“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” his wife

“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.