Page 4 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow
CHAPTER FOUR
" W e'll wed within the hour."
Iona's breath caught as Ruaridh's words echoed off the stone walls of Castle MacDuff. She'd barely dismounted from her horse, her legs still shaking from the long ride and the horrors of the night, when he'd made his pronouncement.
The castle loomed around them, far grander than she remembered from childhood visits.
Torchlight flickered against ancient stones, illuminating banners bearing the MacDuff arms—a red lion rampant on a field of blue.
Guards lined the courtyard walls, their faces watchful but not unwelcoming.
This was a stronghold that had weathered centuries of Highland storms.
"Ruaridh." The sharp voice belonged to a woman stepping from the castle's great doors—tall, auburn-haired, with the same strong bearing Iona remembered. "The lass has just survived an attack. She needs time tae?—"
"Time is what we dinnae have, Maither." Ruaridh's tone brooked no argument. "The longer we wait, the more vulnerable we all become."
Lady Niamh MacDuff. Even after fifteen years, Iona would have known her anywhere. The same warm green eyes, the same graceful way of moving, though silver now threaded through her auburn hair.
"Iona?" Niamh's voice softened. "Oh, me dear child."
She crossed the courtyard in quick strides, pulling Iona into a fierce embrace. The familiar scent of rosewater and herbs enveloped her—the same smell that had clung to Niamh's skirts when she'd found Iona and Ruaridh in the kitchens, faces sticky with stolen honey and crumbs in their hair.
"Look at ye," Niamh murmured, holding her at arm's length. "All grown up, and so beautiful. But ye're trembling, lass."
The kindness in her voice nearly undid Iona completely. Here, at least, was something that had not changed. Niamh's gentle warmth, the same woman who'd bandaged scraped knees and snuck them warm milk before bed.
"I'm fine," Iona managed, though her voice sounded thin to her own ears.
"Fine?" Niamh's eyebrows rose. "Child, ye're pale as death and swaying on yer feet. When did ye last eat? Sleep properly?"
"Yesterday morning, I think."
"Yesterday?" Niamh turned sharply toward her son. "Ruaridh MacDuff, I'll nay have it said that we wed a starving bride who cannae even speak her vows without falling over."
Iona glanced between them, confused by the tension. This wasn't the homecoming she'd imagined as a girl. Niamh seemed pleased to see her, but Ruaridh... Perhaps this marriage truly was nothing more than duty to him. A political necessity he'd accepted but didn't want.
He saved me because honor demanded it. Naething more.
"The ceremony can wait an extra hour," Ruaridh said finally, his jaw tight. "But nay longer."
"Two hours tae prepare a bride? Honestly." But Niamh merely shook her head and turned back to Iona. "Come then, me dear. Let's see ye properly cared fer."
"Maither," Ruaridh's voice stopped them. "See that she understands... the situation."
Something passed between mother and son—a look that spoke of conversations Iona wasn't privy to. Then Niamh nodded curtly.
"I ken me duty, son. Dae ye ken yers?
Ruaridh's jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. With a curt bow to his mother and a formal nod to Iona, he turned on his heel and strode back toward the castle's main doors, his shoulders rigid with tension.
Niamh watched him go, her expression troubled. Then she seemed to shake herself from whatever dark thoughts had claimed her and turned to Iona with a warm smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Come then, dear one. Let's see ye properly prepared fer this hasty wedding of ours." She linked her arm through Iona's, steering her toward the castle's entrance. "A couple of hours isn't much time, but we MacDuff women have worked miracles with less."
As they climbed the stone steps together, Niamh's voice dropped to a gentler tone.
"Dinnae mind his coldness, lass. Me son has forgotten how tae be anything else since he returned from the war.
But underneath all that ice..." She squeezed Iona's arm reassuringly.
"Well, perhaps a patient wife is exactly what he needs tae remember. "
The chamber Niamh led her to was larger than her room back home, with tapestries depicting ancient clan victories and a fire crackling warmly in an enormous hearth. A copper tub sat before it, steam rising from the hot water within.
"Alba!" Niamh called, and a young woman with kind eyes and capable hands appeared. "Help Lady MacNeill bathe and dress. The blue silk, I think—it'll bring out her eyes."
"Aye, me lady." Alba curtsied, then smiled warmly at Iona. "This way, miss."
As Alba helped her from her travel-stained clothes, Iona caught sight of herself in the polished silver mirror. Dirt streaked her face, her hair hung in tangles, and dark circles shadowed her eyes. She looked exactly like what she was—a refugee fleeing for her life.
"Is he always so..." Iona began as Alba worked, then stopped, unsure how to finish.
"Distant?" Alba supplied gently. "Aye, since he came back from the war. Used tae laugh all the time, he did. Race through these halls like the devil himself was chasing him. Now..." She shrugged sadly. "But he's a good man underneath it all. Just... different."
The water was blissfully warm, washing away the grime and terror of the journey. Alba worked with practiced hands, washing her hair with soap that smelled of lavender and combing out the tangles with patient care.
When Iona was clean and dressed in the blue silk gown—finer than anything she'd owned in years—Niamh returned. She studied Iona with a critical eye, then nodded approvingly.
"There's the lass I remember. Now, sit." She gestured to a chair by the fire. "Eat something,” she pointed to the bannocks and fruit that had been laid out for her. “We need tae discuss a few things before ye become me daughter by law."
Iona sat, smoothing the unfamiliar silk over her knees. "Me lady, I want ye tae ken how grateful I am."
"Hush." Niamh settled across from her, her expression serious. "I ken why this marriage came about, child. Yer family's troubles, the danger ye face have been nay secret. But I also remember a wee lass who defended me son against boys twice her size and shared her sweets without being asked."
"That was a long time ago."
"Nae so long that I've forgotten yer heart." Niamh leaned forward. "Me clan has shown patience with yers, Iona. Forgiven past mistakes, offered protection when others wouldn't. I'm asking ye tae show the same patience with me son."
Heat crept up Iona's neck. "I understand me position here, me lady. The scandal I've brought tae ye."
"This isnae about scandal." Niamh's voice was firm. "This is about healing. Ruaridh has... struggles of his own. Things that have nothing tae dae with ye or yer family. But he agreed tae this marriage, and that tells me more than his cold words ever could."
"He agreed because it was his duty."
"Perhaps. But duty alone wouldn't have sent him racing tae yer rescue taenight with such... urgency."
Iona looked up sharply. "What dae ye mean?"
"I mean me son insisted on positioning himself near the border tae await yer arrival, despite our protests that it was unnecessary.
" Niamh's eyes held a knowing glint. "He said it was tae ensure yer safe passage.
" She shook her head with something that might have been maternal pride.
"Kennin’ me son, he must have rode toward the fighting like a man possessed. "
A flutter of something warm and unexpected stirred in Iona's chest. "He... he was waiting fer me?"
"Aye, lass. He’d been positioned there since before dawn, watching the old roads like a hawk. That daesnae sound like mere duty tae me."
Just then, a knock at the door interrupted them. "Me lady," Alba called. "The priest is here."
Niamh stood, smoothing her skirts. "Time tae become a MacDuff, lass. Are ye ready?"
Iona thought of the letter hidden in her travel dress—Murray's letter, her insurance against an uncertain future. Then she lifted her chin and met Niamh's knowing eyes.
"Aye. I'm ready."
The chapel was smaller than Iona had expected, its stone walls worn smooth by centuries of MacDuff prayers and promises.
Candlelight flickered across carved pillars, casting dancing shadows that seemed to breathe with the weight of history.
Only a handful of people were present—Niamh, her husband Alistair, a few senior clan members, and the priest whose lined face spoke of decades spent blessing unions and burying the dead.
Ruaridh stood waiting at the altar, his broad shoulders rigid beneath a formal plaid in MacDuff colors.
He'd changed from his battle-stained clothes into a fine shirt and jacket, his dark hair combed back though a stubborn lock still fell across his forehead.
When he turned to watch her approach, his face revealed nothing—not pleasure, not reluctance, just that carefully controlled mask he'd worn since rescuing her.
This isnae how I imagined me wedding day.
The thought came unbidden as she walked down the short aisle. As a girl, she'd dreamed of flowers and music, of a groom who smiled when he saw her. Instead, she had candlelight and silence, and a man who looked at her like she was a problem to be solved.
But he was there. He'd agreed to it, rescued her, brought her safely home. That had to count for something.
"Dearly beloved," the priest began, his voice echoing in the small space, "we are gathered in the sight of God to witness the joining of this man and this woman in holy matrimony."
The words washed over her like a distant tide.
She found herself studying Ruaridh's profile—the strong line of his jaw, the way his eyes fixed on some point beyond the priest's shoulder.
He'd grown into his looks, she realized.
The gangly boy had become a man who commanded attention simply by existing.