Page 58 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
“That’s yer mama, isn’t it wee dove?” she murmured, brushing a gentle hand through his dark hair. Her fingers trembled slightly as she smoothed away the tangles, and she marveled at how something so simple – the touch of a child’s hair – could make her feel such a fierce protectiveness. The child’s head lifted at the familiar voice, hope flickering in his wide eyes like candlelight in a dark room.
Ian stepped closer, his presence solid and reassuring beside her. She could feel the warmth radiating from his body and the smellthat clung to him – a smell that was becoming dangerously familiar and alarmingly comforting. The hard lines of battle-fury had faded from his face, replaced now by something gentler – though no less intense. When their eyes met, she felt that same jolt of awareness that had struck her when she’d launched herself into his arms.
What the hell were ye thinkin’?The memory of her impulsive embrace still burned her cheeks like the summer sun. If she closed her eyes she could still feel the solid strength of his chest against hers and the way his arms had encircled her with such natural certainty, as if she belonged there. The thought sent a peculiar heat spiraling through her belly that had absolutely nothing to do with embarrassment.
“Let’s find his parents,” Ian said simply, but his voice carried an undertone that made her pulse quicken. There was a gentleness that she was becoming to recognize, and a tenderness that seemed reserved for moments like these. It was a far cry from the commanding voice he used with his men, softer, more intimate.
“Thomas!” the cry came again, closer now, threaded with a mother’s worst nightmare.
“Here!” Rhona called back, raising her voice to carry across the village square. “He’s here! He’s safe!” The words tore from her throat with surprising force, and she realized how desperately she had needed this – to reunite him with his family, to heal at least one wound in a day that had seen too much violence.
The response was instantaneous – running footsteps pounding against packed earth, more voices joining the first like a chorus of relief. Within seconds, a woman burst around the corner of a cottage, her face pale and her eyes wild with terror. Her hair had come loose from its braid, streaming behind her like a banner made of maternal desperation. Her skirts were torn, her hands bloody from searching through debris, but none of that mattered now.
“Thomas!” she sobbed, falling to her knees as they boy broke free from Rhona’s skirts and ran toward her with the desperate speed of a child finding safety. “Oh me sweet wee laddie! I thought… I thought…” The words broke off in a sob that seemed to come from the very depths of her soul, and Rhona blinked, feeling tears prick her eyes at the raw emotion.
The raw emotion of the reunion touched Rhona deeply. She watched the mother’s hands shake as she gathered her child close, saw the way her entire body trembled with the aftershocks of terror and relief. The mother’s tears dripped on the boy’s hair, and her whispered endearments in Gaelic created a cocoon around them both. It was both beautiful and heartbreaking – a reminder of what truly mattered in this harsh world they inhabited. A man appeared – the boy’s father – and his own relief was evident in the way his hands shook as he reached out toward his son. His face was streaked with tears but he made no attempt to hide them. “Me wee warrior,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “Me brave wee laddie.”
“Thank ye,” the woman said through her tears, looking up at Rhona as if she were seeing an angel. “Thank ye fer keepin’ him safe, me lady. When the raiders came and we couldnae findhim…” she shuddered, unable to finish the sentence that would have named her worst fear. The gratitude was so profound, so overwhelming that it humbled Rhona.
This is what really matters,nae clan politics or ancient feuds, but the simple, precious bonds between people who love each other.
“Anyone would have done the same,” Rhona replied, though she felt Ian’s gaze on her like a touch of fire.
“Nay,” the father said firmly, rising to his feet with his son safely cradled in his arms. “Nae every woman would have risked her life fer a child that wasnae her own. What ye did takes real courage, me lady.” His voice carried the certainty of a man who had seen enough of life to know the difference between those who acted and those who merely watched.
Rhona’s cheeks flared again under the praise. “I was terrified the entire time.” The admission came out in a rush of breath, and she was surprised by the honesty of it. She rarely showed such vulnerability, but something about this moment demanded nothing less than absolute truth.
“Courage isnae the absence of fear, lass,” Ian commented quietly, his voice carrying a note that made her look at him sharply. “’Tis actin’ in spite of it.”
His words resonated through her like the deep toll of a church bell, and she found herself searching his face for something she couldn’t quite name. Understanding, perhaps, or recognitionof something shared. Their eyes met and held for a moment longer than was entirely proper, and Rhona felt something shift between them like tectonic plates finding new alignment. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with an energy that made her breath catch. It was as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them, standing there in the midst of chaos and mayhem – discovering something steady, something real.
“Would ye stay fer a meal?” the mother asked, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “The least we can dae is feed ye.” Her voice was stronger now, steadied by the solid weight of safety and relief.
Ian’s gaze flitted back to Rhona with what almost looked like a question. As if her comfort, her need, what she wanted mattered more than his own convenience.
“Aye. We’d be honored.” She found herself saying, surprising them both.
The community came together with the sort of efficiency that spoke of people who had weathered many storms together. Women emerged from cottages with baskets filled with food, while the men cleared the debris – their movements purposeful despite the day’s earlier chaos.
The impromptu feast that followed transformed the village square into something akin to a celebration. Tables appeared as if summoned by magic, groaning under the weight of bread and cheese, roasted fowl and fresh vegetables. But what struck Rhona most was watching Ian as he moved among the villagers.
He moved with an easy grace that spoke of a man comfortable in his own skin, pausing to help an elderly gentleman to his seat, listening intently to a young woman’s concerns about her injured husband. There was no ceremony in his interactions, no distance – just a laird who intimately cared for his people.
She’d heard enough stories about Douglas Wallace to know the difference between the two men. It was like trying to compare winter to summer. Where the previous laird had ruled through fear, keeping his distance except when collecting taxes or enforcing his will, Ian listened. He remembered names. He asked about families and settled disputes with the patience of a man who genuinely cared about the outcome. Every gesture, each movement reinforced what she was beginning to understand.
He leads nae from fear or tradition or power, but from genuine love fer his clan.
“Me laird,” an elderly woman approached their table, her weathered face creased with gratitude. Her steps were low, but determined, and Rhona noticed the way the other villagers eyed her with respect. This was clearly a woman whose opinions carried weight in the community. “I wanted tae thank ye fer what ye did today. Me grandson was one of the lads defendin’ the grain stores when ye arrived. He said ye fought with the power of ten men, all by yerself.” Her voice carried the pride of a woman who had raised warriors herself.
Ian’s neck reddened slightly. “The lads held the line. They’re the true heroes.” His discomfort with praise was evident in the wayhe shifted in his seat, his hands fidgeting with his ale cup. It was endearing, this humility from a man who could have easily claimed all the glory for himself.
“Och, aye, but they’re breathin’ because ye came when ye did.” The woman’s sharp eyes shifted to Rhona with unmistakable approval. “And this bonnie lass – protectin’ wee Thomas like that. Ye make a fine pair.”
Rhona nearly choked on her ale. “We’re nae–” the protest died on her lips as heat flooded her cheeks. The woman’s knowing smile suggested she saw right through any denial, and Rhona found herself floundering for words that wouldn’t come.
“The lady’s a guest of Clan Wallace,” Ian said smoothly, but something in his tone made the elderly woman smile like a cat who’d found cream. His voice was carefully neutral, but Rhona caught the slight tensioning around his eyes.
“Och, of course, me laird.” The woman’s eyes twinkled with mischief. She let the words simmer before shuffling away with a wink and obvious satisfaction. Her departure left an awkward silence in her wake, and Rhona could feel the curious glances of other villagers who had overheard the exchange.
