Page 21 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T he walk back to their chamber felt different somehow.

Ruaridh found himself acutely aware of Iona beside him—the way the damp fabric of her dress clung to her curves, how the morning sunlight caught the highlights in her hair.

The easy laughter they'd shared at the stables had created something between them, a warmth that had nothing to do with the Highland sun.

When did she become so bonnie? When did I start noticing the way she moves, the sound of her laughter?

Once inside their chamber, the reality of his torn stitches reasserted itself. The bandages beneath his shirt were damp and uncomfortable, and he could feel the pull of healing skin that warned against too much movement.

"I'll head tae the healer. I should change these dressings," he said, moving toward the door.

"Let me dae it," Iona said quietly.

He turned, surprised. "What?"

"Let me change yer bandages. I ken what tae dae." She moved to the basin, beginning to prepare clean water. "And this way ye willnae have tae explain tae her why ye were splashing about in the stables when ye should have been resting."

"Iona, I dinnae think?—"

"Sit," she commanded, her voice carrying an authority he hadn't heard from her before. "On the bed. And take off yer shirt."

Damn. Daes she ken what those words are daeing tae me?

The thought of her hands on his bare skin, of her tending to him with such intimacy, sent heat coursing through his veins. But there was something in her expression—a determination mixed with gentle care—that made it impossible to refuse.

He settled on the edge of the bed and pulled his shirt over his head, wincing as the movement pulled at his injured side. Iona approached with a bowl of warm water and clean cloth, her movements careful and deliberate.

"This might hurt," she warned softly, beginning to unwrap the damp bandages.

"I can manage," he said.

Her fingers were gentle as they worked, peeling away the old dressings with practiced care. When she leaned closer to examine the wound, he caught the familiar scent of lavender in her hair, felt the whisper of her breath against his skin.

"It looks better than I expected," she murmured, dabbing at the area with a damp cloth. "The stitches held, thank God."

"Ye sound surprised."

"I am. After yesterday's foolishness in the dungeons, I thought..." She trailed off, focusing intently on her task.

"Ye thought what?"

"I thought I might lose ye." The words were barely audible, spoken as if she hadn't meant to voice them aloud.

Ruaridh went very still. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. "Would that have mattered tae ye?"

She looked up then, meeting his eyes for the first time since she'd begun tending his wound. What he saw there—concern, fear, and something deeper that made his chest tight—took his breath away.

"Aye," she whispered. "It would have mattered."

The space between them seemed to shrink, though neither had moved. Her hands were still on his skin, her face tilted up toward his, her lips slightly parted. He could feel the heat radiating from her body, could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat.

Kiss her. She wants ye tae kiss her.

He leaned closer, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she swayed toward him?—

"Sir!" A sharp knock on the door shattered the moment like glass. "Sir, I need tae speak with ye!"

Iona jerked back so quickly she nearly dropped the basin of water. Her face flushed crimson as she turned away, busying herself with the bandages while Ruaridh cursed under his breath.

"What is it?" he called, making no effort to hide his irritation.

"Council meeting, sir. Laird Alistair requests yer immediate presence."

Of course he daes.

"I'll be there in a moment," Ruaridh replied, then looked at Iona. "Can ye finish this?"

She nodded without meeting his eyes, her hands steady as she began wrapping fresh bandages around his ribs. The intimacy of moments before was gone, replaced by careful efficiency that left him aching for what might have been.

"Iona—" he began.

"Go," she said quietly. "They're waiting fer ye."

With a nod, he grabbed his shirt and made his way to the council chamber, his mind still half-focused on the feel of Iona's gentle hands on his skin.

The interruption had been perfectly timed to destroy what might have been a breakthrough between them, and he found himself resenting whatever crisis demanded his immediate attention.

By the time he reached the heavy oak doors of the council chamber, he'd managed to push thoughts of Iona aside and focus on the role expected of him. But the transition felt more difficult than it used to, as if part of him was beginning to resist the constant demands of duty.

The chamber felt smaller than usual, crowded with tension and barely suppressed anger. The twelve men seated around the oak table looked like they'd rather be anywhere else, and Ruaridh could see the strain in his father's face as he took his seat at the head of the table.

"Gentlemen," Alistair began without preamble, "we're here tae discuss yesterday's attack and what it means fer our clan's security."

"What it means," Hamish MacBride interrupted, his red face already mottled with anger, "is that we're at war because of one lass's troubles."

"The MacNabs attacked us," Ruaridh said coldly. "That makes them the aggressors, nae us."

"They attacked because ye brought their target right intae our midst!" Fergus leaned forward, his ancient eyes blazing. "If ye'd left the MacNeill lass where she belonged?—"

"Then Murray MacNab would have murdered her, and we'd have stood by and watched," Ruaridh cut him off. "Is that the kind of clan ye want us tae be?"

"I want us tae be the kind of clan that survives!" Hamish slammed his fist on the table. "Nae one that throws itself intae someone else's blood feud!"

"This isn't just about Iona," Ruaridh said, struggling to keep his voice level. "The information we've gathered suggests MacNab is involved in something much larger?—"

"Information?" Duncan MacGregor's laugh was bitter. "What information? The prisoner ye questioned told us nothing we didn't already ken."

"He confirmed that Murray will keep attacking until he gets what he wants. That means this won't end with negotiations or treaties. It ends with one of us dead."

"Or," Hamish said with a significant look around the table, "it ends with us handing over what MacNab wants and washing our hands of this mess."

The silence that followed was deafening. Ruaridh could feel the weight of every gaze in the room, could sense the fear and resentment that his marriage had brought to the clan he'd sworn to protect.

"Ye're suggesting we hand over me wife tae a man who wants tae murder her," he said quietly.

"I'm suggesting we consider all our options," Hamish replied. "The clan's survival comes first."

"The clan's honor comes first," Ruaridh corrected, his voice carrying the dangerous edge that made smart men step back. "And we dinnae sacrifice innocent women tae save our own skins."

"Honor daesnae protect against MacNab raids," Fergus muttered. "Honor daesnae keep our children safe in their beds."

Alistair cleared his throat, drawing attention back to the head of the table. "Perhaps... perhaps this situation calls fer more experienced leadership."

Ruaridh's blood turned cold. "What are ye saying, Faither?"

"I'm saying that maybe I've been too hasty in planning me retirement." Alistair's voice was carefully neutral, but Ruaridh could see the pain in his eyes. "Maybe the clan needs steady hands on the reins during this crisis."

"Ye mean me hands aren't steady enough?" The words came out flat, emotionless.

"I mean ye're young, and young men sometimes let their hearts overrule their heads," Alistair said gently. "This marriage may have been decided on hastily."

"This marriage was the right decision," Ruaridh interrupted. "Whatever the consequences."

"Even if those consequences include war?" Hamish demanded.

"Even then."

The Council exchanged glances, and Ruaridh could see the decision forming before any of them spoke. They were going to ask his father to stay on as laird. They were going to strip away everything he'd worked toward, everything he'd sacrificed for.

Years of training. Years of putting the clan before everything else, including meself. And this is how they repay it.

"I think," Alistair said carefully, "that we should postpone any discussion of succession until this crisis is resolved."

The formal language couldn't disguise what it really meant. They didn't trust him. They thought his marriage to Iona had compromised his judgment, made him unfit to lead.

Maybe they're right.

The thought came unbidden, along with a memory of Iona's face as she'd tended his wounds, the way she'd looked at him like he mattered more than duty or politics or clan obligations.

When did I start wanting something fer meself instead of just fer the clan?

"What about the prisoner?" he asked, pushing his personal feelings aside for now.

"Execution," Hamish said immediately. "He's a MacNab warrior who attacked our lands. The penalty is death."

"He's told us all he kens," Duncan agreed. "And keeping him alive is a risk we can't afford. If MacNab tries another rescue attempt..."

"It's decided then," Alistair said with finality. "The prisoner will be executed at dawn."

Ruaridh nodded, though something in his chest felt hollow. Another decision made without his real input, another reminder that despite his title and training, the Council still saw him as a boy playing at being a man.

As the meeting broke up and the councilors filed out, Alistair approached his son.

"Ruaridh, I want ye tae ken?—"

"That ye dinnae trust me tae lead this clan?" Ruaridh's voice was quiet, but his father flinched as if he'd been shouted at.

"That I dinnae want tae see ye make decisions ye'll regret," Alistair corrected gently. "Ye're a good man, son. But good men sometimes make poor lairds when their hearts are involved."

"And what if me heart is the only thing keeping me human enough tae be worth following?"

The question hung in the air between them as Ruaridh walked out, leaving his father standing alone in the empty council chamber.

Iona lay in bed, listening to the familiar sound of Ruaridh moving quietly around their chamber. It was well past midnight when he finally entered, his movements careful and deliberate as if he were trying not to wake her.

But she was wide awake, had been for hours.

"How did the meeting go?" she asked softly into the darkness.

"It went as expected."

"Good. Was there any good resolution? The way the Council gathered, I assumed it was urgent business, probably tae dae with the prisoner."

"Aye"

That was all the response she got—a noncommittal sound that could have meant anything or nothing.

She waited, hoping he might elaborate, might give her some hint of what had transpired in that council chamber. Instead, she heard the rustle of fabric as he settled onto his sleeping mat, still positioned at arm's length from her bed.

"Ruaridh?" she tried again. "Are ye?—"

But his breathing had already settled into the rhythm of sleep, or at least a convincing pretense of it. She stared up at the ceiling beams, watching shadows dance in the dying firelight, and wondered what had happened to the man who'd almost kissed her just hours before.

By the time Iona woke, pale sunlight was already streaming through the chamber windows. Ruaridh's sleeping area was empty, his blankets folded with military precision and stacked neatly against the wall.

She dressed quickly and made her way to the great hall, hoping to find him breaking his fast. But the high table was empty save for Niamh, who looked up with a concerned smile.

"Good morning, dear. Ye've missed Ruaridh, I'm afraid. He left before dawn."

She blinked several times. "Good morning, Lady MacDuff. Left fer where?"

"Border patrol, I believe. Or perhaps the training yard. He didn't say."

Iona forced herself to sit for some herbal tea that tasted bitter in her mouth, and discuss a few more ideas with Niamh, before excusing herself.

She spent the morning searching the castle grounds—the stables, the armory, the battlements—but found no trace of her husband.

It was as if he'd vanished like morning mist.

Finally, she found Alba in the kitchens.

"Alba, I haven't seen me husband since sunrise. Would ye take a message fer me?" she asked. "Tell him I'd like tae share the midday meal with him. Or the evening meal, whichever he prefers."

Alba returned an hour later with an apologetic expression. "He says he's very busy with clan business, me lady."

Another time. As if she were some visiting dignitary requesting an audience rather than his wife. Oh, dinnae worry, husband. Ill get tae the bottom of whatever it is that’s going on.

Determined to catch Ruaridh when he returned and force him to speak with her, Iona tried to stay awake. She paced, made funny sounds with her tongue and cheek, splashed water on her face, but exhaustion finally claimed her, and she drifted off in the chair by the fireplace.

She woke to the sound of movement near the door. Through half-closed eyes, she watched him enter quietly, his shoulders set with weariness. He paused when he saw her in the chair, then moved carefully to gather a blanket from his sleeping area.

The soft weight of wool settling over her shoulders was the last thing she remembered before sleep claimed her again.

This time, Iona woke just as Ruaridh was pulling on his boots. Gray dawn light filtered through the windows, and she could see him clearly for the first time in days. His face looked haggard, as if he hadn't been sleeping well despite his early bedtimes.

"Good morning, husband," she whispered.

He paused, his hands stilling on his boot laces. "Good morning, wife."

The formal distance in his voice made her chest ache. "Ye've hardly spoken a word in days."

"I have clan business tae handle," he said, standing and reaching for his jacket. "I'll see ye later tonight."

"Ruaridh, wait?—"

But he was already gone, the door closing softly behind him with the kind of careful quiet that felt worse than any slam.