Page 4 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

"I willnae leave ye," she said fiercely.

"Ye will, because that's an order from yer faither." His eyes were hard despite his pain. "And because if ye die here, all these good men died fer naethin'."

He's right. If I die, their sacrifice means naething.

Murray's voice rang out across the battlefield, cold and mocking. "Iona MacNeill! Come out and face me, and I'll let yer remaining dogs live!"

Liar. He'll kill them all regardless.

She looked at Henry, seeing the same knowledge in his eyes. There would be no mercy. No quarter given. It was about more than politics or clan feuds—it was about Murray's wounded pride and his need to destroy her completely.

"Dinnae answer him," Henry warned quietly. "He wants tae see ye break."

But she was tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of watching good people die because of her choices. She urged her horse forward a few steps, close enough for her voice to carry.

"I'm here, Murray!" she called out. "What dae ye want?"

His laughter was like ice in her veins. "What dae I want? Justice, Iona. Ye tried tae ruin me with yer lies, and now I'm here tae return the favor."

"The only lies told were yers," she shot back. "And everyone will ken the truth eventually."

"Will they? Hard tae speak when ye’re dead."

The MacNab forces began moving forward again, their weapons gleaming in the starlight. This was it—the final moment. Around her, her few remaining guards gripped their weapons with bloody hands, preparing to give their lives.

But as the enemy closed in, a new sound reached her ears—the thunder of hoofbeats approaching fast from the north. Many hoofbeats.

Henry's head snapped up, hope flickering in his tired eyes. "Listen!"

The MacNab charge faltered as their leader raised his hand, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "What in hell⁠—"

The new riders burst from the tree line like avenging angels, their war cries echoing off the valley walls. Even in the darkness, Iona could see they wore different colors—not MacNab red, but MacDuff blue and silver.

Ruaridh. It has tae be.

But her moment of hope was short-lived. A MacNab warrior, seeing his advantage slipping away, broke from the main group and charged straight at her. His sword was raised high, his face twisted with bloodlust.

She tried to wheel her horse away, but the exhausted animal responded too slowly. The warrior's blade descended toward her head⁠—

"Got ye now, MacNeill whore," he snarled, raising his spear. "Murray wants ye alive so he can take yer head himself, and by God, he'll have⁠—"

The MacNab warrior's blade descended toward her head. Her exhausted horse responded too slowly to her desperate attempt to wheel away, and Iona closed her eyes, bracing for the blow⁠—

Strong hands seized her from behind, dragging her from the saddle just as steel bit into the leather where she'd been sitting. She hit the ground hard in someone's protective embrace, gasping for breath as she looked up to see her rescuer.

Ruaridh.

Even in the chaos of battle, even after fifteen years, she knew him instantly. Gone was the gangly boy she remembered—this was a warrior in his prime, his green eyes intense as he looked down at her.

"Are ye hurt?" His voice was rough with concern, and for just a split second his face softened. Something flickered in his eyes, tender and achingly familiar, like an echo of the boy who used to comfort her scraped knees.

She nodded, at loss for words, and then his expression hardened again, the moment lost as quickly as it had come.

"Stay here," he commanded, his voice turning cold and professional as he rose to his feet, sword already in hand.

The MacNab soldier who'd been about to kill her spun around, snarling as he raised his spear toward them both. But Ruaridh was already moving, his blade finding the man's heart before he could strike