Page 50 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Iona sat up in bed, staring at the closed door. This wasn't the man who'd shouted at her about the prisoner interrogation, who'd argued with her about sleeping arrangements. This person had withdrawn into some shell she wasn't sure she could reach.

The Ruaridh she'd been getting to know—stubborn, protective, occasionally infuriating—that man she could fight with, could push back against. But this withdrawn stranger who spoke in polite pleasantries and avoided her eyes? She had no idea how to reach him.

Something terrible happened in that council meeting.

The worry gnawed at her as she dressed and made her way through the castle corridors. She needed answers, needed to understand what had changed so dramatically. And there was only one person who might be able to help her.

She found Niamh in the solar, bent over her correspondence as usual. The older woman looked up with a warm smile that didn't quite hide the worry in her green eyes.

"Iona, dear. How are ye faring?"

"I'm worried about Ruaridh," Iona said without preamble. "He's barely spoken tae me since the council meeting. He's barely spoken tae anyone."

Niamh's smile faded, replaced by the tired expression of a mother watching her child suffer. "Aye, I've noticed. Me son that ye ken, who would say his mind and damn anyone didnae return from the war. This version that broods when things dinnae go as he hopes is one we are all learning anew."

"Can ye tell me what happened? In the meeting?"

For a long moment, Niamh was quiet, clearly weighing her words. "Me son has sacrificed a great deal fer this clan over the years. More than most people realize. And I think he's beginning tae wonder if any of it has been worth it."

"What dae ye mean?"

"I mean he's given up his youth, his freedom, his chance tae be anything other than the perfect heir. And now..." Niamh sighed heavily. "Now the Council is questioning whether he's fit tae lead at all."

The words hit Iona like a physical blow. "Because of me. Because he married me."

"Because they're frightened old men who see change and assume it means disaster," Niamh corrected firmly. "But aye, yer marriage has given them an excuse tae voice doubts they've harbored fer years."

"They dinnae trust him."

"They want a laird who'll sacrifice anything fer clan politics." Niamh's voice carried a bitter edge. "What they dinnae understand is that a leader without a heart becomes a tyrant."

Iona felt guilt settle like a stone in her stomach. "This is me fault. If I hadn't brought me troubles here⁠—"

"Then me son would still be turning intae the kind of cold, calculating man this clan thinks it needs," Niamh interrupted. "And that would be a tragedy beyond measure."

"But if the Council daesnae trust him⁠—"

"Then he needs tae prove them wrong. But more than that, he needs tae remember who he is beneath all their expectations." Niamh reached over and covered Iona's hand with her own. "He'll talk tae ye about it in his own time, dear. Ruaridh isn't one tae share his burdens easily."

"And in the meantime, I'm supposed tae watch him tear himself apart?"

"In the meantime, ye're supposed tae be the woman who makes him remember why having a heart is a strength, nae a weakness."

An hour later, Iona stood outside the door to Ruaridh's study, her stomach churning with nervous energy. She'd tried to follow Niamh's advice about giving him time, but three days of watching him retreat deeper into himself was more than she could bear.

She knocked once, briefly, then pushed the door open before he could refuse her entry.

Ruaridh sat behind a massive oak desk, surrounded by ledgers and documents. His dark hair fell across his forehead, and she could see the exhaustion etched in every line of his face.

"I'm busy, Iona," he said without looking up.

"Nay, ye're hiding," she corrected, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. "And I'm tired of pretending that's normal."

"I have work tae dae⁠—"

"Work that can wait five minutes fer ye tae talk tae yer wife." She moved closer to the desk, noting the way his hands stilled on the papers. "What happened in that council meeting?"