Page 43 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

He took a step closer, then another, until she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Is that what ye want, lass? Are ye ready fer that? Because I ken I am."

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she looked up at him. Part of her wanted to say yes, wanted to close the distance between them and find out what it would feel like to truly be his wife. But the larger part—the part that still flinched at unexpected touch, that still woke sometimes from nightmares of Murray's hands—wasn't ready.

"I..." She swallowed hard. "I'm nae. Nae yet."

For a moment, disappointment flickered in his eyes. But then he nodded, stepping back to give her space to breathe.

"Then it's the mat fer me," he said simply. But instead of laying it down in its current position, he moved it closer to the bed—close enough that if she reached out her hand, she could touch him.

"Ruaridh..."

"Every night, lass," he said quietly, meeting her eyes. "A little closer, until ye're ready."

The promise in his voice sent heat coursing through her veins, even as it terrified her. But as she watched him settle carefully onto the mat, favoring his injured side, she found herself looking forward to the following night.

And the night after that.

Four hours later, but feeling like she had only just fallen asleep, Iona woke to the sound of movement across the chamber. In the pale morning light, she could see Ruaridh carefully pulling on his boots, his movements more cautious than usual.

"Where are ye going?" she asked softly, not wanting to startle him.

He looked up, surprise flashing across his face. "The stables. Storm needs tending, and I've neglected him these past few days."

"Should ye be daeing that? With yer wound?" She sat up in bed, studying his face for signs of pain.

"The wound is nae as deep as ye imagine it, but I'll be careful." But even as he said it, she could see him wince slightly as he reached for his shirt.

"I'm coming with ye," she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "That way ye willnae overexert yerself."

Ruaridh paused, his shirt halfway over his head. "Ye want tae help with Storm?"

"Aye. How hard can it be tae groom a horse?"

Amusement flickered in his green eyes. "Ye've never groomed a horse before, have ye?"

"Well... nay. But I can learn." She lifted her chin with determination. "And ye need someone tae make sure ye dinnae tear yer stitches again."

For a moment, he looked like he might refuse. Then he sighed, shaking his head. "Very well. But ye dae exactly as I say, understood?"

"Understood."

An hour later, Iona was beginning to regret her offer. Storm was a magnificent stallion, but he was also enormous and seemed to have opinions about being groomed by someone who clearly had no idea what she was doing.

"Nay, nae like that," Ruaridh said for the third time, moving carefully behind her to guide her hands. "Long strokes, with the grain of his coat. Like this."

His hands covered hers on the brush, and she could feel the warmth of his chest against her back. The simple contact sent heat spiraling through her, making it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand.

"I think he daesnae like me," she said as Storm snorted and shifted away from her efforts.

"He's just nae used tae ye yet. Horses can sense when someone's nervous." Ruaridh's voice was close to her ear, his breath warm against her neck. "Relax."

"I'm trying," she muttered, but Storm chose that moment to step sideways, bumping into her and sending her stumbling backward into Ruaridh's arms.

"Easy," he said, steadying her. "Maybe we should start with something simpler. Like giving him water."

The water bucket, as it turned out, was not much simpler. Storm drank enthusiastically but seemed to delight in splashing as much water out of the bucket as he consumed. Within minutes, both Iona and Ruaridh were soaked.

"I think yer horse is laughing at me," Iona said, wiping water from her face.