Page 77 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

"The man ye're becoming," she said eventually, "the one I see when yer walls come down—he's worth every moment of patience it took tae find him."

"And the woman ye are," he replied, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, "strong enough tae fight fer herself, brave enough tae trust again—she's worth every wall I've had tae tear down."

The water was cooling now, but neither of them seemed inclined to move. There in that intimate space, wrapped in warmth and honest words, they had found something precious—not just physical comfort, but the kind of deep understanding that came from sharing the darkest parts of themselves and finding acceptance instead of judgment.

When they finally rose from the bath, Iona felt different somehow. Lighter. As if speaking the truth aloud had lifted a weight she'd been carrying for so long she'd forgotten what it felt like to stand straight.

Days later, the rain had not lessened. Iona moved to the window where it streaked the glass in endless rivulets.

"Four days now," she said. "I've never seen it come down like this fer so long."

Ruaridh looked up from the letter he'd been drafting to the king, his quill paused mid-sentence. "Aye, it's unusual even fer the Highlands. If this keeps up⁠—"

A sharp knock at their door interrupted him. "Enter," he called.

Duncan pushed through, his face grim. "Me laird, we've got trouble. The village⁠—"

"What about the village?" Iona turned from the window, alarm prickling along her spine.

"The Burn of Sorrows has overflowed its banks. Half the cottages are flooded, and the bridge to the mill has washed out completely." Duncan's weathered hands twisted his cap. "We've got families with nowhere tae go and livestock drowning in the fields."

"Christ." Ruaridh was already rising, the letter forgotten. "How many displaced?"

"Twenty families, maybe more. And me laird..." Duncan's expression grew darker. "Old Henry MacCreed's cottage collapsed in the night. His wife and bairns got out, but they lost everything."

Iona felt her heart clench. She'd met Hamish's wife just last week—a gentle woman with three young children and another on the way. "Are they hurt?"

"Nay, thank God. But they're homeless and frightened, and with this rain showing nay signs of stopping..." Duncan shrugged helplessly.

"Ready the horses," Ruaridh commanded, already moving toward his sword belt. "And gather whatever dry blankets and food stores we can spare."

"Ruaridh." Iona caught his arm as he passed. "I'm coming with ye."

"Iona, the roads will be treacherous⁠—"

"These people are going tae be me people," she said firmly, lifting her chin in a way he'd learned to recognize. "If I'm tae be lady of this castle someday, I need their respect. And I cannae earn that hiding behind stone walls while they suffer."

He studied her face for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Aye. Ye’re right. Duncan, saddle Storm and Moonbeam. And send word tae the kitchens—we'll need hot broth and bread fer whoever needs it."

"Already done, me laird. Cook's been preparing since before dawn."

An hour later, they rode through the castle gates into a world transformed by water. What had once been familiar paths were now treacherous streams of mud, and the normally placid burn that meandered through the valley had become a raging torrent that had claimed everything in its path.

"Sweet Mary," Iona breathed, taking in the devastation spread before them.

Where the village had stood, half the cottages were reduced to soggy piles of thatch and timber. Those still standing bore the muddy watermarks of flooding that had reached nearly to their roofs. Everywhere she looked, families huddled together with whatever possessions they'd managed to save—which in most cases was little more than the clothes on their backs.

Ruaridh dismounted first, immediately moving to help an elderly man who was struggling with a heavy sack of salvaged belongings. Even in the midst of crisis, he moved with that careful strength she'd come to know so well.

"Me lady!" A voice called out, and Iona turned to see Moira, the baker's wife, wading through ankle-deep mud toward them. "We didnae ken what tae dae, where tae go⁠—"

"Ye're going tae be fine," Iona said, dismounting immediately and moving to grasp the woman's hands. "We're here tae help. Tell me—who needs shelter most urgently?"

"Over there, me lady. Their wee ones are soaked through, and the baby's been coughing something fierce." Moira gestured toward a cluster of people huddled beneath a makeshift lean-to. "And the old widow over there—her cottage is gone completely, and she's got naewhere⁠—"

"Duncan," Iona called, her voice carrying the authority she'd been learning to wield. "Take the MacCreeds back tae the castle immediately. Put them in the spare chamber for guests and see that they have dry clothes and hot food."

"Aye, me lady."