by Tracy Brogan
“Thank you, Ruby. I can finish the rest.”
“Yes, m’lady. Is something amiss?”
Fiona managed a smile. “Everything is fine,” she lied. “But my head aches a bit, and I should like to be alone.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Ruby bobbed into her clumsy version of a curtsy and left, pulling the door shut behind her with a final thud.
Fiona sat down at the dressing table and picked up the brush, running it through her hair. Then she set it back down and ran her fingers through her locks instead, slowly, like a lover might, and once again, her body hummed with want. Her eyes closed, and for a few luscious moments, she let herself imagine how her life might have been if she’d married for love instead of obligation.
What joy would it bring to be stroked by a man who adored her? Who cherished and respected her? A man whose kisses made her heart pound and her legs tremble and fall open. Though she tried and tried to conjure some imaginary knight, her every vision was interrupted by the image of Myles’s face. She could see his smile and his eyes, could feel his hands. And his mouth. She pressed her fingers against her lips, as if she could taste him there. Cursed man. He’d robbed her of both her virginity and her identity. Now he’d stolen her thoughts as well.
She stood up fast from the table, knocking over the chair her haste. She left it there, like a sulking child, and stomped over to the bed, blowing out every candle on the way, until the room was nearly pitch with darkness. Only the red glow coming from the fireplace remained. She climbed beneath the covers with a sigh as heavy as her heart and prayed for sleep.
Sometime later, a scratching near the door disturbed her fitful slumber. The fire was low, the room was dark, and sounds from the hall below had faded away to nothing. She guessed it to be near midnight. The door eased open and in came a great hulking shape. She thought at once to yell, but the beast passed between the bed and fireplace, and she could see it was a man. She might have demanded his identity, but the brute’s foot caught the overturned chair, and he fell with such a clamor and commotion and a torrent of scandalous obscenities she knew at once it was her husband.
CHAPTER 25
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” his wife demanded, as if his presence needed explanation.
“’Tis my chamber!” he growled. His knee throbbed as if a cannonball had ripped through it, but worse than that, something had struck his face, and even now, he felt the sticky ooze of blood coming from his nose. “God, woman, had I known you set a trap, I’d have brought a light.”
He’d been in the hall with Robert and Tavish, reminiscing about the past and strategizing about the future, until at last he’d had his fill of wine and his brother’s stories. So he had bid the men good evening, and for the first time in four nights, he sought his own chamber. He’d been sleeping in Robert’s lately, hoping his absence might stir some tender feelings within his wife. But Robert was home now, and Myles had decided enough was enough. She was his wife, and whether she found joy in that or not, he’d be sleeping next to her from this day forth.
All through dinner, he’d hoped to soften her with his attention. And still she would not make the invitation. Now he found himself upon the rug, clenching his teeth against the throbbing in his knee and holding a hand to stem the flood from his nostrils.
“Had I known you were coming, I’d have set the chair to rights,” she said.
Christ, the girl had the nerve to sound indignant. ’Twas such a gift she had, making every sentence smack of accusation.
“Could you light a candle, please?” He strove to keep his voice mellow, and failed.
Nonetheless, he heard her leave the bed, and soon a flint sparked. The meager light of one lone candle, added to the dim fire, created shadows about the chamber.
“Are you hurt?” she had the decency to inquire. “’Twas an awful clatter.”
“I am fine.”
Fiona came closer then, the flickering light casting an otherworldly glow upon her translucent skin. She’d left her hair unbound and was wearing a white linen nightdress. A modest garment, yet one that set his blood to pounding. The throb moved from his kneecap to his groin.
She leaned closer and gasped. “Good heavens, Myles, you’re bleeding.” She set the candle upon the table and quickly lit a few more. She threw a log onto the fire. Then she disappeared into the garderobe for a moment before returning with some cloth.
“Here, sit in the chair. Let me see.”
He let her pull him up and to the seat. “’Tis my nose. I must’ve struck it on the chair’s leg.”
She moved the candles closer and poured water from a pitcher into a basin, dipping in the cloth. “Tip your head back. Move your hand.”
“You’re a bossy wench.”
“You’re a bleeding sot. Now, move your hand, I said.”
He let her minister to him, surprised at the gentleness of her touch compared to the harsh tone of her words. He’d not complain at that, though, for when she bent over, he could see her breasts bobbing free inside the white linen. He swallowed again and wished the candlelight were brighter and her neckline more willing. If he reached up just now, he could fill his palms with her flesh. The thought shot straight to his bollocks. Even so, his hands were spotted with his blood, and so he kept them in his lap, out of trouble and covering the evidence of his burgeoning arousal.
“Do you think it’s broken?” she asked.
Thinking only of his cock, he uttered, “What?”
“Your nose. Do you think you’ve broken it?”
“Oh. I doubt it, though it hurts like the devil.” He pressed his index fingers to the bridge, wiggling it.
Fiona dipped the cloth into the basin once more, then wrung it out. She pressed it to his nostrils. “Here, hold this against your nose.”
He did as she’d instructed and tried to hide his surprise when she took his other hand and began to wipe it with a second damp cloth. He could have just as easily dipped it into the basin, but he didn’t say so. ’Twas far too pleasant having her tend to him.
She did one hand and then the other, her brows pinched together in concentration as she stroked his palms, letting the moisture of the cloth clean away the crimson stains. She seemed more thorough than necessary, but still he held his tongue.
Then she wiped each finger from base to tip, slow and sure, and he thought he might die from the motion of it, as if he had ten little cocks each straining beneath the warm friction of her hands and the wetness of the cloth. She teased him without knowing. Christ, how he wanted her.
His hands were big. So much bigger than her own, and rough with calluses and scars. Not beautiful or soft, not the hands of leisure, and yet she found herself mesmerized by the strength and thickness of his palms, the sturdy bend of each finger and the signet ring declaring him a Campbell. Such hands were made for brandishing a sword and vanquishing a foe. Killing hands. And yet, she knew them to be gentle too when he’d touched her face at the inn or cut the ties from her wrists. Or when he held her hand at dinner. It made no sense that such brawny, well-worn hands could touch her with such delicacy. Yet she knew they could.
She wiped away the final bit of blood and peeked at his face. His head was tilted back, his eyes pinched closed. The injury must be causing him immense pain, for perspiration beaded on his forehead and his breathing was uneven. She noticed the pulse beating rapidly along the cord of his throat.
She let go of his hand and it fell, wrapping into a fist. She rinsed the cloth once more, wringing it out and exchanging it with the one his other hand pressed against his face. He opened his eyes and looked up at her in such a peculiar way, she thought for a moment he must be light-headed. Seeing their own blood did do that to some men, although he did not seem the woozy type.
“Are you well?” she asked again.
He tipped his head forward and pulled away the cloth. Scant traces of blood flecked it. He sniffed. “I think I’m fine.”
“Well, put your head back and give it another moment
.”
His brows knit. “No, I’m fine. But you’re a little worse for wear.” He nodded toward her torso, and she looked down to find her nightdress damp with pink-tinged water from the basin. It clung to her belly, and she shivered, suddenly noticing the coolness of the room.
“You should change.” His voice was gruff, and she could not imagine why, except that he was cross. This was her doing after all. Had she not left the chair tipped over on the floor, he’d not have fallen. She supposed she should apologize. ’Twas the bigger thing, after all, to admit when you were wrong.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes narrowed. “For which part?”
“For leaving the chair in your way. What else have I to apologize for?”
He stared at her for so long she wondered once again if he’d been dealt too hard a blow, and then he chuckled, a hollow sound with no humor in it. “What, indeed. Get yourself cleaned up, Fiona. I can manage for myself now.”
His dismissal wounded her. She had tended him most gently, and now he seemed peevish. Leaving the chair in his path had been an accident. And why should she think he’d be wandering about in the dark of this room when he had not been here for days?
She strode into the garderobe and snatched another nightdress from the peg. Thanks be to God she had a second one of the sturdy linen. She’d not parade back out there with nothing but that sheer bit of ridiculousness. She pulled off her damp garment and quickly donned the other, tying the ribbon at the neckline as tightly as she could manage.
She heard Myles in the other room, emptying the basin and adding wood to the fire. It seemed he planned to stay, and so she had no choice but to reenter the chamber. Setting her chin, she walked back in and headed for the bed.
“Come sit here a moment.” He pointed to the chair next to the hearth.
She hesitated, until he said, “Please. I’ve something to give you.”
A scolding no doubt, but still she sat down as instructed.
“Wait here a moment.” He strode into the garderobe and was back moments later. He knelt down by her knees, and his supplicant posture stole her breath. He handed her a red velvet pouch.
Her heart skipped, like a stone over the surface of a loch, until plunging deep beneath the murky surface.
“What is it?” she asked.
He chuckled at her unease. “You’re a suspicious lass, aren’t you? ’Tis nothing venomous, I promise. Open the bag.”
She untied the cord and tipped the pouch, curiosity rippling through her. A gold-and-emerald necklace tumbled to her lap. She recognized the piece at once. ’Twas the one she’d admired when with Alyssa. She reached out but did not touch it.
“How did you know?” For a foolish moment, she wondered if a pendant such as this might be enchanted.
“My spies are everywhere,” he answered, then chuckled when she did not smile. “The smith informed me when I passed his shop, but I was pleased to buy it for you. I thought to give it to you sooner but...but I was annoyed with you.”
She looked into his eyes. “And now you are not?” He was an oddity.
Her husband took a deep, slow breath. “I am still annoyed. But I also realize you lost much when we left your trunks on the roadside, and I mean to see those items replaced. But more than that, Fiona, you’ve left behind your family and your home. And although you ran, and fight me still, you’ve never cowered. I respect that, even while I wish you’d stop.”
“Stop?”
“Stop fighting me.” His voice held a hint of pleading, but just a hint.
Her breath went misty in her lungs. “Why this change in your manner? You’ve barely seen me for days.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps my brother’s return has stirred in me a new understanding.”
“A new understanding. Or a jealousy?” ’Twas a bold question, but she’d know the truth. If she was to be a pawn between them, best she know now.
He shook his head and gave a rueful smile. “I have no reason to be jealous of my brother. Robert annoys me too, as often as he pleases, but if fate should separate me from him, I would suffer for it. And I wonder if you suffer at the loss of your sister’s company. I would ease that burden, were there a way.”
Tears of surprise stung her eyes. ’Twas the first time he’d acknowledged that her coming here was anything other than her honor and a blessing she should cherish. To admit she’d made some sacrifice went far toward her forgiveness of him for being a wretched Campbell.
She picked up the necklace. It was the finest she’d ever seen. Far more expensive than any item stowed away in one of those trunks. She held it up, and the candlelight bounced off its links and danced around the walls. Enchanted, indeed.
“Thank you, Myles. It’s lovely.” She could not prevent the hitch in her voice.
He smiled. “Not so lovely as it shall be upon your neck. May I put it on for you?”
Ah, she should refuse this gift bought with Campbell wealth, riches gained at the loss of lesser clans like her own. But she wanted nothing more than to put it on and gaze into the mirror. She turned in the chair, and he stood up. She pulled her hair aside and held it as he positioned the chain, bringing the ends of it behind her.
He fumbled for a moment. “This clasp is made for daintier fingers than mine.”
She imagined those fingers just then, the ones she had just stroked clean, and pressed her legs together tightly beneath her nightdress.
At last, he was successful in linking the necklace. He rested his hands briefly upon her shoulders, giving them the slightest squeeze. She let loose her hair and it fell against his forearms in a whoosh. She heard his breath expel.
She turned to face him, running her own fingers along the fine metalwork. “How does it look?”
“Stunning. Look for yourself.” He reached over and pulled a hand mirror from the table, and then knelt before her once more, holding it aloft so she might peer at her reflection.
Her cheeks were warm, and she could not hold back a smile. “’Tis too dark in here. I wager you cannot even see it.”
“I can. It glimmers against your skin like gold dust.”
She reached out to adjust the mirror he held. Her hand brushed against his, and she felt a great jolt, as if their hearts aligned to beat in rhythm.
She glanced into the glass for a scant second, noticing the gold and the emerald and the glow of her skin. But it was the heat in her eyes that captured her own attention. They were wide and dark in the dim chamber, and it was not the necklace that made them so. She looked to Myles, and he set the mirror aside, his own eyes full of longing.
She wanted to despise him. ’Twas her Sinclair duty to do so. But she had tried, and it was too hard. His presence muddled her thoughts and clarified her desire. He had awakened in her a knowing that could not be unlearned. Her husband wasn’t cruel or harsh or wicked or any of the things she’d thought all Campbells were. Instead, he was kind, and patient, and generous, and sincere. And he asked for little more than for her to be his wife in every way.
“’Tis a fine gift,” she murmured.
Had he reached out just then and touched her, she would have slid into his arms, for she understood now how a blossom turned toward the sun. Her body seemed pulled in his direction, primed for his kiss and his plunder. But he did not reach out. He kept his hands to himself. His pride was as great as hers.
He clenched his fists, the need to touch her like a wave pushing him in her direction. But he resisted, for he wanted her to lean his way instead.
“I meant no disrespect by keeping my sister a secret,” she said at his continued silence. “I think you would have taken care had you wed her instead. But I was frightened. I didn’t know you then.”
He pondered this a moment and saw a weakening in her defenses. “And do you know me now?”
“A little. Enough to know you are not cruel.”
A compliment coming from her.
She was lovely in the fire
light, staring back at him with those long-lashed eyes. She’d left her hair unbound. He could not resist. He moved his hand and twined a lock around his finger. She did not move or voice objection. From her, that might be as much an invitation as he could hope for. And if all the sons of Scotland waited for their wives to offer, his kin would die away, and his homeland would overrun with dirty English.
“’Tis you who is cruel,” he teased gently. “To tempt me with your smiles and still refuse my kiss.”
She stared a long moment, unsmiling. “You have not offered one in days.”
His breath caught high in his throat, and his manhood sprang up with optimism.
She was sitting straight upright in the chair as he knelt before her. Her hair was silk ribbons. He twined a second curl with the first. “No, I haven’t. You must ask, remember?”
She gave a delectable sigh of impatience, and he very nearly pulled her face to his to end this stubborn madness. But she fell back against the chair’s cushion and looked to the fire, pressing her thumb against her lips. Her hair had pulled from his fingertips as she moved away. He sensed the Sinclair warrior within her battling against her woman’s desire.
He reached down and ran his hands up along the back of her calves, inching her nightgown up as well.
“Stop that,” she said without conviction, still staring at the fire.
“If I cannot kiss you, I must find some other way to pass this time.”
She pushed one of his hands away with her foot, but he caught it and rubbed his thumb against the arch. Her eyes closed for the space of a breath. He moved his thumb again and saw a telltale flutter of her lashes.
Ah, perhaps this was the way to this lass’s heart. Through her feet. And what a lovely route that would be to travel. He cupped both hands around that foot and squeezed, rubbing his palms against her skin.
She turned and frowned, weakly trying to tug from his grasp. “What are you doing?”
He shrugged and smiled. “Passing time.”
“With my foot?”
