Page 56 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Icannae stand another moment in these walls."

Ruaridh had been gone since dawn, and every minute that passed felt like another stone wall had been built around her.

Sweet spices and market goods. Things I could have helped with if he wasnae so bloody stubborn.

She grabbed her shawl and headed for the door. Castle grounds, he'd said. She could walk the castle grounds. Well, the gardens were part of the castle grounds, weren't they?

The morning air was crisp against her face as she made her way through the courtyard and down the stone steps toward the older section of the grounds. The cherry trees were in their final bloom, petals drifting like snow across the worn pathways. The gardens had always been her refuge as a child—a place where she could think without the weight of stone walls pressing down on her.

Just a few minutes of peace. That's all I need.

She wandered deeper, breathing in the sweet scent of late blossoms and letting the tension ease from her shoulders. The familiar paths soothed her, reminding her of simpler times when her biggest worry was avoiding her governess long enough to climb trees with Ruaridh.

Movement caught her eye near the old fountain. A MacDuff guard stood with his back to her, but something about his posture struck her as odd. He was too still, too focused on something beyond the garden walls.

Is he watching for something? Or someone?

Curiosity overrode caution as she approached him. "Are ye well? Ye look⁠—"

The man spun around, and Iona's blood turned to ice. The face beneath the MacDuff colors was one she recognized—scarred, brutal, with the cold eyes of a killer. This was no MacDuff guard.

"What are ye doing here?" she demanded, taking a step back. "Who are ye?"

His answer was steel sliding from its sheath.

"MacNab sends his regards," he snarled, lunging forward with his blade raised.

Iona threw herself sideways, the sword whistling past her ear close enough to cut strands of her hair. She hit the ground hard, rolling behind the stone fountain as her attacker's second strike sparked off the carved rim where her head had been.

"Help!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the garden walls. "Attack in the gardens! Help me!"

The assassin vaulted over the fountain with predatory grace, his blade seeking her heart. Iona grabbed a handful of gravel and flung it at his face, buying herself precious seconds to scramble away.

She sprinted toward the main path, her skirts tangling around her legs as branches tore at her clothes. Behind her, she could hear the assassin's boots pounding against the stone walkway, gaining ground with every step.

A second figure emerged from behind the cherry trees—another false MacDuff guard with murder in his eyes.

"There's nowhere tae run, lass," he called out, moving to cut off her escape route.

"Nay!" she gasped, veering toward the castle walls. "Help! Someone help me!"

The castle alarm bell began to ring, its bronze voice calling out across the grounds. Someone had heard her screams.

But even as real MacDuff guards began pouring from the castle doors, more false soldiers emerged from their hiding places throughout the garden. The disguises were perfect—MacDuff colors, MacDuff weapons, even the faces of men she'd seen around the castle.

How many of them are there? How long have they been here?

"There are more of them!" she tried to shout a warning as the first wave of real guards reached the garden. "They're disguised as⁠—"

Her words were lost in the clash of steel as chaos erupted within the once-peaceful garden. The real MacDuff soldiers rushed to defend what they thought was their lady being protected by their own men, only to find themselves fighting for their lives against enemies wearing similar uniforms.

A blade whistled past her head, embedding itself in the bark inches from her face. One of the assassins had broken free from the melee, his scarred face twisted with murderous intent.

"Should have stayed in yer tower, MacNeill whore," he snarled, raising his sword for the killing blow.

Iona drew the small dagger from her belt—the same blade she'd carried since her first night at the castle—and met his strike with desperate strength. The impact jarred her arms, nearly tearing the weapon from her grip, but she held on.