His hands were big. So much bigger

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.