Page 20 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

Ruaridh paused, his shirt halfway over his head. "Ye want tae help with Storm?"

"Aye. How hard can it be tae groom a horse?"

Amusement flickered in his green eyes. "Ye've never groomed a horse before, have ye?"

"Well... nay. But I can learn." She lifted her chin with determination. "And ye need someone tae make sure ye dinnae tear yer stitches again."

For a moment, he looked like he might refuse. Then he sighed, shaking his head. "Very well. But ye dae exactly as I say, understood?"

"Understood."

An hour later, Iona was beginning to regret her offer. Storm was a magnificent stallion, but he was also enormous and seemed to have opinions about being groomed by someone who clearly had no idea what she was doing.

"Nay, nae like that," Ruaridh said for the third time, moving carefully behind her to guide her hands. "Long strokes, with the grain of his coat. Like this."

His hands covered hers on the brush, and she could feel the warmth of his chest against her back. The simple contact sent heat spiraling through her, making it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand.

"I think he daesnae like me," she said as Storm snorted and shifted away from her efforts.

"He's just nae used tae ye yet. Horses can sense when someone's nervous." Ruaridh's voice was close to her ear, his breath warm against her neck. "Relax."

"I'm trying," she muttered, but Storm chose that moment to step sideways, bumping into her and sending her stumbling backward into Ruaridh's arms.

"Easy," he said, steadying her. "Maybe we should start with something simpler. Like giving him water."

The water bucket, as it turned out, was not much simpler. Storm drank enthusiastically but seemed to delight in splashing as much water out of the bucket as he consumed. Within minutes, both Iona and Ruaridh were soaked.

"I think yer horse is laughing at me," Iona said, wiping water from her face.

"He's got a sense of humor," Ruaridh agreed, though she caught him trying to hide a smile.

When Storm deliberately bumped the bucket with his nose, sending a spray of water directly at Iona, she'd had enough.

"Oh, so that's how it is?" she said to the horse, then deliberately flicked water from her wet hands at the horse and Ruaridh.

"Iona," Ruaridh warned, but she could see he was fighting laughter.

"What? It was Storm's idea." She flicked more water at him, grinning at his startled expression.

"Ye realize this means war," he said, cupping his hands in the water trough.

"Ye wouldnae dare. Ye're wounded."

"Not that wounded." And with that, he sent a handful of water directly at her face.

What followed was the most ridiculous and wonderful few minutes Iona had experienced since arriving at Castle MacDuff.

They chased each other around the stable like children, dodging and weaving between the stalls, sending sprays of water flying in all directions.

Storm watched with what could only be described as horse amusement, occasionally adding to the chaos by stepping strategically to block one of their escape routes.

Finally, laughing and breathless, they called a truce. Both were thoroughly soaked, their clothes clinging to their bodies, their hair dripping.

"Look at us," Iona gasped, still giggling. "We look like we fell in the loch."

"Ye started it," Ruaridh accused, but his eyes were bright—the first genuine, carefree expression she'd seen from him since their wedding.

"Storm started it," she corrected. "I was just defending meself."

"Of course ye were." He ran a hand through his wet hair, shaking his head. "We should probably dry off before we catch our death."

"I have an idea," Iona said suddenly, an idea forming. "Dae ye remember the old cherry tree in the gardens? The one we used tae climb after swimming in the loch?"

Something shifted in Ruaridh's expression at the mention of their shared childhood. For a moment, she thought he might refuse. Then he nodded slowly.

"Aye. I remember."

"Come then," she said, gathering her courage.

They walked in comfortable silence through the castle's rear courtyard, past the herb gardens where the cook gathered rosemary and thyme, and down the worn stone steps that led to the older part of the grounds.

The path was familiar beneath Iona's feet, though overgrown with years of neglect.

Wild roses had crept over the low stone walls, and morning glory vines wound through the iron gates that separated the formal gardens from the wilder spaces beyond.

Ruaridh moved beside her with that careful, controlled gait she was beginning to recognize—never quite relaxed, always ready for danger. But as they approached the old garden, she noticed his shoulders ease slightly.

The cherry tree stood exactly where it always had, its massive trunk creating a natural shelter and its spreading branches offering dappled shade. The late morning sun filtering through the leaves was warm and welcoming, just as Iona remembered.

"It's smaller than I remembered," she said, settling onto the grass beneath the tree.

"We're bigger," Ruaridh pointed out, lowering himself carefully beside her. The movement made him wince slightly, reminding her of his injury.

"Are ye all right? Did we overdae it at the stables?"

"I'm fine," he said. "Worth it tae see ye laugh like that."

The comment surprised her, and she felt heat creep up her neck. "It's been a while since I've had reason tae laugh."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, letting the sun dry their clothes and warm their skin.

Iona found herself studying Ruaridh's profile—the strong line of his jaw, the way the sunlight caught the dark strands of his hair.

He looked younger somehow, more relaxed than she'd seen him since her arrival.

"Tell me about the years in exile," he said suddenly. "What was it like fer yer family?"

The question caught her off guard. It was the first time he'd asked about her past, the first time he'd shown interest in the woman she'd become rather than just the problems she'd brought with her.

"Difficult," she said honestly. "We lost everything—our lands, our standing, most of our friends. Faither tried tae keep up appearances, but everyone kent. Everyone whispered."

"And ye? What did ye dae during those years?"

"Mostly tried tae stay out of trouble." She picked at the grass beside her, not meeting his eyes. "Hard tae make friends when yer family is in disgrace. Most people wanted nothing tae dae with the MacNeills."

"That must have been lonely."

"Aye." The simple acknowledgment of her isolation made her throat tight. "It was a relief when the king finally accepted Faither's apology a few years ago. At least then we could show our faces in public again."

"And that's what led tae the betrothal with Murray," Ruaridh said quietly.

The mention of Murray's name was like a cloud passing over the sun. All the warmth and playfulness of the morning seemed to drain away, replaced by the familiar weight of fear and regret.

"Aye," she said softly. "Faither thought it would restore our family's standing. A strong alliance with a powerful clan."

"Instead, it brought ye here."

She glanced at him, trying to read his tone. Was he regretting their marriage? Wishing he'd never agreed to take on her troubles?

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I ken this isn't what ye wanted when ye agreed tae marry me."

"Isn't it?" He turned to look at her then, his green eyes unreadable in the dappled sunlight.

"Is it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

But he didn't answer, just leaned back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes, leaving her question hanging in the warm air between them.