Page 46 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The walk back to their chamber felt different somehow. Ruaridh found himself acutely aware of Iona beside him—the way the damp fabric of her dress clung to her curves, how the morning sunlight caught the highlights in her hair. The easy laughter they'd shared at the stables had created something between them, a warmth that had nothing to do with the Highland sun.

When did she become so bonnie? When did I start noticing the way she moves, the sound of her laughter?

Once inside their chamber, the reality of his torn stitches reasserted itself. The bandages beneath his shirt were damp and uncomfortable, and he could feel the pull of healing skin that warned against too much movement.

"I'll head tae the healer. I should change these dressings," he said, moving toward the door.

"Let me dae it," Iona said quietly.

He turned, surprised. "What?"

"Let me change yer bandages. I ken what tae dae." She moved to the basin, beginning to prepare clean water. "And this way ye willnae have tae explain tae her why ye were splashing about in the stables when ye should have been resting."

"Iona, I dinnae think⁠—"

"Sit," she commanded, her voice carrying an authority he hadn't heard from her before. "On the bed. And take off yer shirt."

Damn. Daes she ken what those words are daeing tae me?

The thought of her hands on his bare skin, of her tending to him with such intimacy, sent heat coursing through his veins. But there was something in her expression—a determination mixed with gentle care—that made it impossible to refuse.

He settled on the edge of the bed and pulled his shirt over his head, wincing as the movement pulled at his injured side. Iona approached with a bowl of warm water and clean cloth, her movements careful and deliberate.

"This might hurt," she warned softly, beginning to unwrap the damp bandages.

"I can manage," he said.

Her fingers were gentle as they worked, peeling away the old dressings with practiced care. When she leaned closer to examine the wound, he caught the familiar scent of lavender in her hair, felt the whisper of her breath against his skin.

"It looks better than I expected," she murmured, dabbing at the area with a damp cloth. "The stitches held, thank God."

"Ye sound surprised."

"I am. After yesterday's foolishness in the dungeons, I thought..." She trailed off, focusing intently on her task.

"Ye thought what?"

"I thought I might lose ye." The words were barely audible, spoken as if she hadn't meant to voice them aloud.

Ruaridh went very still. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. "Would that have mattered tae ye?"

She looked up then, meeting his eyes for the first time since she'd begun tending his wound. What he saw there—concern, fear, and something deeper that made his chest tight—took his breath away.

"Aye," she whispered. "It would have mattered."

The space between them seemed to shrink, though neither had moved. Her hands were still on his skin, her face tilted up toward his, her lips slightly parted. He could feel the heat radiating from her body, could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat.

Kiss her. She wants ye tae kiss her.

He leaned closer, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she swayed toward him⁠—

"Sir!" A sharp knock on the door shattered the moment like glass. "Sir, I need tae speak with ye!"

Iona jerked back so quickly she nearly dropped the basin of water. Her face flushed crimson as she turned away, busying herself with the bandages while Ruaridh cursed under his breath.

"What is it?" he called, making no effort to hide his irritation.