That control over the beast within him had never been truly tested until now.
The wolf wanted Talorc to claim Abigail in the way of his people, but he had no intention of doing that in front of a chapel full of people. Nor did he intend to mate her on anyone’s land but his own.
It was bloody frustrating, but for an Englishwoman, Abigail was beautiful and all too alluring. She had perfect bow-shaped lips on a feminine, oval face. Her nose was small and straight, and her brown eyes were big and expressive. She’d tried to hide her body’s allure in the English clothes she had donned that morning.
She wore her father’s colors for the last time. The female tunic over the long dress covered every inch of her skin from her neck to her dainty feet. At least she wasn’t wearing the awful cowl thing her mother had donned. He thought the English women called them wimples. Tamara had insisted on wearing one with the Sinclair, constantly reminding the clan she would not relinquish her English ways.
If Abigail thought to dress so, she would soon learn her mistake.
He would not allow it.
A question came over her lovely features, and the baron blanched beside her. Talorc realized he was scowling. He smoothed his features into expressionless repose and put his hand out to take her from her stepfather.
The priest cleared his throat. “We are not yet to that part of the ceremony, my lord.”
Since the man spoke English, Talorc chose to ignore him.
He lifted a brow to his bride, asking why she had not complied with his request.
In a move that surprised him and clearly Sir Reuben as well, she dropped her stepfather’s arm, stepped around him and took Talorc’s hand.
He nodded, grasping her hand firmly and turned to face the priest.
The man looked flustered and took several moments to collect himself before beginning the service. In Gaelic, after only one false start.
Talorc spoke the vows of his people in Chrechte when the time came, ignoring the murmurs around him. When his bride’s turn came, he moved her so they saw only each other, not the rest of the congregation gathered as witnesses. He told her the vows to speak, speaking slowly so she would not stumble on the unfamiliar words.
Her expression puzzled, but accepting, she whispered them back to him, making lifetime promises he was determined she would keep.
Her mother had a fit then, demanding their vows be repeated in English. Talorc ignored her until the priest intervened.
“I have married her in the way of my people,” Talorc said in Gaelic.
The priest nodded. However, when he told Lady Hamilton in English what Talorc had said, the older woman refused to be appeased.
Talorc did not care. The vicious bitch’s opinion was of no importance to him. Bored with the argument and unwilling to stay in the company of the English any longer, he swung his new wife into his arms and carried her out of the chapel.
Abigail’s arms flew around his neck, but she did not fight him. Nor did she make so much as a peep in surprise. He looked down at her only to find her gazing at him with an expression bordering on panic in her dark brown eyes.
“You are mine now.”
“I know.”
“You have no need to worry.”
“Was the wedding over? The priest did not say the final blessing.”
“We spoke the blessing ourselves as befits my people.”
“I did not think the Scottish were so different from the English.”
“I am from the north. We have not taken on your
“A priest’s blessing is civilized?”
“It is unnecessary. He spoke the words that made us man and wife and we said our vows.”
“All right.”
He should have been glad she gave up so easily, but again he worried about her spirit when faced with the people of his clan. They were not cruel usually, but they respected strength and abhorred weakness.
Sir Reuben shouted something behind them, but Talorc ignored the baron just as he had the man’s wife.
His warriors had followed him out of the chapel and were already mounting their horses, clearly as eager as he to get out of the Lowlands. He went straight to his horse, but when he went to toss Abigail on its back, she squirmed from his arms faster than he would have thought possible for a human.
He grabbed her arm before she could dart to the cottage.
She frowned up at him. “I need my things.”
“No.”
She shook her head and twisted from his grasp with shocking agility.
He went to grab her again, but she backed up. “Please. I have gifts for Emily.”
“She needs nothing from England.”
“Thank you for your opinion on the matter, but I must disagree.” She spun and headed toward the cottage.
She had disobeyed him. The shock kept him from going after her at first.
“What is she doing?” Niall asked.
“Getting her gifts for her sister.”
“The Balmoral will not like his wife receiving tokens from our enemy’s land.”
“I know. ’Tis why I have chosen to allow Abigail to get the things.”
Niall laughed. “His wife will be grateful.”
“’Tis another reason to allow Abigail leeway in this.”
“Aye.”
The Balmoral might now be his ally, but Talorc did enjoy needling the man.
Just when Talorc was considering the possibility Abigail had taken refuge in the cottage rather than merely gathering her belongings, she came out. She was carrying one large and two small bundles.
He glared. “You’ll not wear English clothes as my wife.”
“I left all but what I wear now behind,” she said, showing more sense than he thought one born a
The English baron and his wife had come out of the chapel and had spent the last few moments haranguing the priest. But even a holy man knew better than to question the will of the Sinclair. He had refused to demand further concession on the wedding vows.
So, now they were shouting at Talorc, demanding to be heard.
Talorc derived marginal pleasure from ignoring them. He looked at the MacDonald. “Do you have a woman who can help my wife don my colors?”
The laird of the Lowland clan nodded. “Aye, indeed.”
He waved his wife over and told her what Talorc wanted. The redheaded woman gave Talorc an approving nod before going to Abigail and guiding her back into the cottage, after handing her bundles to Talorc’s warriors.
The English baron had given up on the wedding and was now demanding Talorc share the nooning meal with them like a civilized man. As if Talorc desired to be such. Idiots.
“Surely you wish to partake of the game you hunted yesterday for just this occasion.”
He had hunted to avoid spending more time than necessary with the English. He had given his game to the MacDonald as thanks for the use of the clan’s holding to host the wedding demanded by their king’s edict.
When the other man did not seem to know he was supposed to shut up, Talorc turned to the baron with the full force of his displeasure. “I am neither civilized nor am I English. We leave as soon as my wife is garbed appropriately.”
“There was nothing wrong with her dress. Her clothes are the height of fashion.” Lady Hamilton looked mortally offended.
