Page 16 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

"Me lady?" Alba's voice carried a note of concern now.

"Enter," Iona managed, though her voice came out rougher than she intended.

She tried to set the dirk back on the table, but her trembling fingers lost their grip. The weapon clattered to the stone floor with a sound that seemed to echo through the chamber like thunder.

The door opened slowly, and Alba stepped inside carrying a wooden tray. Her kind eyes took in the scene—Iona pressed against the wall in her night rail, the fallen dirk, the obvious signs of panic—but her expression remained carefully neutral.

"Good morning, me lady," she said gently, as if nothing were amiss. "I hope ye slept well."

Iona watched as Alba moved to the small table by the window, setting down the tray with practiced efficiency. Steam rose from a ceramic mug, and the scent of warm milk and honey filled the air.

"Laird Ruaridh asked me tae bring this tae ye," Alba said, not looking directly at Iona but keeping her voice conversational. "Said ye might need something soothing after... after yesterday's travels."

The gesture hit her like a physical blow. After the way she'd fallen apart in his arms, after he'd been forced to sleep on the floor because his own wife couldn't bear his touch, he'd still thought to send her comfort.

Twice now. The milk last night, and now this.

"He... he requested this?" she asked softly.

"Aye, me lady. Came to the kitchens himself before dawn and spoke tae Cook personally." Alba busied herself arranging the tray. "Said we were tae make sure ye had whatever ye needed tae feel at home here."

At home. The words settled strangely in her chest. When was the last time anywhere had felt like home?

"That's... that's very thoughtful of him," Iona said, finally moving away from the wall. Her legs felt unsteady, but she managed to reach the chair by the table.

Alba smiled and moved toward the door. "I'll return shortly tae help ye dress, if ye'd like. Or if ye prefer privacy, just call when ye're ready."

When the door closed behind her, Iona wrapped her hands around the warm mug and let the heat seep into her fingers. The milk was perfectly sweetened, just as it had been the night before. Ruaridh had remembered exactly how she liked it.

Who are ye, truly? The cold warrior who saved me life, or the man who sends warm milk tae comfort a frightened wife?

Perhaps he was both. Perhaps, like her, he was more complicated than he appeared on the surface.

An hour later, dressed in a simple gown of MacDuff blue that Alba had helped her choose, Iona stepped out of the chamber and into the corridor beyond. Daylight streamed through tall windows, illuminating tapestries and carved stonework that took her breath away.

By the saints, it's magnificent.

As a child, she'd thought Castle MacDuff was grand, but her memories hadn't done it justice. The corridors were wider than she remembered, the ceilings higher, the furnishings richer.

Polished suits of armor stood guard at intervals, their surfaces gleaming. Rich tapestries depicted clan victories and ancient legends, their colors still vibrant despite their age.

She'd been so frightened during her arrival that she'd barely noticed the grandeur surrounding her. Now, in the calm light of morning, she could appreciate the true wealth and power of the clan she'd married into.

This is me home now. These halls, these people—they're mine tae learn and protect.

But learning meant exploring and exploring meant not getting lost like a wayward child.

She chose a direction and began walking, her soft slippers silent on the stone floor. The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly before her, branching off into stone shelters and side passages that she didn't remember from childhood visits. Had the castle always been this maze-like, or had her memories simply dimmed with time?