Page 25 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER TWENTY

S he's safe fer now. But can I ensure she remains safe?

The walk to the training grounds felt like a march to execution. His own execution, perhaps—the death of everything he'd believed about his clan's loyalty, about the safety of his own walls.

Ruaridh stood with his arms crossed, watching as every man who served Castle MacDuff lined up under the watchful eyes of Duncan and his most trusted sergeants.

How many more? How many wolves have we been feeding at our table?

The first dozen men passed inspection without incident—soldiers he'd known for years, men who'd served his father before him. Their gear was familiar, their speech patterns unchanged, their faces showing nothing but the honest confusion of loyal men being questioned like criminals.

"Next," he called, his voice carrying across the courtyard.

A young kitchen lad tried to slip back behind the other men, but Ruaridh's sharp eyes caught the movement.

"Yd there," he called, pointing directly at the retreating figure. "Step forward."

The lad reluctantly moved to the front. Ruaridh studied the boy's face, noting the nervous sweat, the way his eyes darted around the yard rather than meeting his gaze directly and the slight shaking of his hands.

The lad's shoulders were too broad for kitchen work, his posture too straight despite his attempt to appear humble.

"What's yer name, lad?"

"T-Thomas, me lord. Thomas MacBride."

"How long have ye been in service here?"

"One month, me lord."

Ruaridh's eyes sharpened. One month. Right around the time Murray would have started planning his infiltration. He noted the calluses on the boy's hands—not the soft, flour-dusted hands of a kitchen worker, but the hardened palms of someone who wielded weapons regularly.

"Who vouched fer ye when ye came seeking work?"

The boy's face went white. "I... that is... Cook said she needed help in the kitchens, and?—"

"Who brought ye tae Cook's attention?" Ruaridh's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

"I... I cannae remember, me lord. It was a while ago?—"

"A month is nae that long." Ruaridh stepped closer, noting how the boy's accent slipped slightly, revealing inflections that did not belong to MacDuff territory. "Try again."

The boy looked around frantically and ran to the side. That was when Ruaridh became certain.

"Seize him," he commanded.

The boy made it perhaps ten steps before Duncan's men tackled him to the ground, his protests echoing across the training yard as they bound his hands.

"Check the stables," Ruaridh ordered, his voice carrying to every corner of the courtyard. "If there's one, there are more."

They found the second infiltrator hiding in the hay loft, a grizzled man who'd been posing as a stablehand for weeks. Unlike the kitchen boy, this one came quietly, his cold eyes never leaving Ruaridh's face as they dragged him away.

Two more. How many others are there that we haven't found?

The discovery sent a wave of unease through the assembled men. Ruaridh could see it in their faces—the sudden realization that enemies had been living among them, eating at their tables, learning their routines. Trust was a fragile thing, and today had shattered it completely.

The interrogation took place in the castle's lowest dungeon, where the stone walls were thick enough to muffle screams. Ruaridh descended the narrow stairs with grim purpose, his footsteps echoing in the confined space.

The kitchen boy cracked first, blubbering confessions about gold coins and promises of land if he served MacNab's cause. But his information was limited—he'd been recruited in a tavern, given basic instructions, told to watch and wait for a signal that never came.

The stable hand was made of sterner stuff. Even when Ruaridh's questions grew sharp and his methods persuasive, the man revealed little beyond what they already knew.

"Murray's desperate," the man finally spat, blood running from his split lip.

"Desperate how?"

"I couldnae tell. I was just given coins to stay here and let MacNab men in when the time was right."

"Double the watch," Ruaridh commanded as he emerged from the dungeons later, the taste of failure bitter in his mouth. "Triple it. I want every entrance guarded, every guest scrutinized. And send word to the neighboring clans—warn them that MacNab may try to use their delegations as cover."

Duncan nodded grimly. "What about the celebration itself? Should we cancel?"

"Nay." Ruaridh's jaw set with determination. "We proceed as planned. But we dae it with eyes wide open and steel ready."

By the time he climbed the stairs to his chamber, exhaustion weighed heavy on his shoulders. The day had been a nightmare of suspicion and betrayal, of discovering enemies wearing friendly faces. But at least now he knew the scope of the threat.

How many more are out there? How many other clans has Murray compromised?

He knocked softly on the door. "It's me, lass."

The sound of the bar being lifted was followed by Iona's worried face peering through the gap. "Thank God," she breathed, opening the door wide to let him enter.

He stepped inside expecting to find his sleeping blankets positioned its careful distance from her bed. Instead, he stopped short.

They were gone.

Iona stood watching him, and there was something different in her expression—a resolve that hadn't been there that morning, a decision made in his absence.

"Ye removed me blankets," he said quietly, not trusting himself to say more.

"Aye." Her voice was soft but steady. "I did."

He remained by the door, afraid to move closer, afraid to assume he understood what this meant. "Why?"

She was quiet for a long moment, her hazel eyes never leaving his face. When she spoke, her words were barely above a whisper.

"Because I couldnae bear the distance anymore. Nae after today. Nae after thinking I might..." She swallowed hard. "Nae after thinking ye might lose me. Maybe it's time we stopped pretending this is just a political arrangement."

Ruaridh's breath caught in his throat. After everything that had happened—the attack, the betrayals, the constant threat hanging over them—here was Iona, offering him something he'd barely dared to hope for.

"Are ye certain?" His voice was rough with emotions he couldn't name. "After what happened today, after?—"

"Especially after what happened today." She sat up fully, and he could see the determination in every line of her body. "I saw how ye looked when ye thought ye might lose me, Ruaridh. And I felt what it was like tae think I might die without ever knowing what it could be like between us."

Ruaridh moved to the edge of the bed and sat down carefully, close enough to see the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat. The mattress dipped under his weight, and she shifted slightly toward him.

"I ken exactly what ye mean, lass." His voice was rough with emotion.

"Seeing ye in danger today made something terrifyingly clear—I can nae longer pretend nae tae care.

Nae tae feel." He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and touched her cheek with trembling fingers.

"I've been lying tae meself, thinking I could keep ye at arm's length.

But the truth is, ye've gotten under me skin, into me heart, and I dinnae want ye anywhere else. "

She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing briefly. "I'm still afraid sometimes. Of the memories, of what Murray?—"

"Then we'll go slow." His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone. "As slow as ye need. And if ye want me tae stop, at any moment, ye just have tae say so. Promise me ye'll tell me."

"I promise."

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Tell me what ye want, Iona. Tell me what feels right."

"I want ye tae kiss me," she whispered. "The way ye did in yer study."

His lips found hers with infinite tenderness, a barely-there brush that made her sigh against his mouth. When she didn't pull away, he deepened the kiss slightly, his hand moving to cradle the back of her neck.

"Is this all right?" he murmured against her lips.

"Aye." Her hands moved up, resting gently against his chest, where she felt the steady, powerful beat of his heart beneath her palms. The rhythm steadied her, anchoring her to that moment, to him. "More than all right."

He pressed his lips to hers then, soft and reverent, pouring all his gratitude into the kiss. When they parted, both were breathing hard.

"Are ye certain ye want this?" he asked again, his voice rough with restraint. "Because I need ye tae ken that this matters to me. Ye matter tae me. More than I expected when this all began."

"Ye matter tae me too," she confessed, the words barely a whisper. "More than I thought possible."

The smile that spread across his face was tentative but genuine. "Then let me show ye how it should be, Iona. Let me prove that touch can heal instead of harm."

"Show me," she breathed, and the trust in her voice nearly undid him.

His fingers were already moving—slow, careful strokes between her legs that had her twitching from sensitivity yet aching for more. Iona tried to pull away, but Ruaridh wouldn’t let her.

“Too much,” she whimpered.

He didn’t stop. “Wait a moment longer and see how it feels.”

And he was right. The discomfort bled into pleasure within seconds. Her hips lifted to meet the rhythm of his fingers—two of them now, deep and deliberate. His thumb grazed her clit lightly, teasing, and she sucked in a breath so sharp it burned her lungs.

“I want to see ye fall apart,” he said, voice low and thick. “Ye’re so bonny like this. Writhing. Loud. Wet.”

She moaned—half from the words, half from the way he curled his fingers just right.

Ruaridh kissed her ankle, then her calf, then slowly worked his way up her inner leg, his lips brushing over trembling skin while he never stopped moving his hand. By the time his mouth reached the top of her thigh, she was already teetering again, toes curling, muscles clenching.

And then his tongue was there.

Not tentative.

Not gentle.

He licked her like he needed it, moaning into her, his hand still buried inside her, working her to the edge. His tongue circled her folds in fast, firm flicks, then slowed—only to start again harder, faster, unrelenting.

She cried out, grabbing a fistful of his hair, dragging him closer. “Don’t stop—don’t stop?—”

He didn’t.

He kept her there, held her captive in sensation, pushing her over the edge with brutal precision. She shattered beneath his mouth, her whole body convulsing, thighs clamped around his head, her voice broken and wild with pleasure.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was overwhelming.

When he finally slowed, easing his fingers out of her and pressing soft kisses against her twitching thighs, Iona was nearly sobbing from how good it felt. Her body was slick with sweat. Her hair clung to her temples. She could barely lift her arms.

But he wasn’t done.

“Too much?” he asked, nuzzling her hip.

“I don’t even ken where I am,” she croaked.

He chuckled, and it was devastatingly fond. “Ye’re still here. Still mine. I just want tae see what else makes ye lose yer mind.”

Then he climbed up beside her and kissed her. She tasted herself on his tongue and moaned into it.

She reached down between them, fumbling for his belt.

He caught her wrist.

“Nae taenight,” he said. “Taenight’s nae about me.”

“I want?—”

He shook his head. “Ye’ll get yer turn. But right now, I want tae ken what yer breasts taste like when ye’re sensitive. I want tae hear what ye sound like when I tease yer nipples after ye’ve already come. I want tae mark ye. Feel yer thighs shake against me chest again.”

She stared at him, chest heaving.

God help her, she wanted it too.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He didn’t waste a second.

He pulled her into his lap, kissing her hard, hands sliding up her torso to cup her breasts. He thumbed her nipples through the fabric, watching her squirm, then leaned down to drag his tongue slowly over one hardened peak.

She whimpered.

He sucked gently, then bit—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make her gasp and arch into him. His other hand slipped between her thighs again, fingers spreading her open with practiced ease.

She felt swollen. Raw. Soaked.

And he seemed obsessed with every inch of it.

“Ruaridh—please?—”

He looked up, lips wet, eyes dark. “Beg a little more, lass. Just a wee bit more.”

Her voice broke. “I need yer mouth on me. Again. Please. I just—please?—”

He groaned and shoved her back onto the pillows.

“Ye sound like sin when ye beg.”

And then his mouth was on her again.

No hesitation. No holding back.

He licked and sucked her with his fingers and tongue until she was screaming, until her nails left red streaks down his back, until her thighs locked around his shoulders and her climax hit like a tidal wave.

She collapsed, chest rising in ragged, helpless rhythm.

He finally pulled away, crawling up beside her, resting his hand on her belly like he was grounding her.

Her voice was ruined, hoarse, but still she whispered, “Ye’re dangerous.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth.

She smiled weakly. “And ye’re not even inside me yet.”

He kissed her again, softer now. “Nae until ye beg me fer it. The way ye just begged fer me mouth.”

And she knew she would.

But not that night.

Not yet.

For Iona, each sensation was a revelation—that touch could bring joy instead of fear, that her body could respond with pleasure instead of panic.

And for Ruaridh, watching her come alive beneath his hands was healing in ways he'd never expected.

Here was proof that he could still be gentle, still be trusted with something precious.

"Thank ye," he whispered against her throat as she trembled in his arms. "Fer trusting me with this. With ye."

"Thank ye," she gasped, clinging to him, "fer being patient. Fer showing me that touch is nae only bad."

They held each other close, both transformed by what they'd shared. It wasn't just physical pleasure—it was the healing of two wounded souls finding peace in each other.

"What happens now?" she asked softly, her head pillowed on his chest.

"Now we keep healing," he replied, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Together. One day at a time."

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "Are ye well?" he asked softly.

"Better than well." She tilted her face up to look at him. "I feel... whole. Fer the first time in longer than I can remember."

"As dae I, lass. As dae I."

That night, they slept peacefully together, two souls who had found their way back to each other across years of pain and distance. And for those precious hours, the threats that surrounded them seemed very far away indeed.