Moon Craving

“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.”