Page 22 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I ona sat up in bed, staring at the closed door. This wasn't the man who'd shouted at her about the prisoner interrogation, who'd argued with her about sleeping arrangements. This person had withdrawn into some shell she wasn't sure she could reach.

The Ruaridh she'd been getting to know—stubborn, protective, occasionally infuriating—that man she could fight with, could push back against. But this withdrawn stranger who spoke in polite pleasantries and avoided her eyes? She had no idea how to reach him.

Something terrible happened in that council meeting.

The worry gnawed at her as she dressed and made her way through the castle corridors. She needed answers, needed to understand what had changed so dramatically. And there was only one person who might be able to help her.

She found Niamh in the solar, bent over her correspondence as usual. The older woman looked up with a warm smile that didn't quite hide the worry in her green eyes.

"Iona, dear. How are ye faring?"

"I'm worried about Ruaridh," Iona said without preamble. "He's barely spoken tae me since the council meeting. He's barely spoken tae anyone."

Niamh's smile faded, replaced by the tired expression of a mother watching her child suffer. "Aye, I've noticed. Me son that ye ken, who would say his mind and damn anyone didnae return from the war. This version that broods when things dinnae go as he hopes is one we are all learning anew."

"Can ye tell me what happened? In the meeting?"

For a long moment, Niamh was quiet, clearly weighing her words. "Me son has sacrificed a great deal fer this clan over the years. More than most people realize. And I think he's beginning tae wonder if any of it has been worth it."

"What dae ye mean?"

"I mean he's given up his youth, his freedom, his chance tae be anything other than the perfect heir. And now..." Niamh sighed heavily. "Now the Council is questioning whether he's fit tae lead at all."

The words hit Iona like a physical blow. "Because of me. Because he married me."

"Because they're frightened old men who see change and assume it means disaster," Niamh corrected firmly. "But aye, yer marriage has given them an excuse tae voice doubts they've harbored fer years."

"They dinnae trust him."

"They want a laird who'll sacrifice anything fer clan politics." Niamh's voice carried a bitter edge. "What they dinnae understand is that a leader without a heart becomes a tyrant."

Iona felt guilt settle like a stone in her stomach. "This is me fault. If I hadn't brought me troubles here?—"

"Then me son would still be turning intae the kind of cold, calculating man this clan thinks it needs," Niamh interrupted. "And that would be a tragedy beyond measure."

"But if the Council daesnae trust him?—"

"Then he needs tae prove them wrong. But more than that, he needs tae remember who he is beneath all their expectations." Niamh reached over and covered Iona's hand with her own. "He'll talk tae ye about it in his own time, dear. Ruaridh isn't one tae share his burdens easily."

"And in the meantime, I'm supposed tae watch him tear himself apart?"

"In the meantime, ye're supposed tae be the woman who makes him remember why having a heart is a strength, nae a weakness."

An hour later, Iona stood outside the door to Ruaridh's study, her stomach churning with nervous energy. She'd tried to follow Niamh's advice about giving him time, but three days of watching him retreat deeper into himself was more than she could bear.

She knocked once, briefly, then pushed the door open before he could refuse her entry.

Ruaridh sat behind a massive oak desk, surrounded by ledgers and documents. His dark hair fell across his forehead, and she could see the exhaustion etched in every line of his face.

"I'm busy, Iona," he said without looking up.

"Nay, ye're hiding," she corrected, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. "And I'm tired of pretending that's normal."

"I have work tae dae?—"

"Work that can wait five minutes fer ye tae talk tae yer wife." She moved closer to the desk, noting the way his hands stilled on the papers. "What happened in that council meeting?"

"Naething that concerns ye."

"Everything about ye concerns me." The words came out fiercer than she'd intended. "Ye're me husband, Ruaridh. When ye're hurting, it affects me too."

He finally looked up then, and what she saw in his green eyes made her breath catch. Pain, frustration, and something darker that looked like despair.

"What would ye have me say, lass? That me own Council thinks I'm unfit tae lead? That they're postponing me faither's retirement because they don't trust me judgment?"

"I'd have ye tell me the truth instead of shutting me out like I'm some stranger who wandered intae yer castle."

"The truth?" He stood abruptly, papers scattering to the floor. "The truth is that marrying ye has made them question everything about me. They think I've lost me objectivity, that I'm making decisions with me heart instead of me head."

"And are ye?"

"Aye!" The word exploded from him. "Of course I am!

How could I nae when ye're..." He raked his hands through his hair, his control finally cracking.

"When I cannae stop thinking about ye, when I lie awake at night listening tae ye breathe, when the thought of anything happening tae ye makes me want tae burn the world down! "

The raw honesty in his voice stunned her into silence. This wasn't the controlled, distant man she'd been living with for the past three days. This was Ruaridh stripped of all his careful walls, and the intensity of his emotion was overwhelming.

"Should we discuss how they dinnae trust me because I refuse tae hand ye over tae a madman?

" he continued, his voice rough with frustration.

"Should we talk about how me Council hates me fer marrying ye?

Or should we talk about how I cannae stop wondering what would have happened if that soldier hadn't interrupted us the other day? "

"Ruaridh—"

"Should we talk about how ye look at me sometimes, like ye want something I'm nae sure I can give ye? Or how every night I move that damned mat closer tae yer bed and wonder if I'm a fool fer hoping ye might actually want me there someday?"

"Stop," she whispered, overwhelmed by the passion in his voice.

"Nay, I willnae stop. Ye wanted the truth, so here it is." He moved around the desk toward her, his eyes blazing. "The truth is that ye've turned me world upside down. The truth is that I'd rather lose me position as heir than lose ye. The truth is?—"

He was close enough to touch now, close enough that she could see the fierce emotion burning in his eyes. And before she could think, before she could process what was happening, he reached for her and then his lips were on hers.

It wasn't gentle or tentative like she might have expected. It was desperate and hungry, full of all the frustration and longing he'd been holding back. His hands framed her face, his lips moving against hers with an intensity that made her knees weak.

For a moment, she melted into him, her body responding to the heat and passion of his kiss. But then reality crashed back over her—Murray's hands on her face, his mouth forcing itself on hers, the helplessness and terror of being trapped?—

"Nay!" She tore herself away from him, stumbling backward. Her heart was racing, her breathing sharp and panicked. "I cannae... I cannae..."

Ruaridh's face went white as he realized what he'd done. "Iona, I'm sorry. I didnae mean?—"

But she was already at the door, her hands shaking as she fumbled with the latch. "I cannae," she repeated, and then she was running, fleeing down the corridor like demons were chasing her.

Behind her, she heard Ruaridh call her name followed by the sharp crack of wood. Her mind barely registered that it was Ruaridh's fist slamming against his desk.

But she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. Because if she did, she'd have to face the truth that terrified her more than any of Murray's threats—that part of her had wanted that kiss, had wanted to lose herself in Ruaridh's passion.

And that wanting felt like the most dangerous thing of all.

Iona slammed into their chamber, pressing her back against the closed door, her heart still racing from their encounter.

Her lips still tingled from his kiss, and she could taste the desperation that had driven him to it.

But underneath the memory of his passion was the darker echo of other hands, other lips that had taken what they wanted without permission.

He's nae Murray. He's naething like Murray.

But her body didn't seem to understand the difference. It had reacted with the same panic, the same overwhelming need to flee, regardless of the man or the circumstances.

The hours crawled by. Iona tried to read, attempted some needlework, even considered seeking out Niamh for comfort.

But nothing could settle the churning mixture of emotions in her chest. She kept replaying the moment—the heat of his confession, the desperate hunger in his kiss, and her own shameful response.

Because the truth was, for just a moment, she'd wanted it. Before the panic set in, before Murray's ghost invaded the space between them, she'd felt something she'd never experienced before. Something that made her understand why poets wrote ballads about love and desire.

It was well past midnight when she finally heard his footsteps in the corridor. She was sitting by the dying fire, still fully dressed, unable to bring herself to prepare for bed. The door opened quietly, and Ruaridh stepped inside.

He looked terrible. His hair was disheveled, his knuckles were scraped and bloody, and his shirt was wrinkled as if he'd been pacing for hours. But it was his eyes that made her chest ache—they held a careful emptiness that reminded her of the withdrawn stranger he'd been these past few days.

"Ye should be sleeping," he said quietly.

"So should ye."

He moved to his sleeping area and began unrolling his mat, positioning it exactly where it had been the night before. Not closer to the bed, as had become his habit, but in the same spot.

"Ye're nae moving it closer taenight," she observed.

His hands stilled on the blankets. "Nay."

"Why nae?"

"Because I pressed ye enough fer one day." His voice was carefully controlled, but she could hear the self-recrimination underneath. "I willnae make that mistake again."

"Ruaridh—"

"Nay." The word was sharp, final. "We're nae discussing this, Iona. I overstepped, and I'm sorry fer it. That's all there is tae say."

She wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that it wasn't his fault, that her reaction had more to do with her past than with him. But the set of his shoulders, the rigid way he held himself, told her he wouldn't listen.

He settled onto his mat with his back to her, and the message was clear. The conversation was over.

Iona stared at the space between them—wider now than it had been in days, not just physically but emotionally. The progress they'd made, the tentative closeness that had been growing between them, felt like it was slipping away.

"Goodnight, Ruaridh," she said softly.

"Goodnight."

But she knew neither of them would sleep well that night. And the day after, she feared, would bring them back to the polite, distant strangers they'd been after the council meeting.

Only this time, it might be even worse.