Highland Surrender by Tracy Brogan

gasp.
    Her husband’s smile broadened, and she knew he laughed at her expense. “Aye. I don’t imagine you’re accustomed to so many hours in the saddle. This will ease the ache.”
    “You keeping your filthy hands off would ease me more.”
    “Ah, but where’s the fun in that? Come here, now.”
    The teasing lilt softened his command, but command it was. She saw the glint in his eye. He’d not be defied. And if her plan was to work, she needed him sated and deep in slumber. It was a small price to pay. One more night of abuse for an eternity of freedom.
    She walked to the bed of blankets and lowered to her knees, keeping her gaze on him. He tipped his head, gesturing to the pillows, and slowly, she sank, until her belly was flat against the surface. She folded her arms up near her face and shut her eyes, praying fervently that her deaf God might finally hear her.
    That went more smoothly than he’d anticipated. Though her thick-lashed eyes were wary as a doe’s, she’d done as he asked with little complaint. And now she lay on the blankets, still as a tree stump. He eased her skirt up toward her knees.
    “Ack, no muddy boots in my bed.” He took his time unlacing her boots, brushing away the dirt that crumbled and fell to the covers. He slid his hand up farther, easing down her hose and pulling them off with her boots. Then he bent down and removed his own soiled boots, setting them next to hers, side by side, like two pairs of old mares pulling a wagon.
    And still she didn’t flinch or protest. He almost missed her banter. So silent and motionless was she, he finally asked, “Fiona, are you sleeping?”
    “Yes,” she mumbled.
    He chuckled at her coy response and then turned his attention back to her legs, which he’d not taken the time to appreciate last night. Her calves were slender and peachy pink. A languid sensation warmed his blood as he imagined those limbs rubbing against the back of his thighs, or better yet, caught up on his shoulders. Breath shot like a spear into his lungs, and he coughedonce and tried to blink the thought away. ’Twas not his purpose to seduce her. Yet.
    Instead, he gathered the hem of her gown and slid it up, over the curve of her bottom, until she was exposed from heel to hip. Bruises dotted the backs of her thighs from jostling in the saddle, and a welt, bright red against the paleness of her skin, ran along one leg where it had rubbed raw against a strap. A stab of remorse slit through his veins.
    “Ah, Fiona. You should’ve told me.”
    Then, on one thigh, he saw them. A pattern of four tiny oval marks, more faint than the rest, yet causing him more distress than all the others. They were made by his own hand, from where he’d grabbed her leg the night before and hitched it round his own. He had sought to leave his mark upon her body, but not like that. His chest ached from it.
    He opened the vial and tapped some of the pungent ointment into his palm, warming it between his hands before sliding them over her battered skin. He took the greatest of care, but a tiny noise escaped her throat. Fear? Pain? He couldn’t tell.
    He knew only that, somehow, wounds on her created scars on him.
    The calloused pads of his hands scraped like a cat’s tongue on her skin as he massaged ointment over her raw bottom. His caress caused little pain against her bruises, but the humiliation of being bare under his perusal slapped like the sail of a ship in strong wind. She willed herself to lie steady, lulling him with false compliance. His sword lay forgotten, taunting her and just out of reach, his dagger, with jewels glistening in the hilt, next to it on the floor. Her hands itched with the urge to snatch it up and plunge it into his side. But like a true hunter,she waited. It would not do to be hasty, to bash and thrash and act without forethought. No, she must bide her time.
    He finished rubbing the liniment into her heated skin and pulled her dress down. That surprised her. She