Fiona was dazed and bewildered. She

Fiona was dazed and bewildered. She’d been in a dream, a hideous, harrowing dream, being chased by long-armed demons. Suddenly, one reached out and grabbed her hair, but she had a spear and threw it. Only, it was no dream. It was Myles, pressing down on top of her, smothering away the last of her breath with his mouth.
She tried to move, but the binding cord twisted the tender skin of her wrists, stinging in contrast to the warm melding of his lips against her own. How had he found her, when she herself didn’t even know where she was? All those awful hours, wandering, searching for the Fraser keep, and all her efforts for naught.
As suddenly as his kiss began, it was over. But he was angry still. She saw it in the glow of his eyes, felt it pulsing from him as he weighed her down.
Fear and cold took hold, and she shivered despite his warmth. Or perhaps, because of it. “I’ve done my part for this truce,” she whispered. “My brothers cower under your dominance, the king is satisfied, and you mighty Campbells have claimed another Sinclair woman. Must I sit at your feet like a hound? Let me go, and I’ll speak of your mercy. Of how you spared my life in repayment for my mother’s.”
He grabbed hold of her face with one hand, still pinning her wrists with the other. “’Tis a bold lie, Fiona. My father did not kill Aislinn Sinclair. Say it again, and you will suffer for it.”
Fiona trembled at the severity in his voice, at the violence coiled beneath his surface, and realized how mildly he’d treated her until this moment.
A gentle tapping sounded at the door, and the red giant’s head poked in, his eyes bright with mischief. “Have you subdued her, then?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Myles scoffed as he rolled off and sprang up, pulling her with him so fast her head spun with dizziness.
Breath hissed from her lips as the cord binding her wrists cut deeper. Her finger, still bent at an odd angle, had long since turned purple. Fiona bit her lip. She’d not cry out in his presence, no matter the pain.
“You’re bleeding, lad,” Tavish said, nodding at his leg.
“Aye, she sliced me, the little witch.” He winked at Tavish before leaning down and pulling a strip of fabric from her already shredded skirt. He dabbed at the wound. “’Tis a scratch.”
Tavish bent to peer more closely at the wound. “Still, I should tend to it.”
They stepped from the hut, Fiona pulled by her husband, and she found herself surrounded by glaring Campbell men, their hair wet and hanging down, their horses soggy and foaming round the bit. She was the reason for their discontent, and well she felt it in their stares.
“Lads, she is found.” Her husband raised her bound arms in a mild show of victory.
A grumble of acknowledgment followed. A particularly shaggy man with brown eyes and an unkempt beard stepped forward. “The skies are clearing, my lord. Should we ride to catch your father or make camp?”
Myles looked to the heavens. Fiona watched his shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. The rain had indeed stopped, but the sky darkened with the coming evening.
“It’ll soon be too dark to travel. We’ll make camp. Taggart, take some men and see what you can scare up for food.”
The men dismounted and went about their various tasks. Myles nudged her toward the side of the hut, where she sank down and remained largely ignored. Before long, fire crackled in a hastily dug pit and a few rabbits turned upon a spit. How the men had found dry wood or caught the hares in so short a time she could not imagine. But soon enough, the smell of cooking meat made Fiona’s stomach scorch with want. The meager supplies Bess provided had long since worn away, and she quivered with hunger and thirst, but her last shred of pride prevented her from asking for anything.
Her husband let Tavish minister to his wound and said nothing more to her, nor did he spare her a glance. His disregard was oddly unnerving, for without seeing his face, she could not read his mood. But when the hare finished cooking, he took a hearty section of it and came to sit near her, neither smiling nor scowling in her direction.
He ate loudly, smacking his lips and commenting to no one in particular about the meal’s deliciousness, while offering her none. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, as if the smell might nourish her. But it only made her stomach clench and her mouth water. She twisted her hands beneath the binding, hoping the pain might distract her from the hunger. It didn’t.
Curse him and his rabbit-tainted breath. God have mercy, may he choke on a stringy sinew and cough it all up.
Tavish approached her, his hand outstretched. She stared down at her feet, covered with thick mud and nettles she could not work loose.
“Would you like some bread, my lady?” he asked, his voice solicitous.
She looked up. Lord knew that girth of his could spare a bit without suffering. She nodded once, the smallest of concessions.
But he stuffed the bread into his mouth with a chunky fist and talked around it, crumbs falling. “More’s your sorrow, then. Think of that next time you sneak away on my watch.”
“Tavish,” Myles chided, shaking his head.
But the big man looked less than remorseful. He turned and walked away, his big body shaking in mirth.
Defeat, utter and complete, battered her defenses. If she had that dagger now, she’d use it on herself. She lowered her head against her knees and succumbed to weeping.
Myles sighed. “Oh, come now, none of that.” He tapped her leg and handed over his plate, still piled high with meat and bread. “Here you go, you silly girl. ’Tis better than you deserve, but none of us will sleep if you’re keening with hunger all night.”
She looked at the food and then to him, and saw an easy smile, not a glower or boast or trick. He seemed in earnest.
Slowly, she reached for the food and saw his pleasant expression change to dismay. He looked to her hands, where welts from the cord oozed blood, and her purple finger still bent to the side.
“What happened to your finger?” He set down the plate and moved to unlace her bindings.
“I fell.” She gasped as the air stung like salt against the wounds on her wrists.
He frowned, leaning in to examine her hand. “You could’ve been hurt much worse, you know. But I need to straighten that finger. Are you ready?”
She nodded, but could not bite back a cry as he set her finger back into position. Her head swam, but she willed herself to stay upright.
Myles tore another strip from her dress, which was disappearing with the hours, and tied the fractured finger to its neighbor, along with a small stick to keep it straight. His ministrations were efficient but gentle. Then he fetched a bit of clean cloth from one of his men and wrapped each of her bloodied wrists separately, tying the cloth off in a bow. Two neat little cuffed bandages and, just like that, her shackles turned to bracelets.
And her mind turned to confusion.
He was the strangest enemy she could imagine. When he should rail and torment and break her bones, he set them instead. He made no sense at all. He was a terrible soldier, aiding his combatant at her weakest point.
He sat back once more, picking up the plate and passing it into her unbound hands. She ate, and after a moment, he said, “I am a simple man, Fiona. It takes little to please me and great effort to bring me to violence, yet you seem hell-bent on doing the latter. But for every Goliath, there are a hundred dead Davids who could not defeat him. I will always win. Remember that.”