Page 48 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

"Even if those consequences include war?" Hamish demanded.

"Even then."

The Council exchanged glances, and Ruaridh could see the decision forming before any of them spoke. They were going to ask his father to stay on as laird. They were going to strip away everything he'd worked toward, everything he'd sacrificed for.

Years of training. Years of putting the clan before everything else, including meself. And this is how they repay it.

"I think," Alistair said carefully, "that we should postpone any discussion of succession until this crisis is resolved."

The formal language couldn't disguise what it really meant. They didn't trust him. They thought his marriage to Iona had compromised his judgment, made him unfit to lead.

Maybe they're right.

The thought came unbidden, along with a memory of Iona's face as she'd tended his wounds, the way she'd looked at him like he mattered more than duty or politics or clan obligations.

When did I start wanting something fer meself instead of just fer the clan?

"What about the prisoner?" he asked, pushing his personal feelings aside for now.

"Execution," Hamish said immediately. "He's a MacNab warrior who attacked our lands. The penalty is death."

"He's told us all he kens," Duncan agreed. "And keeping him alive is a risk we can't afford. If MacNab tries another rescue attempt..."

"It's decided then," Alistair said with finality. "The prisoner will be executed at dawn."

Ruaridh nodded, though something in his chest felt hollow. Another decision made without his real input, another reminder that despite his title and training, the Council still saw him as a boy playing at being a man.

As the meeting broke up and the councilors filed out, Alistair approached his son.

"Ruaridh, I want ye tae ken⁠—"

"That ye dinnae trust me tae lead this clan?" Ruaridh's voice was quiet, but his father flinched as if he'd been shouted at.

"That I dinnae want tae see ye make decisions ye'll regret," Alistair corrected gently. "Ye're a good man, son. But good men sometimes make poor lairds when their hearts are involved."

"And what if me heart is the only thing keeping me human enough tae be worth following?"

The question hung in the air between them as Ruaridh walked out, leaving his father standing alone in the empty council chamber.

Iona lay in bed, listening to the familiar sound of Ruaridh moving quietly around their chamber. It was well past midnight when he finally entered, his movements careful and deliberate as if he were trying not to wake her.

But she was wide awake, had been for hours.

"How did the meeting go?" she asked softly into the darkness.

"It went as expected."

"Good. Was there any good resolution? The way the Council gathered, I assumed it was urgent business, probably tae dae with the prisoner."

"Aye"

That was all the response she got—a noncommittal sound that could have meant anything or nothing.

She waited, hoping he might elaborate, might give her some hint of what had transpired in that council chamber. Instead, she heard the rustle of fabric as he settled onto his sleeping mat, still positioned at arm's length from her bed.

"Ruaridh?" she tried again. "Are ye⁠—"

But his breathing had already settled into the rhythm of sleep, or at least a convincing pretense of it. She stared up at the ceiling beams, watching shadows dance in the dying firelight, and wondered what had happened to the man who'd almost kissed her just hours before.