Page 8 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER SEVEN

A fter several minutes of walking, she realized she had no idea where she was going. The great hall should have been easy to find since it was the heart of any castle, but every turn seemed to lead to another identical corridor.

Foolish. Ye should have waited fer Alba.

She tried retracing her steps, but the passages all looked the same.

Panic began to flutter in her chest again—a different kind than before, but panic nonetheless.

What if she wandered these halls all morning like a lost spirit?

What if the servants thought her a fool who couldn't even find her way to breakfast?

Calm yerself. It's just a castle. Ye're nae trapped. Ye're nae in danger.

But the walls seemed to press closer with each step, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was hopelessly, embarrassingly lost.

"Iona?" A familiar voice called from behind her. "What are ye daeing wandering these corridors by yerself?"

She turned to find Sorcha approaching, her dark blonde hair neatly braided. Her expression was curious rather than judgmental. Behind her came Morag, looking as bright and energetic as she had the night before.

"I was trying tae find the great hall," Iona admitted, heat creeping up her neck. "But I seem tae have gotten turned around."

"Turned around?" Morag laughed, but not unkindly. "Lass, ye're practically on the other side of the castle from the hall. How did ye end up here?"

"I... I'm nae entirely sure," Iona said, feeling foolish. "The corridors all look the same tae me.

"They dae take some getting used tae," Sorcha said gently, linking her arm through Iona's. "Come, we'll show ye the way. And perhaps give ye a proper tour while we're at it."

"Aye," Morag agreed, falling into step beside them. "Can't have our new sister wandering the halls like a lost ghost."

As they walked, Sorcha pointed out landmarks—a particular tapestry depicting the clan's founding, a suit of armor that had belonged to their great-grandfather, a window that offered the best view of the loch.

Iona tried to memorize each detail, knowing she'd need these markers to navigate on her own.

"Where's Ruaridh this morning?" she asked, trying to sound casual. "I didnae see him when I woke."

"Council meeting," Morag replied with a knowing look. "Faither likes tae start them at dawn. They'll probably be wrapping up about now, though they could go on fer hours if the mood strikes them."

"What dae they discuss?" Iona asked.

"Everything and naething," Sorcha said with a slight smile. "Clan business, border disputes, crops, marriages, feuds—whatever needs sorting. Though I imagine today's meeting might be... particularly lively."

The implication hung heavy in the air. They were discussing her, her marriage, the threat she'd brought to their doorstep. The knowledge sat like a stone in her stomach.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I ken me presence here complicates things."

"Dinnae be daft," Morag said firmly. "Ye've done nothing wrong. It's Murray MacNab who's the problem, nae ye."

"Besides," Sorcha added, "Ruaridh can handle the Council. Our braither's strong."

They emerged into a wider corridor that Iona recognized from the night before. The great hall lay just ahead, its massive oak doors standing open to reveal the long tables where servants were clearing away the remains of the morning meal.

"There," Morag said with satisfaction. "Now ye ken the way. Shall we break our fast together? I'm starving, and I suspect ye are too."

The morning passed more pleasantly than Iona had dared hope. After breaking their fast in the great hall, Morag and Sorcha had taken her on a proper tour of the castle, sharing stories and memories from their childhood that made the ancient stones feel less foreign.

"And this," Morag said, pushing open a heavy door, "is Maither's solar. She spends most mornings here with her correspondence and ledgers."

The chamber was warm and inviting, with tall windows that let in streams of golden sunlight. Tapestries depicting peaceful scenes—shepherds with their flocks, women gathering flowers—softened the stone walls. It felt like a feminine refuge in a masculine stronghold.

"It's beautiful," Iona said, running her fingers along the edge of an embroidered cushion. "Nae as I remember it at all and so different from the rest of the castle."

"Maither has redone many areas of the castle," Sorcha explained, settling into one of the chairs by the window and looking around the room. "She always said a woman needs a space that's entirely her own. Somewhere she can think without the weight of stone and steel pressing down on her."

"Ye'll have yer own chambers to arrange as ye please," Morag added, curling up in another chair with the easy familiarity of someone who'd done this countless times before. "Ruaridh mentioned something about having rooms prepared fer ye near his own."

The mention of her husband sent a flutter through Iona's stomach.

She'd managed not to think about him for nearly an hour, caught up in the warmth of his sisters' company.

Now the memory of their wedding night came rushing back—his gentleness, his patience, the careful way he'd arranged his sleeping mat far from the bed.

"He's been... kind tae me," she said carefully.

"Has he?" Sorcha's eyebrows rose slightly. "That's good tae hear. Ruaridh hasn't been particularly kind tae anyone since he returned from the war."

"Sorcha," Morag warned gently.

"What? It's true. He's been cold as the winter months. If he's showing warmth tae Iona, that's encouraging."

Iona shifted uncomfortably. She didn't want to give them false hope about her marriage, but she also couldn't explain the complexity of what lay between her and Ruaridh without revealing more than she was prepared to share.

"Perhaps we should visit the kitchens," she suggested, eager to change the subject. "I'd like tae meet Cook and thank her fer the lovely meal."

"Excellent idea," Morag said, bouncing to her feet. "Cook would love tae meet our latest family member, and she makes the most wonderful honey cakes."

They made their way through the castle's winding passages, Iona carefully noting the route so she wouldn't get lost again. The kitchens were a bustle of activity even mid-morning, with servants preparing for the midday meal and tending to various tasks.

Cook—a round, rosy-cheeked woman named Mairi—welcomed Iona with enthusiasm, pressing warm oatcakes wrapped in a flannel into their hands and asking detailed questions about her preferences for meals. It felt wonderfully normal, this domestic conversation about food and household management.

"We'll make sure ye're well fed, me lady," Mairi said with a broad smile. "A good meal can cure many troubles."

They were leaving the kitchens, still nibbling on oatcakes, when Iona heard the voices. Two maidservants were talking in low tones near the servants' stair, but their words carried clearly in the stone corridor.

"—dinnae understand why the young master would saddle himself with her troubles," one was saying. "Mark me words, she'll bring naught but sorrow tae this house."

"Hush," the other replied. "Ye shouldnae speak so."

"Why nae? It's what we're all thinking. We lost six good men bringing her here, and fer what? Some MacNeill lass with a reputation black as coal?"

Iona's steps faltered. Morag and Sorcha were still walking ahead, discussing something about the afternoon's activities, but Iona could barely hear them over the rushing in her ears.

"The MacNabs are already prowling our borders," the second maid continued. "How long before they bring war tae our very gates? All fer a woman who?—"

"That's enough," the second voice said firmly. "Lady MacDuff is our laird's wife, and we'll show her proper respect."

"Respect?" the first maid said with a bitter laugh. "What has she done tae earn it aside from getting many of our fine men killed the first day she arrived here. I am nae sure why our future laird married her."

The words hit Iona like physical blows. She pressed herself against the wall, trying to become invisible as the servants moved past without noticing her. Her heart was hammering, and her hands had begun to shake again.

They're right. I have brought naething but trouble. Many men died because of me. The clan is in danger because of me.

"Iona?" Sorcha had stopped and was looking back with concern. "Are ye all right? Ye look pale."

"I'm... I'm fine," Iona managed, though her voice sounded thin to her own ears.

But she wasn't fine. The servants' words had given voice to the fear that had been gnawing at her since her arrival. She'd married Ruaridh to escape Murray's threats, but what had she given him in return? Nothing but danger and political complications.

Why did he agree tae this marriage? What could he possibly gain from wedding a disgraced MacNeill?

The question that had haunted her since the wedding ceremony returned with fresh urgency.

The more she thought about it, the more it troubled her. Ruaridh was heir tae a powerful clan, a man who could have had his pick of Highland daughters. Why choose her, with all her scandal and baggage?

There had to be a reason. Something beyond mere duty or charity. Men like Ruaridh MacDuff didn't make decisions that risked their clan's safety without good cause.

"Actually," she said, her voice growing stronger as resolve filled her. "I think I need tae speak with Ruaridh. Dae ye ken where I might find him?"

Morag and Sorcha exchanged glances.

"The council meeting should be finished by now," Sorcha said slowly. "He might be in Faither's study, or perhaps in the training yard."

"I'll find him," Iona said with more confidence than she felt.

She needed answers. She had to understand why a man who barely remembered her had been willing to risk everything to save her life. And she needed to know whether she was truly safe in this marriage, or if she'd simply traded one danger for another.

The servants' words echoed in her mind as she set off to find her husband:

It was time to find out what, if anything, she could do to prove her worth to the clan that had taken her in. But first, she had to understand why they'd taken her in at all.