Page 25 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

"Double the patrols along the southern border. I want tae ken the moment any MacNab sets foot on our land." He mounted his horse, settling into the familiar comfort of the saddle. "And Cormac? If they're spotted again, pursue them. It's time we sent a message of our own."

The morning patrol took them along the clan borders, through dense forest and across rolling moorland. Ruaridh spoke with each group of guards they encountered, checking their alertness, reviewing their positions. But even as he focused on military matters, his thoughts kept drifting back to Iona.

The way she'd looked at him that morning—not with fear or revulsion, but with something that might have been desire. The blush that had painted her cheeks when she realized he'd caught her staring. And underneath it all, the quiet desperation in her voice when she'd spoken of feeling useless.

She's drowning. Trapped in a life that isn't quite hers, with people who see her as an outsider.

"Sir?" Cormac's voice broke through his thoughts. "The mill ruins are just ahead. Should we investigate the tracks?"

"Aye, but carefully. I want tae ken what they were looking fer."

They spent an hour examining the abandoned mill, finding clear signs that MacNab scouts had been studying the area. Boot prints, horse tracks, even the cold remains of a small fire. They were definitely planning something.

But as the investigation continued, Ruaridh found his mind constantly pulled back to the castle and the woman waiting there. By midday, he'd made his decision.

"Take the men back along the eastern route," he told Cormac. "I'm returning tae the castle."

"Is something wrong, sir?"

"I hope nae," Ruaridh muttered, spurring his horse toward home.

One hour later, Ruaridh dismounted in the courtyard, tossing his reins to a waiting groom. The morning patrol had been routine. The MacNab scouts' tracks at the mill suggested they were planning something, but what?

His thoughts turned to Iona as he strode through the great doors. She'd mentioned reading in his mother's solar, perhaps finally finding some peace among the books there.

But when he pushed open the solar door, he found only his mother bent over her correspondence, quill scratching across parchment with practiced efficiency.

"Ruaridh?" Niamh looked up with mild surprise. "Ye're back early."

"Aye, Maither. Have ye seen Iona today?"

"Nae today. I've been busy with the food supplies—we had a delivery from the village that needed sorting." She set down her quill, concern creeping into her voice. "Why? Is something amiss?"

"Nae, just... checking on her." He frowned, scanning the empty chamber. "She said she might read here today."

"Perhaps she changed her mind. Have ye tried the scriptorium?"

The scriptorium—tucked away in the north tower where the clan's collection of books and documents were kept—seemed the next logical place to look. He climbed the winding stone stairs two at a time, his boots echoing in the narrow space.

The chamber was empty. A few books lay open on the reading table, their pages turned to illuminated passages about Highland history, but there was no sign of recent use. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light streaming through the narrow window.

Where is she?

A growing sense of unease settled in his chest as he made his way back through the castle corridors. Servants bowed as he passed, but none offered any information about his wife's whereabouts. Surely she hadn't tried to leave the grounds? She'd seemed to accept his reasoning about the danger, but perhaps her frustration had overridden her caution.

He was heading toward the gates to check with the guards when a different possibility occurred to him—one that made his stomach clench with something uncomfortably close to dread.

He turned abruptly and strode toward their chamber, taking the stairs three at a time.

The door was closed. When he pushed it open, he found Iona exactly where he'd left her that morning—sitting by the window in the same chair, staring out at the same view. The only difference was she had changed out of her sleeping gown into a blue gown. No book in her hands, no needlework, no activity of any kind.

Christ. She never left the room at all.

"Iona?"

She startled slightly, as if she'd been lost in thought. "Ye're back early."

"Aye." He studied her face, noting the listless expression, the way her shoulders curved inward as if she were trying to make herself smaller. "What are ye daeing?"