Page 6 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

"Aye, sir."

Ruaridh studied the ancient stones around him. How many warriors had made their last stand here? How many had died for causes they barely understood, crushed between the ambitions of their leaders?

"And make sure the lads ken. Any MacNab we catch on MacDuff soil dies. Nay prisoners, nay quarter."

"Even if they surrender?"

"Especially if they surrender." Ruaridh's voice carried the chill of winter wind. "Murray wants tae play at war? Then he'll learn what war truly costs."

Ruaridh stood between the weathered stones, breathing hard, his entire body thrumming with unused violence. He'd been so close. So damn close to ending that threat permanently.

"The battle's over," he announced, his voice carrying across the valley. "Count our dead and wounded. Gather what weapons ye can use."

His men responded with crisp efficiency, their movements sharp and purposeful. They'd learned to read his moods, learned when to speak and when to stay silent. Right now, silence was safest.

Ruaridh looked down at Iona, her face deadly pale and her hands trembling.

"Can ye ride?" he asked.

"Aye." Her voice was steady, but he could see the effort it cost her.

"Good."

Iona stepped toward him, her hands reaching out like she had when they were children. Like she expected comfort, familiarity, the easy affection they'd once shared.

"Ruaridh, I cannae believe it's really ye. When I heard ye were⁠—"

He stepped back, his expression cool. "Lady MacNeill."

The formal address hit her like a slap. He watched her hands fall to her sides, watched hope die in her eyes. She'd been expecting the boy she'd known—laughing, kind, quick to offer comfort or adventure.

That boy ye kenned as a friend is dead. Has been fer over a year now.

"I... I thought..." she stammered, confusion and hurt warring in her voice.

"Ye thought what? That fifteen years changed naethin'? That we'd pick up where we left off like children playin' at friendship?" His voice was deliberately neutral. "Ye thought wrong."

She flinched as if he'd struck her. "I didnae mean⁠—"

"What ye meant daesnae matter." He gestured to the bodies around them. "Six of me men are dead because of yer troubles. Good men with families, with children who'll grow up without faithers. That's what matters."

The color drained from her face. "I never wanted⁠—"

"What ye wanted is irrelevant. What's done is done." He turned away from her, unable to bear the wounded look in her eyes. It reminded him too much of other things, other pain he couldn't afford to feel.

Dinnae think about the cells.

"Gather the dead," he called to his men. "We ride fer home within the hour."

"Ruaridh, please—" Iona's voice broke slightly.

He turned back to her, his green eyes cold as winter stone. "Ye'd dae well tae remember yer place. This marriage is fer convenience only, and that is the way it will remain."

She went very still, her face pale as moonlight. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible. "What happened tae ye?"

Everything. Things that made me realize weakness gets ye killed.

"Life happened, Lady MacNeill. And death. And the kind of lessons that change a man completely." He studied her face, watching understanding dawn in her eyes. "Ye wanted a husband who'd treat ye with the same kindness I showed ye as a boy. But that boy is gone, and the man who's left has nay kindness tae spare."