Page 34 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

Alba's face crumpled with sympathy. "That's just it, me lady. He couldn't tell. Said a scout brought news to their patrol for the laird. And that they'd taken shelter somewhere fer the night rather than risk moving injured men in the dark."

Iona's hands were shaking now, and she clasped them together in her lap to hide the trembling. Images flashed through her mind—Ruaridh's blood-soaked body lying motionless on the ground, or worse, captured by MacNab warriors and facing the kind of torment Murray delighted in inflicting.

This is me fault. If I hadn't married him, if I hadn't brought me troubles tae his clan, he wouldn't be out there risking his life against Murray's men.

"Me lady?" Alba's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are ye all right? Ye've gone quite pale."

"I'll be fine," Iona managed, though her voice sounded thin and breathless. "Dae ye ken what Laird Alistair is doing about this report?"

"Aye, me lady. He's called a meeting with the Council, and they're discussing whether tae send out a search party."

"A search party?" The implications of that made Iona's stomach lurch. If they needed to search for the patrol, it meant something had gone seriously wrong. "Why would they need tae search? Dinnae they ken where the patrol was supposed tae go?"

Alba's expression grew even more troubled, but all she could do was look at Iona with pity.

Or they could all be dead. Or captured. Or Ruaridh could be bleeding tae death somewhere while I sit here worrying about embroidery.

"I need tae speak with Laird Alistair," Iona said, rising abruptly from her chair.

"Me lady, I dinnae think⁠—"

"I need tae ken what's being done tae find them." Her voice was steadier now, fueled by determination rather than fear. "If there's anything I can dae tae help, any way I can be useful..."

"Me lady, please," Alba said gently. "The laird and his Council ken what they're about. And surely Ruaridh is skilled enough tae take care of himself and his men. He's been fighting longer than most, and he's never lost a patrol yet."

The reassurance should have been comforting, but all Iona could think about was how different this situation was from normal clan conflicts. This wasn't a border dispute with neighboring clansmen who fought by Highland codes of honor. This was Murray MacNab, a man whose cruelty knew no bounds, whose hatred of her was deep enough to drive him to acts of savage vengeance.

If Murray has captured Ruaridh, he'll make him suffer fer marrying me. He'll use him tae get tae me, or worse—he'll torture him just fer the pleasure of destroying someone connected tae me.

The thought hit her like a physical blow. When had she started caring about Ruaridh beyond gratitude for his protection? When had his welfare become something that could make her hands shake and her breath come short?

"Me lady?" Alba was watching her with growing concern. "Should I fetch Lady Niamh? Or perhaps some tea tae settle yer nerves?"

"Nay," Iona said, forcing herself to stand straighter. "I'm fine. Just... worried about me husband, as any wife would be."

But even as she spoke the words, she knew they didn't capture the depth of what she was feeling. This wasn't the detached concern of a political bride for her spouse's welfare. This was the gut-wrenching terror of a woman who was beginning to realize that somewhere in the careful dance of their arranged marriage, something inside of her had started to become involved.

After Alba left, Iona returned to their chamber, unable to concentrate on anything else. The castle felt different somehow with Ruaridh gone—less secure, more vulnerable. She'd grown accustomed to his steady presence, to knowing he was somewhere within these walls even when they weren't together.

The room seemed too quiet, too empty. Her eyes kept drifting to the corner where he slept. The sight of it bothered her more than it should have—the blankets he used should have been spread beside her bed by now.

He said he'd them closer every night. But last night, he never had the chance.

Without quite understanding why, she found herself crossing to the drawer where he kept them. The wool blankets were soft beneath her fingers. She positioned it where she thought he might have placed it—perhaps close enough that they could speak quietly without raising their voices.

Foolish lass. He'll think ye've overstepped when he returns.

Standing back, she studied her handiwork. It looked right, somehow. Less lonely than the empty space had been.

She left it as it was and moved to the window, pulling the heavy curtains aside to peer out at the courtyard below. Guards walked their posts, servants hurried about their business, but there was no sign of returning riders.

The afternoon stretched endlessly. She tried to read, attempted some embroidery, even considered returning to help Niamh. But she couldn't shake the restless energy that had settled in her bones, the need to be there, in that room, where she would know the moment he returned.

If he returns.

She pushed the dark thought away as soon as it formed. Ruaridh was skilled, experienced. He'd survived whatever war had left those scars on his soul—surely he could handle a skirmish with MacNab raiders.

The sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon when movement in the courtyard caught her eye. A group of riders was approaching the gates, their horses moving slowly, carefully. Even at that distance, she could see that some of the men were slumped in their saddles, supported by their companions.