She did not know how he expected her to do so and said as much.
He rubbed his hardness against her once before releasing her on the other side of the pool, where she found she could stand without going under. “There.”
She looked around for the soap but he grabbed her chin, making her look at him. “Just your hands.”
She nodded, equal parts terror and desire fighting inside her. Then she reached through the warm water and brushed her hand down his arm. She’d seen her mother do that to her stepfather when he was tired or upset. It seemed such an intimate act.
Something a wife would do for her husband.
But from Talorc’s expression, she knew he expected more.
She used a washing motion but could not pretend that she was doing nothing more than a mundane chore. She trembled with the newness of touching another.
He made no move to direct her, allowing her to explore his torso in the guise of washing it. Neither spoke as she mapped his body with shaking hands.
She stopped with her hands resting against his stomach. “I want to touch you there.”
He did not ask where “there” was; he merely nodded.
She did not move. “I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
It was her turn to respond with silence and a shrug. She could no more give voice to her fears than she could have stepped away from him in that moment.
“You have given me great pleasure these past two nights.”
“You put your hand over mine,” she reminded him. As if he could forget that tiny detail.
Without another word, his hands slid over hers and pressed downward. She let him guide her to the hard prick bobbing in the water. It jumped as her fingertips brushed along its length. He guided her fingers to curl around him and then moved his own hands to her hips, holding her in place.
The flesh in her hands was hot, hard and alive. So very alive.
She looked up into his heated gaze. “I feel like I’m holding the essence of your life.”
Before she had a chance to feel stupid for saying something so ridiculous, he smiled a rogue’s smile and nodded. “Many men would say that is exactly what you are doing.”
“You said this would . . . it would . . .”
“Go inside you? Is that what has you worrying, wife?”
She swallowed and nodded.
“I’ll fit as if you were made to hold me and no other.”
“You’re sure?”
“Aye.”
“But . . . It’s . . . You do realize there are small horses that would be pleased to be so endowed?” She had been raised in a keep after all; she’d seen more than one equestrian mating.
His head tilted back and she imagined his laughter boomed around the cavern. She could not hear it, but she could feel the vibrations through his body.
She was not sure why he thought her comment so amusing. She found it much more worrying.
He shook his head. “I willna hurt you, lass.”
“You’re so sure? You said you don’t have much experience.”
“I am sure.” And that clearly was supposed to be that.
And truthfully? Right now, she was less concerned with what was to come than the fact he had given her permission, nay
She moved her hands along the large prick and Talorc’s eyes fell closed as a fierce expression took over his features. She let her hands learn him in a way she had not the previous nights in their tent. She explored the softness of the skin, pressing into the flesh to feel just how hard he was. It was like holding heated stone.
The massive warrior’s body shuddered at her touch, and she could not help feeling as if she had accomplished something special.
Suddenly he lifted her from the water, breaking her hold on his manhood. “That is enough.”
“You are clean?” she teased, shocking herself.
He gave her a heavy-lidded look that promised pleasure and something else . . . claiming. “It is time.”
She could not respond. She would not deny her own desire. For that would be a lie, but she could not force agreement from her tight throat either.
For the longest time, he simply looked at her. His eyes seemed to glow yellow in the torchlight. “You are so beautiful.”
“Not like you,” she choked out.
He jerked as if surprised by her words. But how could he be? The Sinclair laird was a study in male perfection.
Long black hair gleamed darker than the night around handsomely chiseled features that bespoke relentless strength and fierce pride. His big, well-honed warrior’s body was only the physical manifestation of that strength. Eyes that continued to astonish her with their bright blue depths revealed an inner power she had seen in no other man. They said Talorc could be nothing less than laird of his people; no other position would do for the man so clearly born to lead.
Right now those eyes glowed with striations of gold that sent pinpricks of sensation down her spine.
Strangely, she found that incredibly alluring rather than frightening. This man had authority over her life as only her parents had before him. He was so much stronger than either her mother or stepfather. His personality and form should intimidate, but she felt inexplicable safety. In this moment, Abigail did not worry Talorc would use either his mental or physical power to hurt her.
No, his intent to give her pleasure was undeniable. Baffled by the truth but unable to deny it, she craved the experience. Of all the scenarios she had entertained in her worried imaginings before leaving her stepfather’s keep, none had included her being attracted to her Scottish husband. Even in her most closely held dreams, she had not let herself imagine desiring Talorc, wanting to be claimed by him—much less needing to claim him, too.
But he was everything desirable.
Each of his muscles was sculpted as if honed by the most talented of artists. And had they not been? Surely God had given her husband more than his share of masculine beauty as well as inner power only a select few in history would ever know.
“You are amazing to me,” she admitted, not sure her voice was working.
He said something she could not understand.
Fear that she did not want in this place washed over her. “Please. I don’t . . .”
Please don’t talk. Please don’t expose her secret before revealing the full mysteries of the marriage bed. Could she not have one time of normalcy in her life? One thing not marred or ruined entirely by her affliction?
“It is Chrechte.”
Relief did not cancel out the fear that had become too much a part of her, but it was still welcome. “I do not understand Chrechte.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“What did you say?”
“I called you an angel.”
“An angel?”
“Aye. When Cait and I were children, my mother told us angels were beings with hair the color of spun gold and beauty to rival our own blessed Highlands.”
“You see me that way?”
“’Tis the only way to see you.”
“Oh.”
“I also said you are mine. My angel.”
“Oh.” She would not . . . could not . . . deny that.
He lowered her until they were eye level. “Now you say it.”
