Page 54 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

The concern in her voice, offered despite her anger at his decision, hit him harder than it should have. "I'll be careful," he said gruffly.

Then he was gone, leaving the two women to their meal planning.

"Be careful in the village."

The words was almost a whisper.

Those few words followed him down the corridor like an echo.

She'd said it as if it meant something to her. As if he meant something to her.

Dinnae read more intae it than there is. She was bein’ polite.

The stable yard was shrouded in mist, the air sharp with the promise of a harsh winter. Angus had his horse ready—a steady bay gelding that could handle the rough roads to the nearby town. The old groom handed him the reins with a grunt.

"Market day's always busy, me lord. Ye sure ye dinnae want an escort?"

"I can handle a few merchants and farmers, Angus."

"Aye, but with all the trouble lately⁠—"

"I'll be fine." Ruaridh swung into the saddle, settling his weight as the horse danced beneath him. "Keep the gates locked while I'm gone. Nay one enters without Duncan's approval."

The ride to town took him through countryside he'd known since childhood—rolling hills dotted with stone cottages, ancient oak groves where he'd played as a boy, streams that sang their way down from the mountains toward the loch. The familiar landscape should have calmed him, but Iona's whispered words kept echoing in his mind.

Be careful.

Had there been worry in her voice? Affection? Or was it simply the automatic concern any wife might show?

Why daes it matter what she meant?

But it did matter, though he couldn't say why.

The town was already bustling when he arrived, merchants setting up their stalls in the market square while early customers examined goods by lantern light. Despite the familiar routine of market day, Ruaridh kept his senses sharp, his eyes scanning the crowd for anything out of place. MacNab soldiers could be anywhere, disguised as traders or farmers, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Stay alert. Too many people, too many places tae hide.

He found the spice merchant's stall near the center of the square, a weathered man named MacLeod who'd been trading here since before Ruaridh was born.

"Laird Ruaridh!" MacLeod's weathered face broke into a genuine smile. "What brings ye tae market so early?"

"Me maither's in need of saffron and cinnamon fer the solstice feast," Ruaridh replied, his eyes still moving over the crowd even as he spoke. "And she made it clear that anything less than the finest would reflect poorly on her kitchen's reputation."

MacLeod chuckled, already reaching for small cloth pouches. "Aye, Lady Niamh has particular tastes. Lucky fer ye, I've got both fresh from the southern traders. It’ll cost ye a fair bit, but ‘tis worth every copper."

As MacLeod measured out the precious spices, Ruaridh continued his vigilant watch. A group of men lingered near the blacksmith's stall, their conversation too quiet for the bustling market. Two strangers examined pottery with unusual intensity, their eyes darting toward him more often than their supposed interest in ceramics warranted.

Could be naething.

"That'll be two silver pieces fer the spices," MacLeod said, drawing back his attention.

Ruaridh paid the merchant, tucking the precious pouches safely into his saddlebag. He moved through the rest of his mother's list with practiced efficiency—salt from the fishmonger, dried herbs from the herb wife, candlewax from the chandler. Each transaction was completed quickly, his attention divided between commerce and the constant scan for potential threats.

It was as he finished the last purchase that a sweet scent caught his attention. The baker's stall was doing brisk business, the aroma of fresh bread and honey cakes filling the air. One particular tray made him pause—small, delicate pastries glazed with honey and sprinkled with nuts.

Iona's favorite. She used tae steal them from the kitchen when we were children.

The memory came unbidden: Iona at eight years old, her face sticky with honey, giggling as she shared her pilfered treasure with him behind the castle stables. She'd always had a weakness for sweet things, especially the honey pastries Cook made for special occasions.