Page 21 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

Her hands stilled for a moment, considering. "Nae. It's... it's fine."

He settled onto the mat with a quiet grunt, his back already protesting the hard stone floor. But he'd slept in worse places—much worse. At least here he wasn't chained to a wall, wasn't wondering if each dawn would be his last.

Dinnae think about that.

"Ruaridh?"

He fought hard to keep his voice neutral. "Aye?"

"Thank ye. Fer being patient with me. I ken this arrangement isnae what ye expected."

Her words caught him off guard. What had he expected? Certainly not a wife who challenged him, who looked at him with those knowing eyes that seemed to see straight through his carefully constructed walls.

"Nay. It isnae what I expected at all, but this is where we are, lass, ye dinnae need tae keep thanking me."

When he glanced toward the window, she was looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. In the dim candlelight, she looked ethereal, like something from the old stories his mother used to tell. Her hair fell in waves over her shoulder, and her nightgown was modest but couldn't hide the graceful lines of her form.

Stop looking at her like that.

"Tomorrow," he said, needing to break the spell she was weaving without even trying, "we'll be saying goodbye tae me sisters. They'll be returning tae their own homes."

"So soon?" The disappointment in her voice was unmistakable. "I'll miss them. They made me feel... welcome."

"They care about ye," he said simply. "And they worry about me. Having ye here gives them hope that I might..." He caught himself before he could finish the thought.

That I might become human again. That I might remember how tae laugh, how tae feel something other than emptiness.

"That ye might what?"

"Naething. It daesnae matter." He turned away from her searching gaze, pulling the walls back up where they belonged.

"Will ye be lonely without them?" she asked.

"I'm used tae being alone." The words were harsh, but they were true. Loneliness was safer than connection. Isolation hurt less than betrayal.

"Ye dinnae have tae be," she said quietly. "Nae anymore."

Her words hit him like a physical blow. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it might be like—truly sharing this space with her, talking through the long Highland nights, feeling her warmth beside him instead of sleeping on cold stone.

But imagination was dangerous. Hope was dangerous. Better to keep his distance, keep his expectations low.

"Get some rest, lass. Tomorrow will be a long day."

"Goodnight, Ruaridh."

"Goodnight, Iona."

He listened as she settled into bed, acutely aware of every rustle of fabric, every soft sigh. She was so close he could hear her breathing gradually slow and deepen as sleep claimed her.

What have I gotten meself intae?

He'd thought this would be simple—a marriage of convenience, a political alliance to protect an innocent woman. He hadn't counted on the way she made him remember who he used to be. Hadn't anticipated the fierce protectiveness that surged through him whenever she was threatened.

And he certainly hadn't expected to find himself lying awake at night, fighting the urge to cross those few feet of space between them and discover if her lips tasted as sweet as they looked.

This lass is going tae be the death of yer carefully ordered world.

But as her breathing settled into the rhythm of deep sleep, he found himself oddly comforted by her presence. For the first time in months, he wasn't entirely alone with his demons.

What he didn't know was why that felt just as dangerous.