Page 9 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

"Is he always so..." Iona began as Alba worked, then stopped, unsure how to finish.

"Distant?" Alba supplied gently. "Aye, since he came back from the war. Used tae laugh all the time, he did. Race through these halls like the devil himself was chasing him. Now..." She shrugged sadly. "But he's a good man underneath it all. Just... different."

The water was blissfully warm, washing away the grime and terror of the journey. Alba worked with practiced hands, washing her hair with soap that smelled of lavender and combing out the tangles with patient care.

When Iona was clean and dressed in the blue silk gown—finer than anything she'd owned in years—Niamh returned. She studied Iona with a critical eye, then nodded approvingly.

"There's the lass I remember. Now, sit." She gestured to a chair by the fire. "Eat something,” she pointed to the bannocks and fruit that had been laid out for her. “We need tae discuss a few things before ye become me daughter by law."

Iona sat, smoothing the unfamiliar silk over her knees. "Me lady, I want ye tae ken how grateful I am."

"Hush." Niamh settled across from her, her expression serious. "I ken why this marriage came about, child. Yer family's troubles, the danger ye face have been nay secret. But I also remember a wee lass who defended me son against boys twice her size and shared her sweets without being asked."

"That was a long time ago."

"Nae so long that I've forgotten yer heart." Niamh leaned forward. "Me clan has shown patience with yers, Iona. Forgiven past mistakes, offered protection when others wouldn't. I'm asking ye tae show the same patience with me son."

Heat crept up Iona's neck. "I understand me position here, me lady. The scandal I've brought tae ye."

"This isnae about scandal." Niamh's voice was firm. "This is about healing. Ruaridh has... struggles of his own. Things that have nothing tae dae with ye or yer family. But he agreed tae this marriage, and that tells me more than his cold words ever could."

"He agreed because it was his duty."

"Perhaps. But duty alone wouldn't have sent him racing tae yer rescue taenight with such... urgency."

Iona looked up sharply. "What dae ye mean?"

"I mean me son insisted on positioning himself near the border tae await yer arrival, despite our protests that it was unnecessary." Niamh's eyes held a knowing glint. "He said it was tae ensure yer safe passage." She shook her head with something that might have been maternal pride. "Kennin’ me son, he must have rode toward the fighting like a man possessed."

A flutter of something warm and unexpected stirred in Iona's chest. "He... he was waiting fer me?"

"Aye, lass. He’d been positioned there since before dawn, watching the old roads like a hawk. That daesnae sound like mere duty tae me."

Just then, a knock at the door interrupted them. "Me lady," Alba called. "The priest is here."

Niamh stood, smoothing her skirts. "Time tae become a MacDuff, lass. Are ye ready?"

Iona thought of the letter hidden in her travel dress—Murray's letter, her insurance against an uncertain future. Then she lifted her chin and met Niamh's knowing eyes.

"Aye. I'm ready."

The chapel was smaller than Iona had expected, its stone walls worn smooth by centuries of MacDuff prayers and promises. Candlelight flickered across carved pillars, casting dancing shadows that seemed to breathe with the weight of history. Only a handful of people were present—Niamh, her husband Alistair, a few senior clan members, and the priest whose lined face spoke of decades spent blessing unions and burying the dead.

Ruaridh stood waiting at the altar, his broad shoulders rigid beneath a formal plaid in MacDuff colors. He'd changed from his battle-stained clothes into a fine shirt and jacket, his dark hair combed back though a stubborn lock still fell across his forehead. When he turned to watch her approach, his face revealed nothing—not pleasure, not reluctance, just that carefully controlled mask he'd worn since rescuing her.

This isnae how I imagined me wedding day.

The thought came unbidden as she walked down the short aisle. As a girl, she'd dreamed of flowers and music, of a groom who smiled when he saw her. Instead, she had candlelight and silence, and a man who looked at her like she was a problem to be solved.

But he was there. He'd agreed to it, rescued her, brought her safely home. That had to count for something.

"Dearly beloved," the priest began, his voice echoing in the small space, "we are gathered in the sight of God to witness the joining of this man and this woman in holy matrimony."

The words washed over her like a distant tide. She found herself studying Ruaridh's profile—the strong line of his jaw, the way his eyes fixed on some point beyond the priest's shoulder. He'd grown into his looks, she realized. The gangly boy had become a man who commanded attention simply by existing.

"Dae ye, Ruaridh MacDuff, take this woman tae be yer lawfully wedded wife, tae have and tae hold, in sickness and in health, fer richer or poorer, as long as ye both shall live?"

"I dae." His voice was steady, final. No hesitation, but no warmth either.