Moon Craving

Chapter 4

Talorc turned to face his bride. “Your mother is a bitch.”

“She is no longer my mother,” Abigail said in a bare whisper, terror coming off her in waves. “Sir Reuben said I am a Sinclair now. You did not deny it.”

“One barrier stands between you and that truth.”

“My maidenhead.” There was no sound to the words, merely a breath of air as she mouthed them.

“Aye.”

Abigail’s hand flew to her throat and she looked wildly around her. “You would take me now?”

Not likely. He would not be dictated to by his king, much less an English lady in this matter. But before he got a chance to say so, his bride simply crumpled.

Using the preternatural speed of his wolf, he caught her before she landed on the floor. Damn, she was vulnerable. Not like her sister. Emily would have called him a goat and told him to go to hell before having her maidenhead breached within minutes of her wedding.

Talorc should have been disgusted by his new wife’s weakness, but instead he felt regret to have caused her such distress.

The feeling shocked him, but even more astonishing was the way it echoed in his wolf’s heart. Neither of them wanted her hurt. He gently laid her on the smaller of the two beds in the cottage. The other stank of the baron and his wife. The narrow bed Abigail had slept on smelled only of her and fresh air.

Her eyes fluttered open, her body going immediately taut with wariness.

Their gazes met. Her eyes flared and then filled with sadness. “This is it, then.”

“You are so bothered by the prospect of sharing my bed?”

“Frightened. I know nothing of the ways of men.”

“That is to be expected.”

“You do not understand. My mother, my maid, no one has told me anything.” And clearly, the unknown scared her out of her wits.

“Do you want me to tell you what is going to happen?”

Her dark eyes widened with surprise, but they glowed with hope. “Would you?” Again her words came out silently, but he had no trouble reading her meaning.

“Aye.”

Though her skin was the color of a dark rose in bloom, she nodded and swallowed. “Please.”

“I will. Please you, I mean.” It was a matter of pride for both him and the wolf that lived in him. “I will begin by kissing you. Have you ever been kissed, Abigail?”

He doubted it and might have to kill someone if she had, but he needed to ask.

She shook her head.

“That is good. I do not want to have to go hunting in England.”

Her eyes widened farther and stayed that way as he described in minute detail how he would touch her before, during and after her deflowering. He left nothing out of how it would feel for her or how he expected to feel.

He laced their fingers while he spoke and was in no way surprised when her hold on him grew so tight he would almost think she had the strength of the Chrechte in her. But she never balked at his description or turned away from the words he spoke, her gaze fixed on him with desperate intensity.

When he finished, she stared at him for several seconds.

“Truly?” she finally asked in a whisper. “You will do all that?” Her cheeks were so crimson, the bruise from her mother’s slap was almost hidden.

“I will.”

“You will be careful.”

“I told you I would. It may hurt, but I will prevent as much pain as possible. It is my duty as your husband.”

“Are English husbands so considerate?”

He shrugged. “They are English.”

“I am English.”

“You are mine.”

“I suppose I am.” She looked surprised by her own acknowledgment.

“Do you still fear?”

“A little.”

He nodded. “That is to be expected in your innocence, but I will take care of you. Starting now.”

She flinched but said nothing. And then nodded resolutely.

“Stand up.”

She gave him a questioning look but obeyed.

He pulled the knife from his boot. It was sharper than the one he kept on his belt.

She took a step back, but confusion rather than fear showed in her eyes.

He put his hand out over the right spot on the sheet and then cut a thin, short line down his palm. Her mouth was open, but no sound escaped as she stared in uncomprehending fascination as drops of his blood decorated the sheet.

“Your mother wants the blood proof. I will give it to her, but I will not claim you on the land of another.”

Abigail nodded as understanding, and then relief, settled over her lovely features. She gave him an intense look and stuck her hand out. “Cut me, too.”

Very little had the power to shock him, but her offer slammed into him like a blow from Niall. “It is not necessary.”

“It is.”

He shook his head.

She stubbornly put her hand right over his, palm up. “We share in this as we will share in the other. Later.”

His entire body reacted to her touch and the unexpected words coming from between her innocent lips. A growl of approval came from the wolf, and Talorc acquiesced with a jerk of his head.

He laid his knife against her small, white palm. “You are sure?”

She nodded.

“So be it.” He cut her, just a prick, but enough to let her drops of blood mingle with his on the sheet.

When there was sufficient blood to indicate a bedding, he ran a hand across the drops to make streaks as if there truly had been a sex act. Then he raised her palm to his mouth, and allowing his wolf’s saliva to mix with his own, he licked her cut. The bleeding stopped immediately, but he did not release her hand. The flavor of her skin and the few drops of blood on his tongue was unlike anything he had ever known. And yet like something he would never have expected—the satisfaction his wolf felt after a successful hunt.

The beast inside him howled in exaltation Talorc did not understand. It was that sense of victory he felt that gave him the impetus to let go of her hand. She was human and English. She stood between him and ever having a true mate. His wolf should be whimpering, not howling.

Her expression one of guileless certainty, she took his palm and returned the favor. Even though she did not have the wolf, his wound had been close to closing anyway and the blood stopped. But the feel of her lips was addictive, and he had to bite back an instinctive denial as she pulled her lips away.

They stood there in silence for several seconds, neither looking away, neither appearing ready to speak. Heat suffused his body. It was like a fever, but he was not ill. Her eyes reflected confusion and wonder. He did not know what had just happened, but it was profound.

Unable to stop himself, he pulled her closer, until their scents commingled and their bodies were aligned.

Then, he kissed her. Because he could. Because he couldn’t not.

As soon as his lips touched hers, another wave of heat suffused his body and he heard what sounded like the barest of sighs in his head. Was his wolf that affected that the beast sounded so unlike himself?

The prospect was not a pleasant one on any count. It felt too much like weakness.

An anathema.

Refusing to give in to the sweetness of her lips, he stepped back from her.

She looked up with an expression he had no idea how to decipher. And he refused to allow himself time trying.

He deliberately turned away from the connection he felt to her and ripped the sheet from the bed. “Your mother will have nothing to harp about now.”

He stormed from the cottage, tossing the bloodied sheet at the feet of the baron. Lady Hamilton bent and grabbed it, examining it even as Talorc leapt to the back of his horse and looked to see if his wife had followed. She had. He bent to grab her. She settled in front of him without a murmur of protest.

He gave the signal and he and his warriors set their horses galloping north . . . toward home.

Abigail concentrated on not falling off Talorc’s great beast of a horse. Until she realized the stone band around her middle that was his arm wasn’t about to let her go anywhere. The horses were galloping so quickly, the green beauty around her was naught but a blur to her dazed eyes.

She had never ridden at such a pace in her life. It was most exhilarating.

Despite the trauma of her wedding and near bedding, Abigail felt a smile of pure pleasure steal across her face and laughter welled up inside her. She realized it had not been silent when the body so close behind her stiffened as if in surprise.

She cocked her head back and turned it so she could see Talorc’s face. Sure enough, he had a questioning look on his darkly handsome features.

“What?” she asked.

“What has you laughing?”

“I believe I enjoy riding Scottish horses, my laird.”

“This is no mere horse; ’tis a beast worthy of a Chrechte warrior.”

His arrogance made her laugh again. “No doubt.”

To have his confidence would be a wonderful thing. Abigail spent so much time in fear of revealing her true self, she rarely felt confidence in the company of others. But right at this moment, she knew unadulterated joy as they rode away from a life and family that had caused her pain and pain again.

“You surprise me, lass.”

“Perhaps that is a good thing.” She could not believe her own temerity, but Abigail felt freer than she had since waking to a silent world as a terrified young girl.

“Aye.” He looked quite serious. “I believe it is. I would not have you eaten, lass.”

“The Highlanders are cannibals, then?” she asked with undisguised humor, knowing they were no such thing.

He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Nay, but my clanspeople have little tolerance for weakness.”

“You think I am weak?” She did not know why his judgment should surprise her so. She worked hard not to be noticed; it would be a true shock should he realize the woman under the exterior. So, rather than be offended by his assessment, she found in it her own private joke.

Though in this case, she did not let him see that.

“There is much fear in you.”

She could not deny that. She lived in daily terror. “I am not afraid right now.”

“I can see that.”

“I was afraid when I thought you would bed me with brutal expediency,” she admitted, still grateful he had not done so.

“Aye. You were terrified.” No worry at that truth showed on his features, yet he had protected her.

“You alleviated my fear.”

He shrugged, causing her body to move against his.

Quite unsettled, she gasped. “I have not been this close to another person since my sister left our home.”

“No one else will hold you thus.”

No, really? She was no wanton to allow another man to touch her. She rolled her eyes at him, but then had a thought. “I will hug Emily when I see her again.”

“You dare to defy me?” Was that a twitch at the corner of his lips?

“In this instance, yes.”

“If you think to let another man touch you . . .” He let the rest of his clear threat remain unsaid, but a fury completely unjustified by their current talk glowed in his blue gaze.

“Do not be daft. I’m not fully reconciled to you touching me.”

“You will grow used to my touch.” There was that amazing confidence again.

“It is your responsibility to make it so.” Had she truly said such a thing aloud to him? But it was no more than he had claimed when explaining what the marriage bed would be like for her.

“Aye.”

“What is Chrechte?”

He did not answer but stared into her eyes with an expression she could not read, no matter the time she’d spent learning how to do so.

“You said the horse was worthy of a Chrechte warrior. Is that another word for a Highlander?”

He shook his head.

“Then what does it mean? Chief? Laird?”

“Do you always ask so many questions?”

“In truth?”

“I will always expect the truth from you.”

Her heart twinged at his words. She determined right then that though she could not tell him her secret, she would never lie to him. “I often wish to know things I do not ask about.”

“Yet you do not hesitate to query me.”

“Should I?”

He did not answer immediately.

“Well?” He could not know how important his answer was to her, but it would say much about her place in his esteem.

“Nay.”

“That is good to know.”

“The Chrechte are an ancient tribe of people who live among the Highland clans now.”

She smiled at this confirmation of his willingness to appease her curiosity. “You mean the Picts?”

“That is what the Romans called us, aye.”

“Like the Normans among the English?”

He shrugged again, but there was no mistaking the moue of distaste on his lips at the mention of the English.

Abigail turned to face the front of the horse again, her pleasure draining from her. Talorc hated the English. That would never change.

No matter how considerate he was this day, the fact that he claimed not to hate her would not last indefinitely. If for no other reason than that she was not the innocent he and his warrior Niall believed her to be. She was lying to them by pretending to be something she was not. A whole woman, worthy of being a laird’s wife.

For the first time, Abigail felt grief at the inevitability of her future. Talorc was not the monster she feared him, nor was he the barbaric animal her mother had claimed.

He had assigned his warriors to watch over her the night before, showing she had more value to him than she had to her parents. Even if she was English. He had also protected her from a soulless bedding Sybil had been only too happy to demand.

Abigail did not know what had led her to insist on adding her blood to his on that sheet. She only knew that something inside her had told her it was the right thing to do.

And he had respected the gesture. She had seen it in his eyes. Their incredible blue warming with approval, however brief. One day, probably sooner than later, that same blue would grow icy with distaste when he discovered her secret.

And there was naught she could do about it.

Talorc did not know what caused his new bride to draw back into herself, but he admitted, if only to himself, he did not like it.

He had enjoyed her pleasure in the ride, her laughter a truly beautiful sound. He shook his head. He was going as daft as she claimed him to be if he thought an Englishwoman’s laughter beautiful.

But she was not English any longer, was she? She was his.

Or so his wolf and his king claimed.

The beast had never laid such certain claim to another, not the members of his pack, not even of his family. The wolf howled for the moment when they reached Sinclair lands so they could claim Abigail in the most basic and irrevocable of ways. Words could be dismissed, but joining his body to hers could not be undone.

When Talorc called a halt to his men for the night, Abigail’s joy in the ride had given way to numb exhaustion. They had stopped only twice to water the horses, and only one of those times had they dismounted. They had eaten bread and cheese then, but that had been hours ago. Yet, as hungry as Abigail was, she was too tired to contemplate eating.

She stumbled into the forest to deal with her body’s most pressing needs. When she returned to the men and horses, Niall and one of the other warriors were erecting a small tent of skins.

He noticed her when she came near and nodded, his frowning visage not changing, but there was an understanding in his gray eyes that nearly moved her to tears.

“I thought Highlanders slept under the stars,” she found the energy to tease.

He smiled at that, pulling the scars on the left side of his face into a twisted grimace. “It’s for you, English.”

“Oh.” She swallowed inexplicable tears. “Thank you.”

He shrugged and she decided that was the Scottish warrior’s answer when he did not want to be bothered with speaking.

When the other soldier finished putting furs inside the tent for her to sleep in, he left and only then did Abigail’s tired brain tell her she had been rude not to ask Niall for an introduction. When she said so, the giant scarred warrior gave her an odd look.

“Talorc will make them known to you at the proper time.”

“Oh.” She did not know what that meant and was too fatigued to try to make sense of it.

She turned toward the tent and stumbled. Niall was there faster than she could have imagined possible, stopping her from falling on her face.

She looked up at him with gratitude. “Thank you.”

He held her arm, obviously concerned she would stumble again. “Are you all right?”

When was the last time anyone had inquired after her with no more reason than basic human concern? These Chrechte warriors might not be civilized, but they showed more care for her well-being than her family.

She brought forth a smile, a weary effort at best. “Merely tired. It has been a . . . complicated . . . two weeks.”

“Preparation for marriage is that way for women, I have heard.” He dropped her arm but stayed close enough to be of assistance should she need it.

“I did not know I was preparing for marriage. I believed I was going to Scotland to visit my sister, Emily.” She was not sure why she had admitted it; maybe it fell under being as honest as she could be. More likely it was simply that she trusted this big, scarred warrior as a friend. For no more reason than her heart told her she could.

“The Balmoral’s wife?” he asked, confusion lurking in his gray eyes.

“Yes.”

“I do not understand. Your father petitioned your English king for redress when she married the wrong laird. Your marriage to our leader has been a foregone conclusion—at least to our monarchs—these past weeks.”

“I did not know that.”

Niall looked at her with pity and something else. Something that told her she was right to trust him as friend. Understanding. “When did you learn you were to be married?”

“The day before we left my stepfather’s keep.”

Looking properly furious, Niall nodded as if agreeing to something someone said, and his gaze fixed on something behind Abigail.