Page 19 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A soft knock at the chamber door interrupted Iona's restless pacing. She'd been moving between the window and the fireplace for what felt like hours, unable to settle, her mind churning with worry about Ruaridh's stubborn determination to question the prisoner that same night.

"Come in," she called, grateful for any distraction.

Alba entered with her usual gentle smile, carrying a basin of warm water and fresh linens. "Good evening, me lady. I thought ye might like help preparing fer bed."

"Aye, thank ye." Iona managed a weak smile. "Though I doubt I'll sleep much taenight."

"Worrying about Laird Ruaridh?" Alba asked as she began laying out Iona's nightgown. "I'm sure he'll be fine, me lady. He's a strong man."

"Too strong fer his own good sometimes," Iona muttered, then louder, "has there been any word from the dungeons?"

Alba's hands stilled on the fabric. "Actually, me lady, I was wondering.

.. should I bring anything special from the kitchens?

Some strengthening broth, perhaps, or honey cakes?

I heard from one of the guards that young Laird Ruaridh is with the healer now, that his wounds worsened during the questioning. "

The words hit Iona like a physical blow. "What dae ye mean, his wounds worsened? Was me husband wounded in the battle?"

"Oh!" Alba's eyes widened with concern. "I thought ye kenned, me lady. The guard said there was blood, that the healer had tae rebind his injuries. I assumed?—"

"Blood?" Iona's voice rose sharply. "How much blood? How badly is he hurt?"

"I dinnae ken the details, me lady. Just that he went tae the healer after leaving the dungeons, and she was none too pleased with him." Alba's face crumpled with distress. "I'm sorry, I thought he told ye."

Fury and fear warred in Iona's chest, creating a tempest of emotion that left her trembling.

It's me fault. He hurt himself trying tae protect me, trying tae get information about the danger I brought tae his clan.

"The fool," she whispered to herself, her hands clenching into fists. "The absolute fool. He returned back wounded, hid it from me, his wife, and then, instead of resting, what daes he dae? He goes down tae the dungeons tae interrogate a prisoner who probably knows less than I've already told him."

"Me lady?" Alba's voice was gentle, concerned.

"He could have died, Alba. And he didnae tell me he was wounded. He kept it from me...." Iona's voice broke slightly. "And for what? Tae prove he's strong enough tae ignore his injuries? Tae show me that he's not weakened by a sword wound?"

The hurt that accompanied her anger surprised her with its intensity. She'd asked him to wait, had tried to tell him he needed rest. But he'd walked out anyway, dismissing her concerns as if they didn't matter.

As if I dinnae matter.

"I'm sure he didnae want ye tae worry fer him, me lady. And he was just tryin’ tae protect the clan," Alba said softly. "Men like Ruaridh, they feel responsible fer everyone's safety. Sometimes that makes them act unwisely."

"Aye. He is protective." Iona took a shaky breath, trying to calm herself. "Thank ye fer telling me, Alba. And aye, some strengthening broth would be good. Maybe some of Cook's honey cakes as well—he'll need the nourishment if he's going tae heal properly."

"Of course, me lady. I'll see tae it right away."

After Alba left, Iona sank into the chair by the fireplace, her emotions still churning. Part of her wanted to storm down to the healer's chamber and give Ruaridh a piece of her mind. Another part wanted to gather him in her arms and never let him risk his life again.

Stubborn Highland warrior. Daesnae he ken that someone cares whether he lives or dies?

The realization hit her with startling clarity. She cared—more than she'd allowed herself to admit. The thought of losing him, of this marriage ending before it had truly begun, filled her with a fear that had nothing to do with her own safety and everything to do with the man himself.

What are ye daeing tae me, Ruaridh MacDuff? That I am starting tae care so much?

Hours later, Iona was still pacing, parts worried, parts furious and uncertain whether she should go to the healer’s room to look for him, until the sound of the chamber door opening made her whirl around.

Ruaridh stepped into the room, moving more carefully than he had when he'd left. His shirt was different—clean linen instead of the plain cotton garment he'd worn to the dungeons. But she could see the careful way he held himself, the slight pallor beneath his tan that spoke of pain and blood loss.

"Ye're back," she said, her voice tight with barely controlled emotion.

"Aye." He closed the door behind him, his green eyes taking in her agitated state. "Ye should be sleeping."

"How could I sleep?" She gestured sharply. "Ye went tae interrogate a prisoner hours ago and never returned, never sent word. Did anything happen while ye were there?"

"Nay—"

"Dinnae." The word came out sharp as a blade. "Dinnae tell me naething when I can see the pain in yer face."

Ruaridh moved toward the washbasin, clearly trying to avoid the conversation. "The healer saw to it. I'm fine."

"Where's the shirt ye were wearing before ye went down tae interrogate that prisoner?"

"What?" He paused, his hands stilling on the basin's edge.

"Yer shirt, Ruaridh. The one ye had on when ye left this room. Where is it?"

"I dinnae see why?—"

"Because it was covered in blood, wasn't it?" She stepped closer, her hazel eyes blazing. "So much blood that it couldn't be cleaned, so ye had tae throw it away."

The silence that followed was answer enough.

"Are ye planning on telling me the truth about yer wound?" she asked bluntly. "Or are we going tae continue this dance where ye pretend everything is fine while ye bleed through yer bandages?"

His jaw tightened. "It's nae yer concern, Iona."

"Nae me concern?" Her voice rose in disbelief. "Ye're me husband, Ruaridh. Of course it's me concern."

"Being yer husband daesnae mean ye need tae worry about every scratch?—"

"Scratch?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Is that what we're calling sword wounds that require stitches now?"

"The clan's safety comes first," he said firmly. "I did what needed tae be done."

"And nearly killed yerself in the process!" The words exploded from her. "Dae ye think I want tae be a widow before I've even properly been a wife?"

The stark honesty of her words seemed to startle them both. Ruaridh turned to face her fully, his expression unreadable.

"I'm nae going tae die from a stitch or two, lass."

"But ye could have...." She wrapped her arms around herself. "And I willnae lose ye tae yer own stubbornness."

Willnae lose ye.

When had his survival become so important to her?

"I'm here. I'm alive. That's what matters."

"What matters is that ye take care of yerself." She moved toward his sleeping mat, kneeling down to straighten the blankets. "Ye're sleeping on the bed tonight. I'll take the floor."

"What?" He stared at her as if she'd suggested he sprout wings and fly. "Absolutely nae."

"Ye're hurt, Ruaridh. Ye need proper rest, nae a night on cold stone."

"There's nay way in hell I'm letting me wife sleep on the floor while I take the bed." His voice carried an edge of steel. "Dinnae even consider it."

"Then what dae ye suggest?" She stood, facing him with her chin lifted defiantly. "Because ye're nae sleeping on that mat with torn stitches."

"The only way I'm sleeping in that bed," he said quietly, his eyes holding hers, "is if ye're in it with me."

The words hung in the air between them, charged with implications that made Iona's breath catch.

Suddenly the space between them felt too small, too intimate.

She could see the heat in his green eyes, could feel the pull of attraction that had been building between them night by night, foot by foot.

He took a step closer, then another, until she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Is that what ye want, lass? Are ye ready fer that? Because I ken I am."

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she looked up at him.

Part of her wanted to say yes, wanted to close the distance between them and find out what it would feel like to truly be his wife.

But the larger part—the part that still flinched at unexpected touch, that still woke sometimes from nightmares of Murray's hands—wasn't ready.

"I..." She swallowed hard. "I'm nae. Nae yet."

For a moment, disappointment flickered in his eyes. But then he nodded, stepping back to give her space to breathe.

"Then it's the mat fer me," he said simply. But instead of laying it down in its current position, he moved it closer to the bed—close enough that if she reached out her hand, she could touch him.

"Ruaridh..."

"Every night, lass," he said quietly, meeting her eyes. "A little closer, until ye're ready."

The promise in his voice sent heat coursing through her veins, even as it terrified her. But as she watched him settle carefully onto the mat, favoring his injured side, she found herself looking forward to the following night.

And the night after that.

Four hours later, but feeling like she had only just fallen asleep, Iona woke to the sound of movement across the chamber. In the pale morning light, she could see Ruaridh carefully pulling on his boots, his movements more cautious than usual.

"Where are ye going?" she asked softly, not wanting to startle him.

He looked up, surprise flashing across his face. "The stables. Storm needs tending, and I've neglected him these past few days."

"Should ye be daeing that? With yer wound?" She sat up in bed, studying his face for signs of pain.

"The wound is nae as deep as ye imagine it, but I'll be careful." But even as he said it, she could see him wince slightly as he reached for his shirt.

"I'm coming with ye," she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "That way ye willnae overexert yerself."