about ye, Ruaridh MacDuff. Ye’re me friend, and I'll fight anyone who says different."

He shoved the memory away, buried it deep where it couldn't hurt him. That girl was gone too, replaced by a woman who brought death and politics and complications he couldn't afford.

Strangers. That's what's left of us now, and it's what's safer fer everyone.

And from the set of Iona's shoulders as she sat in the supply wagon, he suspected she felt exactly the same way.