Page 51 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

"Naething that concerns ye."

"Everything about ye concerns me." The words came out fiercer than she'd intended. "Ye're me husband, Ruaridh. When ye're hurting, it affects me too."

He finally looked up then, and what she saw in his green eyes made her breath catch. Pain, frustration, and something darker that looked like despair.

"What would ye have me say, lass? That me own Council thinks I'm unfit tae lead? That they're postponing me faither's retirement because they don't trust me judgment?"

"I'd have ye tell me the truth instead of shutting me out like I'm some stranger who wandered intae yer castle."

"The truth?" He stood abruptly, papers scattering to the floor. "The truth is that marrying ye has made them question everything about me. They think I've lost me objectivity, that I'm making decisions with me heart instead of me head."

"And are ye?"

"Aye!" The word exploded from him. "Of course I am! How could I nae when ye're..." He raked his hands through his hair, his control finally cracking. "When I cannae stop thinking about ye, when I lie awake at night listening tae ye breathe, when the thought of anything happening tae ye makes me want tae burn the world down!"

The raw honesty in his voice stunned her into silence. This wasn't the controlled, distant man she'd been living with for the past three days. This was Ruaridh stripped of all his careful walls, and the intensity of his emotion was overwhelming.

"Should we discuss how they dinnae trust me because I refuse tae hand ye over tae a madman?" he continued, his voice rough with frustration. "Should we talk about how me Council hates me fer marrying ye? Or should we talk about how I cannae stop wondering what would have happened if that soldier hadn't interrupted us the other day?"

"Ruaridh—"

"Should we talk about how ye look at me sometimes, like ye want something I'm nae sure I can give ye? Or how every night I move that damned mat closer tae yer bed and wonder if I'm a fool fer hoping ye might actually want me there someday?"

"Stop," she whispered, overwhelmed by the passion in his voice.

"Nay, I willnae stop. Ye wanted the truth, so here it is." He moved around the desk toward her, his eyes blazing. "The truth is that ye've turned me world upside down. The truth is that I'd rather lose me position as heir than lose ye. The truth is⁠—"

He was close enough to touch now, close enough that she could see the fierce emotion burning in his eyes. And before she could think, before she could process what was happening, he reached for her and then his lips were on hers.

It wasn't gentle or tentative like she might have expected. It was desperate and hungry, full of all the frustration and longing he'd been holding back. His hands framed her face, his lips moving against hers with an intensity that made her knees weak.

For a moment, she melted into him, her body responding to the heat and passion of his kiss. But then reality crashed back over her—Murray's hands on her face, his mouth forcing itself on hers, the helplessness and terror of being trapped⁠—

"Nay!" She tore herself away from him, stumbling backward. Her heart was racing, her breathing sharp and panicked. "I cannae... I cannae..."

Ruaridh's face went white as he realized what he'd done. "Iona, I'm sorry. I didnae mean⁠—"

But she was already at the door, her hands shaking as she fumbled with the latch. "I cannae," she repeated, and then she was running, fleeing down the corridor like demons were chasing her.

Behind her, she heard Ruaridh call her name followed by the sharp crack of wood. Her mind barely registered that it was Ruaridh's fist slamming against his desk.

But she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. Because if she did, she'd have to face the truth that terrified her more than any of Murray's threats—that part of her had wanted that kiss, had wanted to lose herself in Ruaridh's passion.

And that wanting felt like the most dangerous thing of all.

Iona slammed into their chamber, pressing her back against the closed door, her heart still racing from their encounter. Her lips still tingled from his kiss, and she could taste the desperation that had driven him to it. But underneath the memory of his passion was the darker echo of other hands, other lips that had taken what they wanted without permission.

He's nae Murray. He's naething like Murray.

But her body didn't seem to understand the difference. It had reacted with the same panic, the same overwhelming need to flee, regardless of the man or the circumstances.

The hours crawled by. Iona tried to read, attempted some needlework, even considered seeking out Niamh for comfort. But nothing could settle the churning mixture of emotions in her chest. She kept replaying the moment—the heat of his confession, the desperate hunger in his kiss, and her own shameful response.

Because the truth was, for just a moment, she'd wanted it. Before the panic set in, before Murray's ghost invaded the space between them, she'd felt something she'd never experienced before. Something that made her understand why poets wrote ballads about love and desire.

It was well past midnight when she finally heard his footsteps in the corridor. She was sitting by the dying fire, still fully dressed, unable to bring herself to prepare for bed. The door opened quietly, and Ruaridh stepped inside.

He looked terrible. His hair was disheveled, his knuckles were scraped and bloody, and his shirt was wrinkled as if he'd been pacing for hours. But it was his eyes that made her chest ache—they held a careful emptiness that reminded her of the withdrawn stranger he'd been these past few days.