Page 60 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER TWENTY

She's safe fer now. But can I ensure she remains safe?

The walk to the training grounds felt like a march to execution. His own execution, perhaps—the death of everything he'd believed about his clan's loyalty, about the safety of his own walls.

Ruaridh stood with his arms crossed, watching as every man who served Castle MacDuff lined up under the watchful eyes of Duncan and his most trusted sergeants.

How many more? How many wolves have we been feeding at our table?

The first dozen men passed inspection without incident—soldiers he'd known for years, men who'd served his father before him. Their gear was familiar, their speech patterns unchanged, their faces showing nothing but the honest confusion of loyal men being questioned like criminals.

"Next," he called, his voice carrying across the courtyard.

A young kitchen lad tried to slip back behind the other men, but Ruaridh's sharp eyes caught the movement.

"Yd there," he called, pointing directly at the retreating figure. "Step forward."

The lad reluctantly moved to the front. Ruaridh studied the boy's face, noting the nervous sweat, the way his eyes darted around the yard rather than meeting his gaze directly and the slight shaking of his hands. The lad's shoulders were too broad for kitchen work, his posture too straight despite his attempt to appear humble.

"What's yer name, lad?"

"T-Thomas, me lord. Thomas MacBride."

"How long have ye been in service here?"

"One month, me lord."

Ruaridh's eyes sharpened. One month. Right around the time Murray would have started planning his infiltration. He noted the calluses on the boy's hands—not the soft, flour-dusted hands of a kitchen worker, but the hardened palms of someone who wielded weapons regularly.

"Who vouched fer ye when ye came seeking work?"

The boy's face went white. "I... that is... Cook said she needed help in the kitchens, and⁠—"

"Who brought ye tae Cook's attention?" Ruaridh's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

"I... I cannae remember, me lord. It was a while ago⁠—"

"A month is nae that long." Ruaridh stepped closer, noting how the boy's accent slipped slightly, revealing inflections that did not belong to MacDuff territory. "Try again."

The boy looked around frantically and ran to the side. That was when Ruaridh became certain.

"Seize him," he commanded.

The boy made it perhaps ten steps before Duncan's men tackled him to the ground, his protests echoing across the training yard as they bound his hands.

"Check the stables," Ruaridh ordered, his voice carrying to every corner of the courtyard. "If there's one, there are more."

They found the second infiltrator hiding in the hay loft, a grizzled man who'd been posing as a stablehand for weeks. Unlike the kitchen boy, this one came quietly, his cold eyes never leaving Ruaridh's face as they dragged him away.

Two more. How many others are there that we haven't found?

The discovery sent a wave of unease through the assembled men. Ruaridh could see it in their faces—the sudden realization that enemies had been living among them, eating at their tables, learning their routines. Trust was a fragile thing, and today had shattered it completely.

The interrogation took place in the castle's lowest dungeon, where the stone walls were thick enough to muffle screams. Ruaridh descended the narrow stairs with grim purpose, his footsteps echoing in the confined space.

The kitchen boy cracked first, blubbering confessions about gold coins and promises of land if he served MacNab's cause. But his information was limited—he'd been recruited in a tavern, given basic instructions, told to watch and wait for a signal that never came.

The stable hand was made of sterner stuff. Even when Ruaridh's questions grew sharp and his methods persuasive, the man revealed little beyond what they already knew.