Page 65 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

"Ye'd risk everything? Yer lands, yer title, yer life?"

"I'd risk anything tae bury me secrets with that bitch." Murray's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "She has a letter, Bruce, I ken she has it. Evidence of dealings that could see me hanged fer treason. As long as she lives, as long as that letter exists, I'm a dead man walking."

"And if the gift succeeds?"

"Then the letter dies with her, and I can return tae more... conventional methods of maintaining power." Murray rolled up the maps with sharp, precise movements. "But this needs tae be perfect. Nay room fer error, nay chance fer survival. Dae ye understand?"

Bruce nodded slowly. "Aye, me lord. I understand."

"Good. See that it's done within the week. The MacNab name depends on it."

As his strategist left to arrange Murray's deadly commission, the laird returned to his window. Somewhere across the loch, in the safety of MacDuff walls, Iona MacNeill thought herself protected. Thought her warrior husband could keep her safe from his reach.

Enjoy yer last days of breathing, lass. It's about tae come tae an end.

Because Murray MacNab would see her dead and buried before he'd let her destroy everything he'd built. Even if it meant burning down the entire Highlands to do it.

The special gift would be just the beginning.

"Double the guards at every entrance," Ruaridh commanded for the third time that morning, his eyes scanning the great hall where servants bustled about preparing for the evening's festivities. "And I want every gift inspected before it reaches the high table."

Duncan nodded patiently, though Ruaridh caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "Aye, sir. Already arranged. Every package, every barrel of ale, every tray of food."

"And the musicians? Have they all been questioned?"

"Twice, sir. They're the same men who've played here fer the past five years."

Ruaridh knew he was being excessive, but the memory of MacNab soldiers wearing MacDuff colors haunted his every waking moment. Three days had passed since their last attack, three days of relative peace that only made him more suspicious.

Too quiet. Murray's planning something.

The sound of hoofbeats in the courtyard drew his attention to the window. A small party was approaching the gates—visitors arriving early for the solstice celebration. His hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt until he recognized the banners.

Clan Chattan. And leading them was a familiar figure whose easy posture in the saddle brought back a flood of childhood memories.

"Gordon," he murmured, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders.

"Who's arrived?" Duncan asked, following his gaze.

"An old friend. One of the few men in the Highlands I'd trust with me life." Ruaridh moved toward the door. "Make sure he's given a proper welcome."

By the time Ruaridh reached the courtyard, Gordon Mackintosh was already dismounting, his movements still carrying the athletic grace that had made him such a formidable opponent in their childhood wrestling matches. At twenty-five, he'd grown into his height, his chestnut hair still unruly despite obvious attempts to tame it fer the journey.

"Ruaridh MacDuff!" Gordon's voice boomed across the courtyard, his grin bright enough to light the grey morning. "Look at ye, all stern and lairdly. What happened to the lad who used tae dare me to jump from the battlements?"

"He learned that broken bones hurt," Ruaridh replied, but he couldn't suppress his own smile as they clasped hands in greeting. "Gordon. It's been too long."

"Aye, well, some of us have been busy keeping our own borders secure instead of getting married and causing Highland-wide scandals." Gordon's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Speaking of which, where's this mysterious bride who's got all the clans talking?"

Before Ruaridh could answer, movement in the castle's main entrance caught his attention. Iona appeared in the doorway, her arms full of decorative garlands, her auburn hair catching the morning light. She took a few steps into the courtyard before stopping short, her eyes wide with recognition.

She remembers him.

"Sweet Mary," Gordon breathed beside him. "Is that little Iona MacNeill? She's..." He trailed off, clearly struggling for words.

"She's me wife," Ruaridh supplied, watching his wife's face carefully.

Gordon was already striding toward her, his arms outstretched and his face alight with genuine pleasure. "Iona! God's bones, lass, look at ye! When Ruaridh said he'd married a MacNeill, I never imagined⁠—"