Page 27 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T he evening's festivities were in full swing when Gordon approached them again, this time with a bold grin and a courtly bow toward Iona.

"Me lady," he said with exaggerated formality, "would ye honor an old friend with a dance? Fer old time's sake, if yer husband agrees?"

Ruaridh felt his jaw tighten, though he couldn't say exactly why. It was perfectly reasonable—Gordon was an old friend, the request was proper, and Iona deserved to enjoy the celebration.

"Of course," he heard himself say, though the words felt forced. "Go ahead, lass."

Iona glanced at him uncertainly. "Are ye certain?"

"Aye. Enjoy yerself."

He watched them move onto the cleared space where other couples swayed to the musicians' lively tune. Gordon was an excellent dancer, leading Iona through the steps with practiced ease. They looked... comfortable together. Natural.

Stop it. They're old friends. Nothing more.

But as the dance continued, Ruaridh found himself cataloguing every shared laugh, every time Gordon leaned close to speak in her ear, every time her face lit up with genuine enjoyment. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Ye're glowering like a thundercloud," Duncan observed, appearing beside him with a cup of ale.

"I'm not glowering."

"Aye, ye are. And if looks could kill, young Gordon would be a smoking crater in the floor."

Ruaridh forced himself to look away from the dancing couple. "Dinnae be ridiculous."

But when he looked back, Gordon was saying something that made Iona shake her head with apparent confusion, her brow furrowed as if she didn't understand. Gordon's response—whatever it was—made him throw back his head and laugh.

Enough.

Ruaridh strode onto the dance floor just as the music ended, arriving at Iona's side with more haste than grace.

"Me turn," he said, offering his hand to his wife.

Gordon stepped back with a knowing smirk. "Of course. Thank ye fer the dance, me lady. Most... illuminating."

As the musicians struck up a slower melody, Ruaridh drew Iona into his arms, positioning them at a respectable distance from the other couples.

"What did Gordon say tae ye?" he asked without preamble.

Iona looked up at him with those expressive hazel eyes. "The strangest thing. He said ye were as taken with me now as ye ever were. But that daesnae make sense—ye never showed any particular interest in me as a child."

Ruaridh nearly stumbled. "Is that what ye think?"

"Well... aye. We were friends, certainly, but ye never..." She trailed off, studying his face. "Did ye?"

"Iona." His voice was rough with something between amusement and disbelief. "I followed ye around like a lovesick puppy. I challenged Gordon to mock duels fer yer favor. I gave ye me best marbles and climbed trees to pick ye the highest apples."

Her eyes widened. "But I thought... I thought ye were just being kind..."

"Kind?" He laughed softly, spinning her gently as the dance required. "Lass, I was completely smitten. The whole castle knew it except ye apparently."

"Oh." Color rose in her cheeks. "I had nay idea."

"And now?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.

"Now what?"

"What dae ye think about how I feel now?"

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching his face. When she spoke, her voice was soft but certain. "I think ye want me. And I think..." She paused, then smiled. "I think it's clear I want ye too."

The simple declaration hit him like a physical blow. The music, the other dancers, the entire celebration seemed to fade away until there was only Iona in his arms, looking at him with a combination of desire and affection that made his chest tight.

"Dae ye want tae stay at this celebration?" he asked quietly.

"Not particularly," she admitted, her cheeks pink but her gaze steady.

"Then perhaps we should retire. Long day of preparations..."

"That sounds very... sensible," she agreed, though her smile suggested she had the same ideas he did about how they'd spend their early retirement.

They made their excuses to his parents—fatigue from the day's hosting duties—and slipped away from the great hall. The corridors leading to their chamber had never seemed so long, and by the time they reached their door, the tension between them was almost unbearable.

They stood on opposite sides of the chamber. His green eyes held hers across the room, dark with an intensity that made her breath catch.

Neither spoke. The silence stretched between them, heavy with want and uncertainty.

Ruaridh moved first, crossing the stone floor with deliberate steps, his gaze never leaving her face. She met him halfway, drawn by something stronger than caution or fear. When they stood close enough to touch, he raised his hands slowly, giving her time to pull away.

She didn't.

His palms cupped her face with infinite gentleness, his thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones. "Iona," he whispered, her name a question and a prayer.

In answer, she reached up and wound her arms around his neck, her fingers threading through the dark hair at his nape. The last distance between them disappeared as he lowered his head and she rose to meet him.

Their lips found each other with desperate tenderness, soft at first, then deeper as restraint gave way to need. She could taste the Highland air on his mouth, could feel the tremor in his strong hands as they held her face like something precious.

His jacket fell to the floor, followed by her shawl. Her fingers worked at the laces of his shirt while his hands found the ties of her gown, both moving with careful urgency, as if afraid the moment might shatter if they rushed.

The fire crackled in the hearth, painting their skin in gold and shadow as fabric whispered to the stone floor around them.

Ruaridh pulled her to the bed, hovering over her, resting on his forearms. He kissed her neck and the space between her breasts, pausing to take one nipple in his mouth, before he moved to the other.

Iona gasped, her legs opening on their own, ready for him. Ruaridh pushed himself between her legs the thick head of his manhood dragging through her slick folds—teasing, torturing.

“Ye’re soaked, mo gràidh . But I’ll not rush this. Nae the first time.”

“Aye. But I need tae feel ye…”

He groaned, forehead pressing to hers. “Ye’re going tae be the death of me.”

Then he started to press in—slow, thick, hot.

Iona gasped, her nails digging into his back as he pushed deeper, inch by inch, her body stretching to take him. It burned in the most perfect way. Nothing— nothing —prepared her for the feel of him.

“Ye’re… ” she choked.

“Aye,” he grunted, jaw tight. “I’m tryin’ tae go slow.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist and dragged him the rest of the way in with a gasp.

He swore in Gaelic—something primal, guttural—and stilled, buried to the hilt inside her.

For a long moment, they didn’t move. Her body adjusted to his size, her breath shaking, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. She looked up at him and saw fire in his eyes.

He cupped her cheek. “Ye feel like everything good. Hot and tight and perfect.”

Then he pulled out halfway and thrust back in—and all thought vanished.

She cried out, her back arching, her heels digging into his back. The friction, the fullness, the stretch—it was too much and not enough, all at once.

He moved again, slow and deep, grinding his hips against hers with each thrust. The bed creaked. Her moans filled the room.

“Ruaridh—faster—please?—”

He gave her what she wanted.

His pace picked up, his thrusts turning sharp, hard, relentless. She matched him, hips rising to meet every stroke, the heat between them growing unbearable. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, and he leaned down, sucking one into his mouth as he drove into her.

She nearly came from that alone.

He thrust her harder now, his rhythm wild, hips slapping against her with raw force. His hand gripped her thigh, spreading her wider, deeper.

She was right there—on the edge—gasping his name with every breath.

“I’m—Ruaridh—I’m?—”

“Come fer me, lass. Let me feel ye break.”

She shattered around him, crying out so loud she didn’t recognize her own voice. Her body clenched tight, milking him, pulling him deeper.

He swore, loud and filthy, and followed her over the edge, burying himself to the root as he came inside her. She felt every pulse, every twitch, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

He collapsed over her, bracing his weight on his elbows, breath ragged.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding him close as the aftershocks rippled through her.

For a long moment, they just breathed—sweat-slicked, tangled, trembling.

Then he lifted his head and looked down at her. His face was soft now, his mouth swollen, eyes filled with something tender and dangerous.

“Ye touch me in new ways every time, Iona.”

Her throat tightened. “Say it again.”

He kissed her nose, her cheeks, her lips. “I said… ye touch me in ways I never thought possible.”

She smiled, blinking tears from her lashes. “I feel it too, Ruaridh MacDuff. And I’ll not take it back.”

He rolled onto his side, still inside her, and pulled her with him. Their bodies remained joined as sleep stole over them, wrapped in firelight, and a bond sealed in more than just flesh.

They had crossed a line tonight.

And neither would ever go back.

Afterward, as they lay entwined in the soft candlelight, Iona traced lazy patterns on his chest.

"So ye really had feelings fer me when we were children?" she asked softly.

"Aye. Though I'm fairly certain what I feel fer ye now is considerably more... mature."

She laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest. "I should hope so."

Outside their chamber, the sounds of celebration continued, but in their private world, they had found each other.