If You Ask Me To: A Highland Romance - Book 3

Chapter 1

If You Ask Me To

A Highland Romance Book 3

J. Adams

Copyright © 2015 Jewel Adams

All Rights Reserved.

Opposition comes to us all from time to time, and some of those times are worse than others. The question, "Why me?" slips through the lips like a sprinter taking off at the starting line when he hears the whistle sound. It's reflex.

But why ask a question that there is no answer to? And if there is an answer, are we ready to hear it? Do we really want to? The better question would be, "What am I going to do now?"

I'm still trying to figure that one out.

One

Bountiful, Utah

"Ye canna call it off! I won't let you!"

"I can't marry you, Ian. Not now."

"Give me one good reason why?"

"Look at me! Everything is different now. I'm not the woman you fell in love with."

"Ye are, Yvonne. I'll always love you and that's no goin' to change." Kneeling before my chair he grips my hands. "Do ye think this matters ta me? You think this changes how I feel about you?"

I blink against the tears filling my eyes. "How can it not?"

Releasing my hands, he leans back on his haunches and folds his massive arms across his broad chest. "What if 'twas me? Would ye not want to marry me? Would ye stop loving me?"

As the ticking of the clock on the mantle above the fireplace swells in the silence, I stare into his eyes a moment before slowly moving my gaze over the ruggedly-handsome features I have grown to know and love so well. His golden blond hair is streaked with red highlights and pulled back in a short ponytail. The neatly-trimmed beard covering his chiseled jawline is a shade darker, and redder, than his hair, framing full lips that have bestowed a thousand kisses upon my own. Thick brows frame the sea-green eyes that stare at me intently, and muscles bulge and flex in the arms that have warmed, sheltered and comforted me when I have needed them most.

Standing at six-foot-two in a weathered kilt and loose off-white shirt, Ian McLeod looks like a Norse god, like a Scottish warrior from a different time. But kneeling before me now, it is the love of a warrior that shines through his eyes, a love that will not be denied. He became my best friend the moment I met him when I visited my two sisters in Scotland a year ago, the same moment he claimed that I captured his heart. He had asked me to stay in Scotland, but I couldn't leave my mother alone here in the states. So Ian followed me. I hadn't asked him to, he simply did. He had said to me, "I love ye, woman, and I'll not be letting you take me heart away without followin'." I muse that, just like my sisters, I fell in love with a younger man, three years my junior, but inside, Ian carries an old soul and is far wiser than his years.

We had planned to marry and he was willing to make a life with me here in America. He was born in raised in Inveraray, had lived there all his life, establishing a brilliant career as a police officer, yet he'd been willing to leave Scotland behind, for me. As Mama said to me then, "Girl, that's love." Ian turned in his notice at work, packed his bags, closed up his house, shared an emotional goodbye with his parents and sister, and came to the states, promising his family, and mine, that we would return to Scotland one day.

Then the accident happened.

Six months ago on an early January morning, I was taking Mama to a doctor's appointment. The roads were icy due to a light snow the night before, prompting me to drive carefully. A truck was coming through the intersection. As he swerved into our lane to avoid an even bigger truck, I knew impact was inevitable.

A week later I awakened in the hospital, having lost my mother, and missing both my legs below the knees. The doctor said Mama died instantly and didn't suffer. He told me my legs were crushed and beyond saving.

Adia and Audrey had flown in from Scotland with their families and had already taken care of Mama's burial. For days, Ian held me as I cried, shedding tears of sorrow with me. Though he ached for the loss of Mama, he said he thanked God all day every day that he hadn't lost me.

But he didn't understand, he had lost me. The tall statuesque body that others had openly admired – earning a low growl from Ian whenever we were out together – was gone. Fate had snatched that perfect body away, leaving me broken, both inside and out.

It has been six months and Ian is still waiting. And because he made me promise, the engagement ring has never come off. Having sold the condo I shared with Mama in Salt Lake City, I now live with Ian in the home he purchased for us when he first came. The moment we saw the three-bedroom, Cape Cod-style home in Bountiful, we knew it was meant for us. He'd had a patient-lift track system installed in my bedroom (the master bedroom we had planned to eventually share) that led to the master bath, so I have been able to take care of my personal needs without help. I get everywhere else in the house with the chair, minus going up and down the stairs, in which case, Ian carries me.

His gravelly brogue draws my thoughts back to the present.

"Would ye stop loving me?" he repeats.

"No Ian," I finally answer. "I would never stop loving you, no matter what."

"Why not?" he asks softly.

I begrudgingly answer, "Because it wouldn't change who you are." I hold up a hand to stop him from speaking. "But that's just it. It would be easy for me to feel that way because it wasn't me, but you would feel completely different if you were in my place."

He heaves a frustrated sigh and tugs at the elastic holding his hair in place, freeing the silky locks and combing a hand through it before gently taking my arms in his hands. "I know it would take me time to adjust if it had been me that lost my legs, but I also know I love ye too much to ever push you away. Emotionally, 'twould be hard, aye, but I would still be wantin' ye near." Swallowing hard, he presses a hand to my face and whispers, "Please, darlin', don't push me away. Ye're my best friend, and everything I could ever want. I need ye to be my wife. I want ta be yer husband, to love and care for you, the same as before."

"But Ian, things aren't the same as before. It can't be the same. I can't be a proper wife to you. I don't even know if I can have a child, and I don't want you to grow to resent me." My voice breaks.

"That willna happen, Yvonne." He shakes me slightly. "You will not be in this chair forever. The doctor said in another month or so, you can start wearing prosthetics and walk again. And he said ye still may have children. But even if we can't have any babes of our own, it willna stop me from loving you. I don't know how to make ye believe I will never leave you. But ye must give me the chance to prove it to you, and I willna take no for an answer." He moves closer, brushing his lips against mine, the sweetness of his kiss combined with his passionate words undoing me. "Ye're mine, woman," he murmurs against my cheek, his mustache and beard tickling my skin. "Ye're mine and I'll never let you go." His mouth passionately takes mine again. "I need ye, mo chridhe. I need you sharing me bed at night, holding ye close to me, with no walls separating us. 'Tis been long enough. Say you're mine. Say ye will marry me."

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I hold him closer, closing my eyes at the feel of his fingers in my hair, his lips on my cheek.

"I'm yours," I finally answer, giving in, unable to deny him any longer. "I will marry you."