Page 57 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
She’s alive. She’s safe.
And from the sound of her voice, she was unharmed.
“Stand back from the door!” he commanded, then turned to his warriors. “Help me move this cart!”
It took six large men working together to shift the heavy wooden vehicle, their combined strength finally rolling it away from the door. Ian’s hands shook as he lifted the heavy bar and pulled the door open, revealing the dim interior of the storage facility.
And there she was.
Rhona stood in the center of the small space, her red hair disheveled and her dress torn, but her eyes were bright with lifeand determination. In her arms, she held a small boy – Thomas MacTavish, Ian realized – who was clinging to her like she was the only solid thing in a world gone mad.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other across the threshold. Then, as if released from a spell, Rhona was moving toward him, her face transformed by relief and joy.
“Ian!” she cried, and before he could react, she was throwing herself into his arms with such force that he staggered backward. The child was caught between them, but Rhona didn’t seem to care as she pressed her face against Ian’s chest, her body shaking with emotion.
Ian’s arms locked around her automatically, holding her close as something inside his chest loosened for the first time since he’d learned of the attack. She was safe. She was whole. She was in his arms, warm and alive and real.
For a long moment, they simply held one another, the rest of the world fading away until there was nothing but the feel of her against him, the scent of her hair, the incredible relief of knowing she was unharmed.
Then, as if suddenly realizing what she was doing, Rhona stiffened in his arms. Her hand, which had been clutching desperately at his shirt, slowly loosened its grip, and she began to pull away with the careful precision of someone who’d just realized they were standing on the edge of a cliff.
“I… fergive me,” she said, her cheeks flushing red as highland roses. “I didnae mean tae… that is, I was just…” she stepped back another pace, her arms tightening around the child she still held. “Thank ye fer comin’. We were… we were afraid nay one would find us.”
Ian stood frozen in place, his arms still extended where she’d pulled away from him, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. She’d run to him. When she’d seen him, when she’d realized she was safe, her first instinct had been to throw herself into his arms like… like…
Like a lass greetin’ the man she loves after battle.
The thought hit him with the force of a physical blow. Not gratitude to her rescuer. Not relief at being saved. But something deeper, more primal. The instinctive response of a woman who’d feared for her life – and his – and found salvation in the arms of the man who mattered to her.
But now, she was backing away. Her eyes were wide with something that almost looked like panic. As if she, too, had realized the significance of what had just transpired between them. As if she also understood that in that moment of desperate relief, they’d both revealed far more than either had intended.
The silence stretched between them like a bowstring drawn taut, filled with unspoken words and dangerous possibilities. Around them, the sounds of the village returning to normality seemed to fade into insignificance compared to the thundering of Ian’s heart.
-
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Thomas! Thomas, where are yemo chridhe?”
The desperate cry cut through the afternoon air, and Rhona felt her heart clench as she recognized the voice of a frantic mother. The sound carried the raw desperation that only a parent could emit – a primal keening that spoke of a love deeper than Highland lochs and fear sharper than any blade. She looked down at the small boy still clinging to her skirts, his face streaked with tears and dirt.
