Page 7 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER SIX

"— a nd I say we should hand the lass back tae MacNab and be done with it!"

Ruaridh gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white. The council chamber reeked of sweat and stale ale after six hours of this pointless arguing about border security, land raids, and farm lands.

Now, the topic had turned to Iona and Ruaridh was doing all her could not to slam Hamish's face on the old wooden table. Around the long oak table, twelve weathered faces glared at each other like cocks in a fighting pit.

"That's enough, Hamish," Alistair said from the head of the table, but his voice lacked its usual authority. The man who once commanded armies now looked every one of his sixty years.

"Is it?" Hamish MacBride slammed his fist down. "We've got MacNab warriors prowling our borders, threatening our people, and fer what? We lost six good men just getting her here safely!"

Ruaridh's jaw had been clenched for so long, it felt like his teeth would bite right through his cheeks.

The entire situation exhausted him—hours of the same arguments, the same fears, the same bitter complaints.

He'd held his tongue, letting them exhaust themselves, but his patience had long worn thin.

"We all agreed tae this marriage," Duncan MacGregor muttered. "Cannae change that now."

"Aye, but we hoped it wouldnae come tae open war!" Fergus leaned forward, his rheumy eyes blazing. "We thought MacNab would accept the loss and move on. Instead, her marriage has brought him right tae our doorstep!"

"And wasnae it ye, Hamish, who insisted me son needed a wife before taking full leadership?" Alistair's voice carried a note of weariness. "Said the clan needed stability, needed tae see their future laird settled before me retirement?"

"I meant it would secure the clan's future!" Hamish shot back. "Nae bring us tae the brink of war with some scandal-ridden MacNeill lass!"

"Enough." Ruaridh's voice cut through the chamber like a blade.

Every head turned toward him. He rose slowly, his green eyes hard as winter stone.

"Lady MacDuff," he said, his voice deadly quiet, "is soon tae be the lady of this clan. She is me wife, chosen with the full agreement of this Council tae save an innocent woman from a dangerous and unfortunate situation. Any man who speaks of her with disrespect answers tae me."

The silence stretched taut as a bowstring.

"But Ruaridh—" Fergus began.

"Any man," Ruaridh repeated, his hand moving to rest on his sword hilt. "Am I understood?"

Nods came reluctantly around the table. Hamish's face had gone red as his beard, but he held his tongue.

Duncan MacGregor shifted uncomfortably. "The lad has a point. We gave our word to the MacNeills. A MacDuff's word means something."

"Aye, it daes," Alistair said, his voice carrying the weight of final authority. "And that settles the matter." He looked around the table, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "We stand by our decision. We protect the lass. This Council is adjourned."

The council chamber emptied slowly, the men filing out with muttered conversations and dark looks cast in Ruaridh's direction. He remained standing by his chair, hands still clenched into fists, watching them go.

"That could have gone better," Alistair said quietly once the last councilor had departed.

Ruaridh turned toward his father, his jaw still tight with suppressed anger. "They needed tae hear it."

"Aye, perhaps they did." Alistair rose from his chair with the careful movements of a man feeling his years. "But ye'll catch more flies with honey than vinegar, son. Outbursts and harshness arenae the way tae lead a Council."

"And letting them speak of me wife like a tavern wench is?" Ruaridh's voice carried that dangerous edge again. "I'll nae accept any disrespect of Iona, Faither. If that makes me harsh, then so be it. The Council must learn their place."

Alistair moved to the window, gazing out at the courtyard below. "Ye sound like yer grandfaither sometimes. All fire and pride."

"Maybe that's what this clan needs." Ruaridh joined him at the window.

"Fer too long these men have thought they have the right tae dae what they will against the wishes of the laird.

They overruled ye when Sorcha wanted to choose her own husband, tried tae force her into a marriage that would have destroyed her happiness.

And behind yer back, they were orchestrating raids against the Comyns—stirring up a war ye kenned naething about. "

The reference to Sorcha's struggles and the Council's betrayal hung heavy between them. Alistair's face tightened at the memory.

"Aye, ye are right son. If Sorcha hadnae found the courage tae marry Willelm Comyn and expose the truth.

.." Alistair's voice was heavy with old pain.

"We'd have been fighting a war based on lies and manipulation.

A war that would have cost us everything, all because certain council members thought they kent better than their laird. "

"They nearly destroyed our family with their meddling," Ruaridh continued, his voice hard. "Secret raids, false intelligence, pushing Sorcha toward a man who would have made her miserable—all while pretending loyalty tae yer face. And now they want tae question me marriage? Nay. I'll nae have it."

"I understand the point yer trying tae make, son." Alistair's voice was weary. "God kens, I've made me share of mistakes with that Council. Let them push when I should have stood firm. But ye'll never win by being harsh with them."

"Then what dae ye suggest?"

Alistair was quiet for a long moment, his eyes distant. "Ye need tae find within yerself the space tae listen tae them, regardless of the mistakes they've made. Regardless of how wrong they've been."

"Even when they supported a war ye didnae want?" The words came out sharper than Ruaridh intended.

His father's shoulders sagged slightly. He turned to face his son. " That war... aye, they pushed fer it and I made a mistake followin’ them. And look what it cost us. Look what it cost ye. And fer that I am truly sorry. But even if nae always, ye must work with them when possible."

Ruaridh's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The mention of what he'd endured hit him like a physical blow, bringing back flashes of dark cells and chains, of pain that had taught him exactly how much a man could suffer and still survive.

Dinnae think about it. Dinnae let him see.

But his father's knowing eyes caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing had changed. Alistair had seen the scars, had witnessed the nightmares that still woke Ruaridh in cold sweats.

"Faither—" Ruaridh started, his voice rougher than he intended.

"I ken ye dinnae want tae speak of it," Alistair said gently. "But ye cannae pretend it didnae happen. That war they pushed me toward? It broke something in ye, son. I made me mistakes, and I am sorry. But now ye want to rule through the same kind of force that nearly destroyed ye."

The words cut deeper than any blade. Ruaridh turned away, staring blindly out at the courtyard. "It taught me what the world truly is. What men are capable of when they think they can take what they want."

"They were wrong about the war, just as they were wrong about Sorcha, just as they may be wrong about yer wife. But they're still yer Council, and they still serve this clan. Ye cannae lead through fear alone."

Ruaridh stared out at the training yard below, watching young warriors practice their sword work. Once, he'd been among them—eager, confident, believing in the rightness of every cause.

"So what would ye have me dae? Smile while they insult her? Nod when they question every decision I make?"

"I'd have ye be the leader this clan needs," Alistair said firmly. "Strong enough tae stand yer ground, but wise enough tae ken when tae bend. The oak that cannae bend breaks in the storm, son."

Ruaridh was quiet for a long moment, processing his father's words. The old man was right, much as it galled him to admit it. His temper had always been his weakness—quick to flare, slow to cool.

"I hear ye, Faither," he said finally. "But I'll nae compromise on this. They will respect me wife, or they'll answer fer it."

Alistair nodded slowly. "I wouldnae expect anything less. Just... remember that respect earned lasts longer than respect demanded."

"Aye." Ruaridh moved toward the door. "I should go find Iona. See how she's settling in."

"Son." Alistair's voice stopped him at the threshold. "Fer what it's worth, I think ye chose well. The lass has steel in her spine. She'll need it, married tae a MacDuff."

A ghost of a smile crossed Ruaridh's face. "That she will, Faither. That she will."

Knock. Knock.

Iona jerked awake, her heart hammering against her ribs as terror flooded her veins.

The sound echoed in the unfamiliar chamber, and for a moment she didn't know where she was.

Her body moved before her mind caught up—she rolled from the bed and grabbed the first thing her fingers found: Ruaridh's heavy silver dirk from the bedside table.

He's found me. He's come tae finish what he started.

Knock. Knock.

This time the sound was softer, more tentative. A woman's voice called through the thick oak door.

"Me lady? It's Alba. I've brought yer morning meal."

Reality crashed over her like cold water. She wasn't in her family's castle. Murray wasn't coming for her. She was Lady MacDuff now, safe behind stone walls and guarded by Highland warriors.

Safe. Ye're safe.

But her hands were still shaking, and her breathing came in short, sharp gasps that made her chest ache. She stared down at the dirk in her grip—its silver hilt gleaming in the morning light streaming through the window, its blade sharp enough to gut a man.

"Me lady?" Alba's voice carried a note of concern now.

"Enter," Iona managed, though her voice came out rougher than she intended.

She tried to set the dirk back on the table, but her trembling fingers lost their grip. The weapon clattered to the stone floor with a sound that seemed to echo through the chamber like thunder.

The door opened slowly, and Alba stepped inside carrying a wooden tray. Her kind eyes took in the scene—Iona pressed against the wall in her night rail, the fallen dirk, the obvious signs of panic—but her expression remained carefully neutral.

"Good morning, me lady," she said gently, as if nothing were amiss. "I hope ye slept well."

Iona watched as Alba moved to the small table by the window, setting down the tray with practiced efficiency. Steam rose from a ceramic mug, and the scent of warm milk and honey filled the air.

"Laird Ruaridh asked me tae bring this tae ye," Alba said, not looking directly at Iona but keeping her voice conversational. "Said ye might need something soothing after... after yesterday's travels."

The gesture hit her like a physical blow. After the way she'd fallen apart in his arms, after he'd been forced to sleep on the floor because his own wife couldn't bear his touch, he'd still thought to send her comfort.

Twice now. The milk last night, and now this.

"He... he requested this?" she asked softly.

"Aye, me lady. Came to the kitchens himself before dawn and spoke tae Cook personally." Alba busied herself arranging the tray. "Said we were tae make sure ye had whatever ye needed tae feel at home here."

At home. The words settled strangely in her chest. When was the last time anywhere had felt like home?

"That's... that's very thoughtful of him," Iona said, finally moving away from the wall. Her legs felt unsteady, but she managed to reach the chair by the table.

Alba smiled and moved toward the door. "I'll return shortly tae help ye dress, if ye'd like. Or if ye prefer privacy, just call when ye're ready."

When the door closed behind her, Iona wrapped her hands around the warm mug and let the heat seep into her fingers. The milk was perfectly sweetened, just as it had been the night before. Ruaridh had remembered exactly how she liked it.

Who are ye, truly? The cold warrior who saved me life, or the man who sends warm milk tae comfort a frightened wife?

Perhaps he was both. Perhaps, like her, he was more complicated than he appeared on the surface.

An hour later, dressed in a simple gown of MacDuff blue that Alba had helped her choose, Iona stepped out of the chamber and into the corridor beyond. Daylight streamed through tall windows, illuminating tapestries and carved stonework that took her breath away.

By the saints, it's magnificent.

As a child, she'd thought Castle MacDuff was grand, but her memories hadn't done it justice. The corridors were wider than she remembered, the ceilings higher, the furnishings richer.

Polished suits of armor stood guard at intervals, their surfaces gleaming. Rich tapestries depicted clan victories and ancient legends, their colors still vibrant despite their age.

She'd been so frightened during her arrival that she'd barely noticed the grandeur surrounding her. Now, in the calm light of morning, she could appreciate the true wealth and power of the clan she'd married into.

This is me home now. These halls, these people—they're mine tae learn and protect.

But learning meant exploring and exploring meant not getting lost like a wayward child.

She chose a direction and began walking, her soft slippers silent on the stone floor.

The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly before her, branching off into stone shelters and side passages that she didn't remember from childhood visits.

Had the castle always been this maze-like, or had her memories simply dimmed with time?