Page 39 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
Ian was ready instantly, his hand gripping the door latch so hard his knuckles turned white. “Rhona?”
No answer.
“Rhona, are ye all right?”
When she still didn’t respond, Ian pushed open the door, grateful that she had forgotten to lock it, and stepped inside. What he saw made his heart clench with sympathy and rage in equal measure.
Rhona lay tangled in her bedclothes, her face pale with sweat and her body rigid with terror, even in deep sleep. She was making small, desperate sounds – words too broken by fear to be understood, but clearly the product of some waking nightmare.
“Nay… please… cannae breathe… so cold and dark… let me out…”
Ian approached the bed slowly, his heart breaking at the raw terror in her voice. “Rhona,” he said gently, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “Ye’re safe. Ye’re nae there anymore.”
She jerked away from his touch with a cry of terror, her eyes flying open but seeing nothing of the present. “Nay! Dinnae touch me! Please, I’ll be quiet, I’ll–”
“Rhona. Look at me.” Ian caught her hands gently but firmly, anchoring her to the present. “Ye’re nae in the dungeon. Ye’re in yer chamber and ye’re safe.”
It took several minutes for recognition to dawn in her eyes, for the horror to slowly ebb and be replaced by mortification. She snatched her hands from his gasp, turning away as if ashamed to be seen in such a vulnerable state.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didnae mean tae.. ye shouldnae have…”
“Dinnae apologize.” Ian’s voice was rough with emotion. “Ye have naethin’ tae be sorry fer.”
“’Twas just a dream…”
Ian studied her trembling form, noting the way she clutched the bedclothes like armor and the haunted look that lingered in her eyes even now. He’d seen this look before – in soldiers fresh from their first brutal campaign, men who’d watched their brothers fall beside them. The telltale signs were unmistakable: the way her words had been so specific, the terror rooted in something far too real for mere imagination. Years of warfare had taught him to recognize when someone was fighting ghosts that couldn’t be banished by the simple act of waking.
“Or was it a memory?”
The question hung between them, heavy with implication. Rhona’s silence was answer enough.
“How often?” Ian asked quietly.
“Every night,” she admitted, so softly he almost missed it.
The confession hit him like a blade between the ribs. For weeks she’d been reliving her captivity in dreams, fighting battles he couldn’t protect her from. And she’d been suffering in silence, too damn proud to show weakness to her captors.
“Ye shouldnae be alone with this,” he said somberly.
“I’m fine–”
“Nay, ye’re nae.” Ian’s voice was gentle but implacable. “And there’s nye shame in that. What happened tae ye… nay one should have tae bear that alone.”
Rhona looked at him then, really looked, and something in her expression shifted. It was almost as if the walls she’d built around herself wavered visibly, as if his simple acceptance of her pain had somehow made it safe to lower her guard.
“I keep thinkin’ I’m back there,” she whispered desperately. “In the cold. In the dark, with the walls closin’ in on me… sometimes I wake up and fer a moment, I cannae remember where I am.”
“But ye’re here now,” Ian said softly. “In a warm, comfortable room with a proper bed and air tae breathe. Ye’re safe.”
She nodded, though he could see the effort it cost her to believe it.
“Would it helped if I stayed?” The offer slipped out before he could consider the propriety of it. “Just until ye fall asleep again?”
Rhona’s eyes widened in surprise, and for a second, Ian thought she would refuse. Then, so quietly he almost missed it, she said, “Aye. I think it might.”
Ian settled into the chair beside her bed, close enough that she could see him in the dim light but far enough to preserve her modesty. “Try tae rest now, lass. I’ll keep watch over ye.”
“Ye dinnae have tae–”
