Page 31 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

" Y e're shivering," Ruaridh observed, closing the door behind them and moving to stoke the fire.

"The rain was colder than I expected." She tried to keep her voice light, but she could hear the tremor in it.

"A warm bath will help." He was already moving to call for servants to bring hot water. "We both need tae get properly warm and dry."

Within minutes, their chamber was filled with the bustle of servants carrying steaming buckets, filling the large copper tub that had been brought in and positioned before the fire. The luxury of hot water and privacy felt almost decadent after their simple afternoon in the lodge.

When they were finally alone again, Iona found herself hesitating at the edge of the tub. The intimacy they'd shared over the past few days was still new, still fragile in some ways. But the cold had seeped into her bones, and the promise of warmth was too appealing to resist.

Iona peeled off her sodden cloak with shaking fingers that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Taegether?" Ruaridh asked quietly, reading her uncertainty.

"Aye," she said, surprised by her own certainty. "Taegether."

The hot water was blissful against her chilled skin, and she sank into it with a sigh of relief. Ruaridh settled behind her, his presence comforting rather than threatening as she leaned back against his chest.

"Better?" he asked, his arms coming around her in the warm water.

"Much." She closed her eyes, letting the heat seep into her muscles and ease the tension she'd been carrying. "Thank ye. Fer today, I mean. For showing me the lodge, fer giving me those hours of freedom."

"Ye dinnae need tae thank me fer that, lass. Ye shouldn't have tae feel grateful fer a few hours outside these walls."

The quiet understanding in his voice, the way he held her without making demands, created a space that felt safe enough for the words that had been building inside her chest.

"I told ye Murray forced himself on me," she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the soft crackling of the fire. "But I never told ye exactly what happened. How it ended."

She felt him tense slightly behind her, but his arms remained gentle around her. "Ye dinnae have tae?—"

"I want tae." The words surprised her, but they were true. "I fought him off, Ruaridh. Before he could... before he could dae what he intended. I had a heavy candlestick within reach, and I used it."

"Good," he said simply, and the fierce approval in his voice made something loosen in her chest.

"He was stronger than me, bigger than me. But I was desperate, and willing tae fight tae stop him." She took a shaky breath. "I hit him hard enough tae stun him, hard enough tae get away. That's when I escaped tae me parents, when I finally told them what kind of man they'd promised me tae."

"And that's when they ended the betrothal."

"Aye. But the damage was already done, in more ways than one.

" She turned slightly in his arms, needing to see his face.

"It wasn't just what he tried tae dae tae me, Ruaridh.

It was the helplessness I felt, the way he made me feel small and powerless.

Even after I fought him off, even after I'd proven I could defend meself, that feeling lingered. "

"Fear has a way of living in yer bones long after the danger has passed," he said quietly, and she knew he was speaking from his own experience.

"Aye. Fer months, I couldn't bear the thought of any man touching me. Couldn't imagine ever feeling safe enough tae... tae want someone's touch again." Her voice caught slightly. "I thought Murray had stolen that from me permanently. The ability tae trust, tae desire without fear."

Ruaridh's hand found hers beneath the water, their fingers intertwining. "But ye dae trust now? Ye dae feel safe?"

"Aye. With ye." The admission felt monumental, a bridge crossed that she'd never thought she'd be able to build. "I never thought I'd feel this calm with another man, this... peaceful. But somehow, with ye, the fear fades."

"Why dae ye think that is?"

She considered the question seriously, turning it over in her mind like a precious stone. "Because ye've never tried tae take what I wasnae ready tae give. Because ye've let me set the pace, make the choices. Because when ye touch me, it's not about possession or control—it's about connection."

"Iona." Her name was barely a whisper, but it held a weight of emotion that made her chest tight.

"And because ye understand what it's like tae have someone try tae break ye," she continued. "Ye ken what it means tae rebuild yerself from pieces, tae find strength after feeling powerless."

They sat in comfortable silence after that, the warm water lapping gently around them as the fire cast dancing shadows on the walls.

Iona felt something shift inside her chest—not healing, exactly, because that was still a work in progress, but acceptance.

Acceptance of what had happened to her, of how it had changed her, and of the possibility that those changes didn't have to define her future.

"The man ye're becoming," she said eventually, "the one I see when yer walls come down—he's worth every moment of patience it took tae find him."

"And the woman ye are," he replied, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, "strong enough tae fight fer herself, brave enough tae trust again—she's worth every wall I've had tae tear down."

The water was cooling now, but neither of them seemed inclined to move.

There in that intimate space, wrapped in warmth and honest words, they had found something precious—not just physical comfort, but the kind of deep understanding that came from sharing the darkest parts of themselves and finding acceptance instead of judgment.

When they finally rose from the bath, Iona felt different somehow. Lighter. As if speaking the truth aloud had lifted a weight she'd been carrying for so long she'd forgotten what it felt like to stand straight.

Days later, the rain had not lessened. Iona moved to the window where it streaked the glass in endless rivulets.

"Four days now," she said. "I've never seen it come down like this fer so long."

Ruaridh looked up from the letter he'd been drafting to the king, his quill paused mid-sentence. "Aye, it's unusual even fer the Highlands. If this keeps up?—"

A sharp knock at their door interrupted him. "Enter," he called.

Duncan pushed through, his face grim. "Me laird, we've got trouble. The village?—"

"What about the village?" Iona turned from the window, alarm prickling along her spine.

"The Burn of Sorrows has overflowed its banks. Half the cottages are flooded, and the bridge to the mill has washed out completely." Duncan's weathered hands twisted his cap. "We've got families with nowhere tae go and livestock drowning in the fields."

"Christ." Ruaridh was already rising, the letter forgotten. "How many displaced?"

"Twenty families, maybe more. And me laird..." Duncan's expression grew darker. "Old Henry MacCreed's cottage collapsed in the night. His wife and bairns got out, but they lost everything."

Iona felt her heart clench. She'd met Hamish's wife just last week—a gentle woman with three young children and another on the way. "Are they hurt?"

"Nay, thank God. But they're homeless and frightened, and with this rain showing nay signs of stopping..." Duncan shrugged helplessly.

"Ready the horses," Ruaridh commanded, already moving toward his sword belt. "And gather whatever dry blankets and food stores we can spare."

"Ruaridh." Iona caught his arm as he passed. "I'm coming with ye."

"Iona, the roads will be treacherous?—"

"These people are going tae be me people," she said firmly, lifting her chin in a way he'd learned to recognize. "If I'm tae be lady of this castle someday, I need their respect. And I cannae earn that hiding behind stone walls while they suffer."

He studied her face for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Aye. Ye’re right. Duncan, saddle Storm and Moonbeam. And send word tae the kitchens—we'll need hot broth and bread fer whoever needs it."

"Already done, me laird. Cook's been preparing since before dawn."

An hour later, they rode through the castle gates into a world transformed by water. What had once been familiar paths were now treacherous streams of mud, and the normally placid burn that meandered through the valley had become a raging torrent that had claimed everything in its path.

"Sweet Mary," Iona breathed, taking in the devastation spread before them.

Where the village had stood, half the cottages were reduced to soggy piles of thatch and timber.

Those still standing bore the muddy watermarks of flooding that had reached nearly to their roofs.

Everywhere she looked, families huddled together with whatever possessions they'd managed to save—which in most cases was little more than the clothes on their backs.

Ruaridh dismounted first, immediately moving to help an elderly man who was struggling with a heavy sack of salvaged belongings. Even in the midst of crisis, he moved with that careful strength she'd come to know so well.

"Me lady!" A voice called out, and Iona turned to see Moira, the baker's wife, wading through ankle-deep mud toward them. "We didnae ken what tae dae, where tae go?—"

"Ye're going tae be fine," Iona said, dismounting immediately and moving to grasp the woman's hands. "We're here tae help. Tell me—who needs shelter most urgently?"

"Over there, me lady. Their wee ones are soaked through, and the baby's been coughing something fierce." Moira gestured toward a cluster of people huddled beneath a makeshift lean-to. "And the old widow over there—her cottage is gone completely, and she's got naewhere?—"

"Duncan," Iona called, her voice carrying the authority she'd been learning to wield. "Take the MacCreeds back tae the castle immediately. Put them in the spare chamber for guests and see that they have dry clothes and hot food."

"Aye, me lady."