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
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.”
