Page 42 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

"How could I sleep?" She gestured sharply. "Ye went tae interrogate a prisoner hours ago and never returned, never sent word. Did anything happen while ye were there?"

"Nay—"

"Dinnae." The word came out sharp as a blade. "Dinnae tell me naething when I can see the pain in yer face."

Ruaridh moved toward the washbasin, clearly trying to avoid the conversation. "The healer saw to it. I'm fine."

"Where's the shirt ye were wearing before ye went down tae interrogate that prisoner?"

"What?" He paused, his hands stilling on the basin's edge.

"Yer shirt, Ruaridh. The one ye had on when ye left this room. Where is it?"

"I dinnae see why⁠—"

"Because it was covered in blood, wasn't it?" She stepped closer, her hazel eyes blazing. "So much blood that it couldn't be cleaned, so ye had tae throw it away."

The silence that followed was answer enough.

"Are ye planning on telling me the truth about yer wound?" she asked bluntly. "Or are we going tae continue this dance where ye pretend everything is fine while ye bleed through yer bandages?"

His jaw tightened. "It's nae yer concern, Iona."

"Nae me concern?" Her voice rose in disbelief. "Ye're me husband, Ruaridh. Of course it's me concern."

"Being yer husband daesnae mean ye need tae worry about every scratch⁠—"

"Scratch?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Is that what we're calling sword wounds that require stitches now?"

"The clan's safety comes first," he said firmly. "I did what needed tae be done."

"And nearly killed yerself in the process!" The words exploded from her. "Dae ye think I want tae be a widow before I've even properly been a wife?"

The stark honesty of her words seemed to startle them both. Ruaridh turned to face her fully, his expression unreadable.

"I'm nae going tae die from a stitch or two, lass."

"But ye could have...." She wrapped her arms around herself. "And I willnae lose ye tae yer own stubbornness."

Willnae lose ye.

When had his survival become so important to her?

"I'm here. I'm alive. That's what matters."

"What matters is that ye take care of yerself." She moved toward his sleeping mat, kneeling down to straighten the blankets. "Ye're sleeping on the bed tonight. I'll take the floor."

"What?" He stared at her as if she'd suggested he sprout wings and fly. "Absolutely nae."

"Ye're hurt, Ruaridh. Ye need proper rest, nae a night on cold stone."

"There's nay way in hell I'm letting me wife sleep on the floor while I take the bed." His voice carried an edge of steel. "Dinnae even consider it."

"Then what dae ye suggest?" She stood, facing him with her chin lifted defiantly. "Because ye're nae sleeping on that mat with torn stitches."

"The only way I'm sleeping in that bed," he said quietly, his eyes holding hers, "is if ye're in it with me."

The words hung in the air between them, charged with implications that made Iona's breath catch. Suddenly the space between them felt too small, too intimate. She could see the heat in his green eyes, could feel the pull of attraction that had been building between them night by night, foot by foot.