The Highlander’s Savage Vow (Preview)

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Chapter One

1348, Castle of Clan MacNeil

“Are ye ready, lass? We must go now while the castle sleeps.”

Iona MacNeill turned from her narrow window to find Henry, her father’s most trusted guardsman, standing in her doorway. His weathered face was grim in the candlelight, and she could see the tension in his broad shoulders. Beyond him, shadows moved in the corridor—more men, armed and waiting.

Her fingers tightened around the folded parchment in her hand—Murray’s letter, the one she’d stolen from his study that night when everything had gone so terribly wrong. The letter that contained enough evidence to create doubt about any story he tried to spin about her, but also enough to endanger anyone who possessed it. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t use it, that this marriage to Ruaridh would be a fresh start, a chance to leave the past buried. But just in case Murray tried to claim she’d been willing, just in case he tried to destroy her reputation further…

She slipped the letter into the hidden pocket sewn into her traveling dress, feeling its weight settle against her ribs like a guilty secret. Murray would be searching for it, she knew that. It was likely one of the reasons he wanted her dead—not just to silence her, but to reclaim the proof of his correspondence with English sympathizers, his payments to Highland lords willing to betray their clans for gold.

This is it. Nay turnin’ back now.

“Aye, I’m ready.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. The small leather satchel containing her few precious belongings sat on the bed, ready for this moment they’d all dreaded would come. Henry stepped into the chamber, closing the door softly behind him. “Yer faither wants to see ye before we leave. He’s waitin’ in his study with yer maither.”

Iona’s stomach twisted. She’d been dreading this farewell almost as much as the journey itself.

How dae ye say goodbye tae people ye might never see again?

The weight of her shame pressed down like a stone in her chest.

This is me fault. All of it. If I’d kept me mouth shut about Murray, if I’d been stronger, if I’d been smarter…

She squeezed her eyes shut against the familiar spiral of self-blame.

Nay. Murray made his choices. I just refused tae be his victim.

But the guilt remained, gnawing at her. Her parents were losing their only child because she’d believed justice mattered more than politics. And now they were paying the price for her pride.

The stone corridors of MacNeill castle felt different that night—colder, more foreboding. Each familiar tapestry and worn step seemed to whisper of all she was leaving behind. The castle had been her prison these past months, but it was still home.

The only home I’ve ever kent. Will I ever walk these halls again?

She found her parents in her father’s study, the room that had once felt so warm and welcoming now heavy with sorrow. Her mother, Lady Caoimhe, sat in the chair beside the great oak desk, her face streaked with tears she no longer tried to hide. Her father, Laird Eoin MacNeill, stood by the fire, his tall frame rigid with the weight of what he was about to do.

“Come here, me darlin’ girl,” her mother whispered, rising from her chair with trembling hands extended.

Iona flew into her mother’s embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and home.

Dinnae cry. Dinnae make this harder than it already is.

“I’m so sorry, Iona,” her mother sobbed against her hair. “So sorry it’s come to this. If there had been any other way—”

“Hush now,” Iona murmured, though her own tears threatened. “Ye did what ye had tae dae. We all did.”

Her father’s voice cut through the emotional moment, rough with suppressed pain. “Thanks tae God, the MacDuffs have agreed tae the betrothal, but with Murray MacNab’s men seen in our forests these past days, we have tae get ye tae their lands safely first.”

Murray. Even his name sent ice through her veins. The memory of his hands on her, his threats, the lies he’d spread—it still had the power to immobilize her.

“Nay one will believe ye, Iona. Yer word against mine? A MacNab against a disgraced MacNeill? Think carefully about what ye’re accusin’ me of.”

She pushed the memory away. That was the past. This night was about survival.

“How many men are ye sendin’ with me?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady.

“Ten of our best,” her father replied. “Henry leads them, and young Callum rides as messenger should ye need to send word back.”

Ten men. Against however many Murray might have gathered.

He’s a desperate man. I can only pray God protects me until I enter the MacDuff castle.

“The route takes ye through the Glen of Sorrows,” her father continued, moving to the large map spread across his desk. “It’s the longest path, but the safest. The old watchtowers there have been abandoned fer years—Murray willnae expect ye tae use that route.”

Iona followed him, glancing down at the map. The Glen of Sorrows was well-named. It was a narrow valley between two ridges where countless clan battles had been fought over the centuries. The bones of warriors still littered the ground in some places.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. Her family had backed a failed rebellion, been exiled, and now she was fleeing through a place synonymous with military disasters.

Even our escape route is cursed with defeat.

“If all goes well, ye’ll reach the MacDuff outpost by dawn,” Henry added. “Young Ruaridh will be waitin’ fer ye there.”

Ruaridh.

Her childhood friend, now her salvation. She wondered what kind of man he’d become. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been a gangly boy of ten, all knees and elbows and easy smiles. That was fifteen years ago, before her family’s exile, before the world had shown her its sharp teeth.

Will ye even remember me? Or will I just be another political burden tae bear?

“Time tae go, lass,” Henry said gently. “The night is moonless, but that willnae last forever.”

Her mother’s grip tightened desperately. “Promise me ye’ll be careful. Promise me ye’ll write when ye can.”

“I promise, Mam.” Iona pulled back to look into her mother’s green eyes so like her own. “Take care of Da. Dinnae let him blame himself fer this.”

“And ye take care of yerself,” her father said, stepping forward to embrace them both. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I ken this isnae the life ye wanted, but the MacDuffs are good people. Ruaridh will protect ye.”

Iona tightened her arms around both her parents, drawing them closer. “I ken he will, Da,” she whispered back, forcing conviction into her voice even as uncertainty gnawed at her heart. “And dinnae worry about me. I’m stronger than I was before. Whatever comes, I’ll face it.”

She pulled back just enough to look into her father’s worried eyes, offering him a small but genuine smile. “The MacNeills have survived worse than this. We’ll all come through it together.”

Her mother’s hand cupped her cheek gently, tears glistening in her eyes. “Aye, me brave lass. That’s the spirit that will see ye through.” She pressed a soft kiss to Iona’s forehead. “Remember, ye carry the strength of all the MacNeill women who came before ye.”

The courtyard was alive with quiet activity. Horses stamped and snorted in the cold night air, their breath creating small clouds of mist. The ten guards sat mounted and ready, weapons secured but easily accessible. Each man was handpicked—loyal to the MacNeill name and willing to die for it.

Callum, barely eighteen and eager to prove himself, held the reins of her mare. “She’s been fed and watered, me lady. Should carry ye swift and sure.”

Iona accepted his help mounting, settling into the familiar saddle. The horse beneath her felt strong and ready, sensing the urgency in the air. Around her, the men formed a protective formation—four ahead, four behind, two flanking her sides.

Like a funeral procession.

The thought came unbidden, and she shivered.

Henry moved his horse close to hers. “We ride hard but quietly, me lady. Nae talkin’ unless it’s urgent. If we’re attacked, ye stay close tae me and dae exactly as I say. Understood?”

“Understood.”

With a final look back at the castle walls, they rode out into the Highland night. The darkness swallowed them almost immediately, the only sounds the muffled hoofbeats on grass and the creak of leather and mail. There was no turning back now.

***

The first hour passed without incident. They followed deer paths and old cattle trails, avoiding the main roads where Murray’s men might be waiting. The landscape around them was ghostly in the starlight—rolling hills covered in heather, ancient stone walls marking long-abandoned boundaries, the occasional skeletal remains of a burned croft.

Iona’s thoughts drifted back to the events that had led to that moment. The scandal. The accusations. The way former friends had turned their backs and whispered behind their hands.

“Did ye hear about the MacNeill lass? They say she threw herself at Murray MacNab and then cried assault when he rejected her.”

“Shameless, that one. Nay wonder nay decent family wants anythin’ tae dae with the MacNeills now.”

“Mark me words, she’ll die an old maid. Naebody wants damaged goods.”

The lies had spread like wildfire through the Highlands. Murray had been clever, painting himself as the wronged party while destroying her reputation with surgical precision. By the time her parents had ended the betrothal, the damage was already done.

But the MacDuffs must suspect there’s something more. They have tae, or why would they have agreed tae this marriage?

She hoped that was true. The alternative—that Ruaridh was purely marrying her out of pity—was too painful to consider.

The horses’ pace slowed as they began climbing into the hills. The Glen of Sorrows lay ahead, its entrance marked by two massive standing stones that had watched over the valley since before Christ walked the earth.

“Me lady,” Henry’s voice was barely a whisper. “Dae ye hear that?”

Iona strained her ears, listening beyond the sound of their own movement. There—faint but unmistakable, the distant drum of hoofbeats.

We’re being followed.

“How many?” she breathed.

Henry’s face was grim in the starlight. “Too many. We need to—”

The arrow took him through the shoulder, spinning him. Around them, the night exploded into chaos as MacNab war cries split the darkness and armed riders poured down from the hills on all sides.

Chapter Two

“Get the lass tae safety!” Henry roared, blood streaming down his arm as he fought to stay in his saddle.

Chaos erupted around Iona as MacNab warriors poured from the darkness like demons from hell. The night air filled with the clash of steel, the screams of horses, and the guttural war cries of men bent on murder.

So this is how I die.

A MacNab warrior lunged at her from the left, his sword gleaming in the starlight. Callum appeared between them, his blade meeting the attacker’s with a shower of sparks. The young guard’s face was set with grim determination, but Iona could see the fear in his eyes.

Dear God, he’s just a boy. They’re all goin’ tae die because of me.

“Ride, me lady!” Callum shouted over the din. “Dinnae look back!”

But there was nowhere to ride. MacNab soldiers blocked every path, their horses forming a deadly circle around her diminishing escort. She counted at least twenty attackers—maybe more in the darkness. Her ten guards were hopelessly outnumbered. How? How had they walked straight into a trap?

Henry wheeled his horse around, his sword dripping red as he cut down a MacNab foot soldier. “Form up! Protect the lady!”

The remaining MacNeill guards tried to close ranks around her, but their formation was already crumbling. To her right, she watched in horror as young Donald—barely twenty and married just last spring—took a spear through the chest. He toppled from his horse without a sound, his blood dark against the heather.

“There she is!” A voice cut through the battle—cold and familiar. “Take her alive if ye can, but dead will dae just as well!”

Iona’s blood turned to ice. She knew that voice, the voice that had whispered threats in her ear just months ago. Murray MacNab himself was there, leading the slaughter.

He came personally tae ensure I die.

A MacNab warrior broke through their weakened line, swinging his sword at her horse’s legs. She yanked the reins hard left, feeling the blade whistle past her mount’s knees. The horse reared in terror, and she fought to keep her seat.

“Behind ye, lass!” Henry’s warning came just in time.

She ducked as another warrior’s axe swept over her head, close enough that she felt the wind of its passage. Henry’s sword took the man in the neck, dropping him instantly, but two more rushed to fill the gap.

They’re everywhere. We cannae hold them.

The sound of steel on steel rang out like a deadly bell as her guards fought with the desperation of doomed men. She watched the blacksmith’s son—a gentle giant who’d taught her to shoe horses—drive his spear through a MacNab’s chest, only to take a crossbow bolt in the shoulder that dislodged him from his saddle.

“Fall back to the stones!” Henry commanded, blood now flowing freely from three separate wounds.

The ancient standing stones at the valley’s entrance offered the only defensive position available. If they could reach them, maybe they could make a stand. But the MacNab forces seemed to anticipate the move, shifting to cut off their retreat.

They ken these lands as well as we dae. Maybe better.

Iona found herself pressed back-to-back with Callum as the circle tightened. The young guard was breathing hard, his sword arm trembling with exhaustion. Around them, the sounds of battle were growing quieter as more MacNeill voices fell silent forever.

“How many left?” she asked, though she was afraid to hear the answer.

“Six,” Callum replied grimly. “Maybe five.”

Half our men dead already.

A MacNab warrior charged directly at her, his war cry echoing off the valley walls. Callum moved to intercept, but his tired horse stumbled on the uneven ground. The enemy’s sword caught him across the chest, opening a red line from shoulder to hip.

“Nay!” Iona’s scream tore from her throat as Callum fell.

The MacNab forces were pulling back slightly, regrouping for one last charge that would finish them all. In the brief respite, she counted her remaining protectors. Four men, all wounded, all exhausted. Against at least fifteen enemies who looked fresh and eager for blood.

This is where it ends.

“Me lady,” Henry’s voice was growing weak from blood loss. “When they charge, ye ride hard fer those trees tae the north. Dinnae stop fer anythin’ or anyone.”

“I willnae leave ye,” she said fiercely.

“Ye will, because that’s an order from yer faither.” His eyes were hard despite his pain. “And because if ye die here, all these good men died fer naethin’.”

He’s right. If I die, their sacrifice means naething.

Murray’s voice rang out across the battlefield, cold and mocking. “Iona MacNeill! Come out and face me, and I’ll let yer remaining dogs live!”

Liar. He’ll kill them all regardless.

She looked at Henry, seeing the same knowledge in his eyes. There would be no mercy. No quarter given. It was about more than politics or clan feuds—it was about Murray’s wounded pride and his need to destroy her completely.

“Dinnae answer him,” Henry warned quietly. “He wants tae see ye break.”

But she was tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of watching good people die because of her choices. She urged her horse forward a few steps, close enough for her voice to carry.

“I’m here, Murray!” she called out. “What dae ye want?”

His laughter was like ice in her veins. “What dae I want? Justice, Iona. Ye tried tae ruin me with yer lies, and now I’m here tae return the favor.”

“The only lies told were yers,” she shot back. “And everyone will ken the truth eventually.”

“Will they? Hard tae speak when ye’re dead.”

The MacNab forces began moving forward again, their weapons gleaming in the starlight. This was it—the final moment. Around her, her few remaining guards gripped their weapons with bloody hands, preparing to give their lives.

But as the enemy closed in, a new sound reached her ears—the thunder of hoofbeats approaching fast from the north. Many hoofbeats.

Henry’s head snapped up, hope flickering in his tired eyes. “Listen!”

The MacNab charge faltered as their leader raised his hand, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “What in hell—”

The new riders burst from the tree line like avenging angels, their war cries echoing off the valley walls. Even in the darkness, Iona could see they wore different colors—not MacNab red, but MacDuff blue and silver.

Ruaridh. It has tae be.

But her moment of hope was short-lived. A MacNab warrior, seeing his advantage slipping away, broke from the main group and charged straight at her. His sword was raised high, his face twisted with bloodlust.

She tried to wheel her horse away, but the exhausted animal responded too slowly. The warrior’s blade descended toward her head—

“Got ye now, MacNeill whore,” he snarled, raising his spear. “Murray wants ye alive so he can take yer head himself, and by God, he’ll have—”

The MacNab warrior’s blade descended toward her head. Her exhausted horse responded too slowly to her desperate attempt to wheel away, and Iona closed her eyes, bracing for the blow—

Strong hands seized her from behind, dragging her from the saddle just as steel bit into the leather where she’d been sitting. She hit the ground hard in someone’s protective embrace, gasping for breath as she looked up to see her rescuer.

Ruaridh.

Even in the chaos of battle, even after fifteen years, she knew him instantly. Gone was the gangly boy she remembered—this was a warrior in his prime, his green eyes intense as he looked down at her.

“Are ye hurt?” His voice was rough with concern, and for just a split second his face softened. Something flickered in his eyes, tender and achingly familiar, like an echo of the boy who used to comfort her scraped knees.

She nodded, at loss for words, and then his expression hardened again, the moment lost as quickly as it had come.

“Stay here,” he commanded, his voice turning cold and professional as he rose to his feet, sword already in hand.

The MacNab soldier who’d been about to kill her spun around, snarling as he raised his spear toward them both. But Ruaridh was already moving, his blade finding the man’s heart before he could strike