Page 49 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

By the time Iona woke, pale sunlight was already streaming through the chamber windows. Ruaridh's sleeping area was empty, his blankets folded with military precision and stacked neatly against the wall.

She dressed quickly and made her way to the great hall, hoping to find him breaking his fast. But the high table was empty save for Niamh, who looked up with a concerned smile.

"Good morning, dear. Ye've missed Ruaridh, I'm afraid. He left before dawn."

She blinked several times. "Good morning, Lady MacDuff. Left fer where?"

"Border patrol, I believe. Or perhaps the training yard. He didn't say."

Iona forced herself to sit for some herbal tea that tasted bitter in her mouth, and discuss a few more ideas with Niamh, before excusing herself. She spent the morning searching the castle grounds—the stables, the armory, the battlements—but found no trace of her husband. It was as if he'd vanished like morning mist.

Finally, she found Alba in the kitchens.

"Alba, I haven't seen me husband since sunrise. Would ye take a message fer me?" she asked. "Tell him I'd like tae share the midday meal with him. Or the evening meal, whichever he prefers."

Alba returned an hour later with an apologetic expression. "He says he's very busy with clan business, me lady."

Another time. As if she were some visiting dignitary requesting an audience rather than his wife. Oh, dinnae worry, husband. Ill get tae the bottom of whatever it is that’s going on.

Determined to catch Ruaridh when he returned and force him to speak with her, Iona tried to stay awake. She paced, made funny sounds with her tongue and cheek, splashed water on her face, but exhaustion finally claimed her, and she drifted off in the chair by the fireplace.

She woke to the sound of movement near the door. Through half-closed eyes, she watched him enter quietly, his shoulders set with weariness. He paused when he saw her in the chair, then moved carefully to gather a blanket from his sleeping area.

The soft weight of wool settling over her shoulders was the last thing she remembered before sleep claimed her again.

This time, Iona woke just as Ruaridh was pulling on his boots. Gray dawn light filtered through the windows, and she could see him clearly for the first time in days. His face looked haggard, as if he hadn't been sleeping well despite his early bedtimes.

"Good morning, husband," she whispered.

He paused, his hands stilling on his boot laces. "Good morning, wife."

The formal distance in his voice made her chest ache. "Ye've hardly spoken a word in days."

"I have clan business tae handle," he said, standing and reaching for his jacket. "I'll see ye later tonight."

"Ruaridh, wait⁠—"

But he was already gone, the door closing softly behind him with the kind of careful quiet that felt worse than any slam.