at that one small caress.
She would question her sanity on the morrow, she was sure, but she felt as if in that moment she had been touched by a piece of her soul that had been missing. How could that be?
“Who hit you?” His fingertip rested gently on the least painful of Abigail’s bruises. The one Sybil’s slap had left on her cheek.
“It is nothing.”
He did not respond, nor did he take his hand away. It was as if he was willing her to answer him.
And she could not stand against that will.
She sighed. “My mother was not happy with my response to her.”
“Your mother? Not your father?”
“No. Sir Reuben has never raised a hand to me.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
Talorc nodded and then frowned again before pushing the loose neck of her sleeping gown aside. “There is another bruise. This one uglier.”
The word broke her trance as nothing else could have. No, Abigail could not claim beauty. She could not claim anything that would make her the right wife for this powerful laird.
Her only hope was that he did not discover that truth before taking her to the Highlands.
She jerked back, stepping out of his reach yet still holding the covering back from the window. “I am sorry my looks displease you.”
“That is not what I said.”
“Nay, he remarked on your bruise, lass. Ye’d best tell him who gave it to you.” The other giant soldier said.
Abigail only caught the words because her movement had reminded her they were not alone and she needed to watch the other soldier as well, lest she be caught in her subterfuge before the wedding.
She held back a sigh of frustration with herself. For all she knew, he had spoken before this. She must be more careful.
“My mother,” she said again, making sure she could see both warrior’s faces.
Talorc’s darkened with fury. “She beat you. Why?”
Abigail spent her life lying by omission about her affliction, but she had promised herself long ago not to lie about anything else. Ever. “I would rather not say.”
“You will tell me.”
Chapter 3
“Perhaps she was no more reconciled to this marriage than you, Talorc.” The pale-haired giant seemed amused by the possibility.
“You find this entertaining, Niall?” Talorc demanded of the other soldier.
“A bit,” Niall replied, clearly not frightened of his laird.
“Is this true?” Talorc asked her.
As close as she could get to it. “Yes.”
“You were beaten until you agreed?” Talorc asked, disgust clear in his features.
“I did not submit.”
“And yet you are here.”
“Sir Reuben told me I could choose once I had looked you in the eye.”
Something like respect crossed Talorc’s features. “You have now looked me in the eye.”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“What would you have done if it had been my father who beat me?” she asked rather than answer.
“Kill him.”
“You would not beat a woman?”
His lips twisted in an animalistic snarl. “I am not English.”
Abigail felt laughter well up for the first time since Emily had left Sir Reuben’s keep. Talorc really did despise the English, and instead of it frightening her further, she found that assurance far too amusing in the current situation.
And he could not conceive of a Highlander male beating a woman. That knowledge comforted her as nothing else had.
“You find that humorous?” the other soldier asked.
“I find your laird’s arrogance amusing,” she whispered, covering herself. “His assumption that only an Englishman would beat a woman relieves some of my fear of what is to come.”
She hadn’t meant to make the admission, but she needn’t have worried. Neither warrior seemed particularly moved or impressed by it.
Niall said, “He is your laird as well.”
“If I marry him, he will be.”
“You will marry me.” She could not hear his tone, but the certainty in his eyes left no room for doubt. In either of them.
“Surely you would be pleased if Sir Reuben refused the match,” she could not help saying.
“I would be insulted and forced to kill him.” He didn’t look particularly bothered by that possibility, nor did he appear to be making a joke.
She, on the other hand, felt another clammy hand of fear take hold of her heart. The probability Talorc would declare war on her stepfather when he discovered her deception—as he was sure eventually to do—only increased in her mind.
“Why be insulted? You hate the English.”
“Aye.”
Her stomach dropped, her concern for her stepfather forgotten for the moment. “Then you hate me.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Nay.”
“He does not hate the innocent,” Niall clarified.
Talorc looked over his shoulder at his warrior and then back to Abigail. He shrugged. “I do not hate the innocent.”
There was something about the way he said it, something in his expression that implied he thought English and innocent antithetical to each other. And yet he had said he did not hate her.
She searched his gaze for the truth. She knew hatred. She’d lived with her own mother’s for years now. Talorc’s stance was not combative, nor was it, or his demeanor, dismissive. He stood ready for action, but not with an attitude of boredom or any indication he had better things to do than converse with his English bride-to-be.
Even if he had made no effort to be in attendance upon her arrival. Suddenly, she considered the possibility that slight was meant for her parents, not necessarily for her.
When he looked at her, Talorc’s expression showed wariness. There was also distrust, even frustration, though from what, she did not know, but he did not look at her with hate.
She knew that once he learned of her inability to hear, he would reject her as his wife. He might even hate her then, but her choices were meager. If she thwarted the marriage, Sybil would find a way to punish Abigail much more severely than with a single beating. Her only chance at seeing Emily again lay in marriage to this man.
Who might hate the English but did not hate her. “I will marry you.”
He nodded as if it had never been in question. No doubt in his mind, it hadn’t. He seemed the type of man to get what he wanted and who allowed nothing to stand in the way.
“The Sinclairs do not beat women, but we do kill traitors.”
