Leona’s hands trembled as she knelt before him and reached out. The moment her fingers touched his skin, a bolt of awareness shot through her, so sharp and unexpected that she nearly pulled away.
His skin was warm despite the chill in the dungeons, the muscles beneath corded with strength even in his weakened state. She could feel his pulse beating beneath her fingertips, steady and strong. Something about that, about touching him, being this close, made her breathing quicken.
Focus.He’s injured. Bleeding. This isnae the time for…
But her body wasn’t listening. Every brush of her fingers against his skin sent sparks racing up her arms. Every breath brought his scent, salt and copper and something darker, more masculine, until her head spun with it.
“The wound in yer stomach,” she said, her voice coming out huskier than intended. “It needs cleanin'.”
Murdock’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. He simply watched her with those devastating eyes as she soaked a cloth in water and pressed it gently to the cut.
He hissed through his teeth.
“Sorry,” Leona murmured, though she didn’t stop. The wound wasn’t as deep as she’d feared, but it was angry and red, blood still seeping from the edges. “This will sting.”
“I’ve had worse.”
His voice rumbled in his chest, and Leona was suddenly acutely aware of how close she was. Kneeling between his spread thighs. Her face level with his torso. Her hands on his skin.
Heat flooded her cheeks. She focused on her work, carefully cleaning the dried blood away, trying to ignore the way her heart raced every time her fingers brushed against the hard planes of his stomach.
But it was impossible to ignore. Impossible not to notice the way his breath hitched when she touched a particularly sensitive spot. Impossible not to feel the heat radiating from his body, or the way her own body responded.
Her pulse quickened, and her skin flushed. That strange liquid warmth pooled low in her belly.
What was wrong with her? He was injured, imprisoned, and she was promised to another man. This was hardly the time for such thoughts.
“Ye’re gentle,” Murdock said suddenly, his voice softer than before.
Leona looked up, meeting his gaze. Something in his expression had shifted. The cold calculation was replaced by something warmer, more human.
“I try to be,” she said quietly. “Me faither used to say that gentleness was a strength, nae a weakness.”
“Wise man.”
“Aye.” The word caught in her throat. “He was.”
Murdock was quiet for a moment, then: “And yer cousin? Is he wise?”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “Keith is many things, but wise isnae one of them.”
She moved to the cut on his cheek, gently tilting his face toward the light. This close, she could see the other scars that marred his skin. Old wounds layered over older ones. A map of violence written in scar tissue and memory.
Her fingers trembled as she cleaned the fresh cut, and she felt more than heard his sharp intake of breath when she pressed too hard.
“Sorry,” she whispered again.
His hand moved, just slightly, just enough that his fingers brushed against her wrist where it rested near his shoulder. The touch was brief, barely there, but it sent sparks through her veins.
Leona froze, cloth still pressed to his cheek, acutely aware of every point where their bodies nearly touched. His thigh against her knee. His breath warm on her throat. His fingers still resting against her wrist.
“Ye’re shakin',” he noted quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
The word was gentle, almost teasing.
