Page 1 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER ONE

1348, Castle of Clan MacNeil

"Are ye ready, lass? We must go now while the castle sleeps."

Iona MacNeill turned from her narrow window to find Henry, her father's most trusted guardsman, standing in her doorway. His weathered face was grim in the candlelight, and she could see the tension in his broad shoulders. Beyond him, shadows moved in the corridor—more men, armed and waiting.

Her fingers tightened around the folded parchment in her hand—Murray's letter, the one she'd stolen from his study that night when everything had gone so terribly wrong. The letter that contained enough evidence to create doubt about any story he tried to spin about her, but also enough to endanger anyone who possessed it. She'd promised herself she wouldn't use it, that this marriage to Ruaridh would be a fresh start, a chance to leave the past buried. But just in case Murray tried to claim she'd been willing, just in case he tried to destroy her reputation further...

She slipped the letter into the hidden pocket sewn into her traveling dress, feeling its weight settle against her ribs like a guilty secret. Murray would be searching for it, she knew that. It was likely one of the reasons he wanted her dead—not just to silence her, but to reclaim the proof of his correspondence with English sympathizers, his payments to Highland lords willing to betray their clans for gold.

This is it. Nay turnin' back now.

"Aye, I'm ready." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. The small leather satchel containing her few precious belongings sat on the bed, ready for this moment they'd all dreaded would come. Henry stepped into the chamber, closing the door softly behind him. "Yer faither wants to see ye before we leave. He's waitin' in his study with yer maither."

Iona's stomach twisted. She'd been dreading this farewell almost as much as the journey itself.

How dae ye say goodbye tae people ye might never see again?

The weight of her shame pressed down like a stone in her chest.

This is me fault. All of it. If I'd kept me mouth shut about Murray, if I'd been stronger, if I'd been smarter...

She squeezed her eyes shut against the familiar spiral of self-blame.

Nay. Murray made his choices. I just refused tae be his victim.

But the guilt remained, gnawing at her. Her parents were losing their only child because she'd believed justice mattered more than politics. And now they were paying the price for her pride.

The stone corridors of MacNeill castle felt different that night—colder, more foreboding. Each familiar tapestry and worn step seemed to whisper of all she was leaving behind. The castle had been her prison these past months, but it was still home.

The only home I've ever kent. Will I ever walk these halls again?

She found her parents in her father's study, the room that had once felt so warm and welcoming now heavy with sorrow. Her mother, Lady Caoimhe, sat in the chair beside the great oak desk, her face streaked with tears she no longer tried to hide. Her father, Laird Eoin MacNeill, stood by the fire, his tall frame rigid with the weight of what he was about to do.

"Come here, me darlin' girl," her mother whispered, rising from her chair with trembling hands extended.

Iona flew into her mother's embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and home.

Dinnae cry. Dinnae make this harder than it already is.

"I'm so sorry, Iona," her mother sobbed against her hair. "So sorry it's come to this. If there had been any other way⁠—"

"Hush now," Iona murmured, though her own tears threatened. "Ye did what ye had tae dae. We all did."

Her father's voice cut through the emotional moment, rough with suppressed pain. "Thanks tae God, the MacDuffs have agreed tae the betrothal, but with Murray MacNab's men seen in our forests these past days, we have tae get ye tae their lands safely first."

Murray. Even his name sent ice through her veins. The memory of his hands on her, his threats, the lies he'd spread—it still had the power to immobilize her.

"Nay one will believe ye, Iona. Yer word against mine? A MacNab against a disgraced MacNeill? Think carefully about what ye’re accusin' me of."

She pushed the memory away. That was the past. This night was about survival.

"How many men are ye sendin' with me?" she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady.

"Ten of our best," her father replied. "Henry leads them, and young Callum rides as messenger should ye need to send word back."

Ten men. Against however many Murray might have gathered.