Highland Surrender (24 page)

“Arms up, m’lady,” Ruby instructed. “Let’s get off this shift.”

Fiona raised her arms, obedient as a child, but as the maid eased the garment up and over her head, the fabric grazed against Fiona’s nipples in a whispering kiss and she drew in breath sharp as a pin. She let it out slowly, half wanting to cup her breasts with her own hands to stop their sudden ache. Her body felt odd, hot and cold at once, like water dropped upon a hot skillet, popping and sizzling in a heated dance.

Fiona frowned at her own thoughts. She’d spent too much time with Vivi of late. The woman had far too randy a nature, always speaking about the great pleasures of physical love. ’Twas hogwash. Fiona had tried it. It had not been awful. If truth be told, there’d even been some pleasurable bits, but mostly, she recalled a lot of grunting and chafing. She had no need of that. And yet, her body seemed inclined to disbelieve her mind.

Ruby was back now with a nightdress, the heavy linen one she always wore, and when the garment floated down over Fiona, her traitorous body reacted once more. Images of her husband flashed in her mind’s eye. Myles, lying next to her upon the mattress, kissing her at the inn, urgently pulling her legs around his hips on their wedding night. Lord save her, how could she long for his caress? When had she become so wanton?

Ruby came around to face her, tying the ribbons of her nightdress securely, trussing her up like a swaddled infant. But she was not an infant. And yet, not quite a woman either. She was somewhere in the middle. Of everything. No longer a virgin, but not quite a wife. No longer a Sinclair, nor thoroughly a Campbell. Tears burned in her eyes, and she nudged Ruby’s hands away.

“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

“W
HAT 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.”