Page 6 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER FIVE

A s the evening progressed, she found herself relaxing for the first time since arriving at Castle MacDuff.

Morag regaled them with stories of her young son's latest exploits—apparently the child had inherited his father's talent for mischief—while Sorcha spoke more quietly about life with the Comyns.

"And what of ye, Iona?" Sorcha asked gently. "I ken this cannae be easy, leaving yer family behind."

"It's... an adjustment," Iona admitted. "But yer maither has been very kind."

"Maither has a soft spot fer ye," Morag said with a grin. "But truly, we're glad ye’re here. Ruaridh has been far too serious fer far too long. Perhaps a wife will remind him how tae smile."

Iona glanced at her new husband, who was listening to the conversation with that same carefully controlled expression. "I'm nae sure I'm the woman fer that task."

"Nonsense," Morag declared. "I remember how ye used tae make him laugh until his sides ached. Surely some of that spirit remains?"

Before Iona could respond, the musicians in the corner struck up a lively tune. Several couples moved to the cleared space before the hearth, and Morag clapped her hands together.

"’Tis time tae dance." She looked expectantly between Iona and Ruaridh.

"I dinnae think—" Iona began, but Niamh's voice cut across the hall.

"Ruaridh, surely ye'll dance with yer bride?"

All eyes turned toward them, and Iona felt heat creep up her neck. The last thing she wanted was to stumble through a dance with a man who could barely stand to look at her.

But Ruaridh was already standing, offering his hand with formal courtesy. "If ye're willing, me lady."

She placed her hand in his, noting again how warm and strong his fingers were. "I'm nae sure I remember the steps."

"I'll lead," he said simply.

The dance was a traditional Highland reel, one she'd learned as a child but hadn't performed in years. Ruaridh guided her through the steps with surprising gentleness, his hand steady at her waist as they moved through the familiar patterns.

"Yer sisters seem pleased about our marriage," she ventured as they turned together.

"They're pleased tae see the clan secure," he replied evenly. "And they have fond memories of ye from our childhood."

"And what of the rest of yer clan? Dae they share that sentiment?"

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Some question the wisdom of allying ourselves with yer family's troubles."

The honesty stung, though she'd expected it. "And dae ye? Question it, I mean?"

For a long moment, he didn't answer, simply guided her through another turn. The music swirled around them, and she was acutely aware of his closeness, and the way his eyes seemed to study her face as if looking for answers to questions he couldn't voice.

"Ruaridh?" she pressed gently.

His hand tightened on hers for just an instant. Then his face shuttered again, and he remained silent until the music ended.

When they returned to their seats, Iona felt more uncertain than ever. In that moment on the dance floor, she'd thought she glimpsed something in his eyes that was not exactly affection, but neither was it complete indifference. Yet his silence spoke louder than any words.

He questions it too. He married me, but he's nae sure it was wise.

The thought shouldn't have hurt as much as it did.

The evening wore on with more dancing and celebration, but the joy felt forced now.

Iona smiled and nodded at the appropriate moments, accepted congratulations from clan members, and tried to ignore the way Ruaridh had withdrawn into himself beside her.

When Niamh finally rose and announced that the bride and groom should retire, Iona's stomach clenched with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

"Go on then, ye two," Morag said with a grin, though her eyes held gentle understanding. "The night's still young, but ye've had a long day."

The walk through the castle corridors felt endless.

Their footsteps echoed off stone walls, and the few servants they passed bowed respectfully before melting away into the shadows.

Ruaridh walked beside her in silence, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, but he might as well have been a stranger.

At the door to their chamber, he paused, his hand on the latch. For a moment, she thought he might say something—offer reassurance, or perhaps set expectations. Instead, he simply opened the door and stepped aside to let her enter first.

The bedchamber felt larger in the candlelight than it had during her brief preparation hours earlier. Shadows danced across the stone walls, and the great four-poster bed dominated the space like a silent witness to what was expected of them both.

Iona stood near the window, her fingers worrying the silk of her wedding gown as she listened to the sounds of the castle settling for the night. Behind her, she could hear Ruaridh moving about the room—the soft thud of boots being removed, the rustle of fabric as he shed his formal jacket.

This is it. This is what makes it real.

The marriage ceremony had felt like something happening to someone else, but this... this was undeniably intimate, undeniably final. She was no longer Iona MacNeill, the disgraced daughter of an exiled clan. She was Lady MacDuff now, with all the duties that entailed.

"Are ye... ready?" Ruaridh's voice came from behind her, carefully neutral.

She turned slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs.

He'd removed his jacket and stood in his white linen shirt, his dark hair disheveled from the day's events.

In the soft candlelight, he looked younger somehow, less like the cold warrior who'd rescued her and more like.

.. well, like a man about to share a bed with a virtual stranger.

"Aye," she said, though her voice came out barely above a whisper.

They moved through the motions with careful formality—she behind the screen to change into her night rail, he turning away to grant her privacy. Everything was proper, respectful, procedural. Like a business transaction conducted by people determined to maintain dignity.

But when she emerged from behind the screen and saw him waiting by the bed, still fully clothed in his shirt and breeches, something in the careful distance between them shifted.

He took a step toward her, then another, his green eyes never leaving her face. The space between them seemed to crackle with tension—not desire, exactly, but something heavier. Expectation. Duty. The weight of what came next.

"Iona," he said softly, reaching out to touch her cheek with surprising gentleness.

That was when it happened.

The moment his fingers brushed her skin, Iona's world tilted sideways.

Murray's hands on her face, forcing her chin up. "Ye'll learn tae keep yer mouth shut, or I'll teach ye other uses fer it."

"Nay!" The word tore from her throat as she jerked backward, her hands flying up to protect herself. Her back hit the wall beside the window, and she pressed against it as if she could disappear into the stone itself.

His weight pinning her down. The smell of ale on his breath. "Scream all ye want, lass. Nay one will believe ye over me."

"Dinnae—please, I cannae—Murray!" She was shaking now, her whole body trembling with the force of memories she'd thought she'd buried.

Ruaridh stepped back immediately, his hands raised with his fingers pointing upward. "Easy," he said, his voice gentle but carefully distant. "I'm nae touching ye. Look at me, Iona. It’s me, not him."

But she could barely hear him over the roaring in her ears, the phantom sensation of hands that weren't his, the remembered terror that made her stomach lurch. She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words barely audible. "I thought I could... I thought I was ready, but I..."

"Ye have naething tae apologize fer." Ruaridh's voice was steady, calm. He'd moved to the other side of the room, giving her space to breathe. "Naething at all."

He moved to the door and opened it partway, speaking quietly to someone in the corridor. "Send word tae Cook. I need warm milk brought up, with honey and cakes."

A murmured "Aye, sir" came from outside, followed by the sound of boots moving quickly down the stone corridor.

Ruaridh closed the door softly and returned to his position across the room, careful to keep his distance. "It'll help," he said simply. "The warmth."

Footsteps hurried away down the corridor. Iona kept her face buried against her knees, mortified beyond words. What kind of wife was she? What kind of woman couldn't even bear her husband's touch on their wedding night?

"I'm broken," she said into the silence. "I made a mistake marrying ye. Ye deserve better than... than this."

"And dinnae ye deserve better, a good husband?" His voice carried a strange mix of humor and bitterness. "Trust me, lass. Ye're nae the only one carrying scars intae this marriage."

She lifted her head just enough to look at him. He sat in the chair by the fire, his posture relaxed but alert, like a man accustomed to watching for danger. His green eyes held no judgment, no impatience—just a kind of weary understanding that made her chest ache.

"Aye? So ye’re nay disappointed, ye dinnae regret this?" She asked.

"Nay," he replied.

There was a light knock on the door, then Alba appeared through the doorway with a tray. Her face carefully remained blank as her eyes ran over the scene—Iona huddled on the floor, while Ruaridh maintained careful distance. She set the tray on the small table and withdrew without a word.

"Will ye drink something?" Ruaridh asked. "It might help."

Iona nodded, not trusting her voice. He poured the warm milk into a cup, added honey, and set it on the floor within her reach before retreating to his chair.

The milk was sweet and soothing, warming her from the inside out. Slowly, the shaking subsided, and she could breathe without feeling like she was drowning.

"What happens now?" she asked when she finally found her voice.

Ruaridh was quiet for a long moment, studying the fire. "Now ye drink yer milk, and I make meself a bed on the floor. Tomorrow we figure out how tae move forward."

"But the marriage—it needs tae be consummated tae be legal."

"Aye, eventually. But nae tonight. Nae until ye're ready."

"What if I'm never ready?"

He looked at her then, his expression serious. "I cannae promise we'll never consummate this marriage, Iona. It leaves us both too vulnerable if we dinnae. But I can promise ye this—I'll nae force ye."

Relief flooded through her so suddenly she nearly started crying again. "Ye mean that?"

"I dae." He rose and moved to a chest against the wall, pulling out thick blankets and a sleeping mat.

"But I'll nae make this easy on either of us forever.

" He spread the mat near the door, as far from the bed as possible.

"Every night, I'll move this mat a little closer tae the bed.

Just a foot or so, until ye grow accustomed tae having me near. "

Her breath caught as the implications settled over her. "Until...?"

"Until I'm sleeping beside ye, as a husband should." His green eyes held hers steadily. "It may take days, or weeks, but eventually we'll share that bed properly."

The words sent a shiver through her—part fear, part something else she couldn't name. He was giving her time, but not indefinitely. Each night would bring him closer, literally and figuratively, until there would be nowhere left to retreat.

"How long dae ye think it will take?" she whispered.

"As I said, I dinnae ken. That depends on ye, lass."

She watched him arrange the mat near the door, as far from her as possible while still being in the same room. The gesture was both practical and oddly touching.

"Ruaridh?" she said as he settled onto the makeshift bed.

"Aye?"

"Thank ye. Fer understanding. Fer nae..." She swallowed hard. "For nae being like him."

"I'm many things, Iona MacDuff," he said quietly into the darkness. "But I'm nae a monster."

MacDuff. Her new name, spoken in his voice. It should have felt strange, foreign. Instead, for the first time since arriving at the castle, it felt like something she might learn to belong to.

"Goodnight, husband," she whispered.

"Goodnight, wife."

The words hung in the air between them—formal, careful, but not unkind. A beginning, perhaps. Not love, but something that might, with time and patience, grow into understanding.