Page 12 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

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.