by Lucy Monroe
It wasn’t just her cheeks that blushed, but her whole body, as renewed embarrassment flooded her. She could only hope his soldiers would not notice the fragrance of lovemaking over the stench of horses and their own sweat.
She would give her entire stash of spices she had brought with her for a stream to wash in right now. Not because she disliked the scent of Talorc’s seed on her, which caused yet another surge of shame. She should find it offensive rather than oddly satisfying, shouldn’t she?
However, regardless of her odd reaction to the situation, she hardly wanted everyone else to know what she had been doing with her new husband the night before.
She felt the vibration of heavy steps outside the tent and dove for the fur. She’d barely covered herself when the tent flap flipped back and Talorc scowled at her. “So, you are awake.”
Familiar dread sank in her stomach like a lodestone. She had missed something. Again. “Were you calling me? I just woke.”
The scowl diminished a tiny bit. “If you wish to eat before we break camp, you need to do so now.”
“I would rather wash.”
“There is no time.” He looked like that fact pleased him for some reason.
“I smell um …”
“Like me.”
“Yes.”
“It is as it should be.”
“You truly are uncivilized, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He actually smiled, clearly unperturbed by the question.
At least she had not insulted him. Sometimes she spoke without thought, and she hadn’t meant to offend. She herself was not sure whether she was appalled or charmed by her husband’s primal views.
“Do you wish me to bring your food to you in here?”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll get dressed right now.” Well, as soon as he left to give her some privacy.
He showed no signs of doing so, however.
“I do not wish to dress in front of an open tent flap.”
He let it fall closed behind him, moving fully inside the tent.
Nonplussed, she stared at him. “You wish me to dress in front of you.”
“Do you know how to fasten your pleats already?”
“Um … no?”
He shrugged as if that was the only answer she needed.
She managed to get her shift and blouse on under the fur before climbing out to allow him to help her with the plaid. It was hard to get on in the small confines of the tent, but she managed it—with his help. When she was dressed and about to leave the tent, he put his hand on her arm.
She looked back at him over her shoulder.
“I will see all of you. Soon.”
She didn’t reply, just scrambled from the tent.
She rode her own horse this morning, a beautiful white mare his stallion seemed to have a fondness for. Talorc kept her horse positioned between his and Niall’s for the long morning ride. When they stopped to water the horses and eat again, the sun was high in the sky. Summer days were long and she had no doubt they would spend most of the light riding.
While they kept a fast pace, it was not as blurring a speed as the day before. Abigail was glad. She was a good rider, but she would have been nervous riding so fast without his strong arm around her to keep her planted on the horse’s back.
Their break was short and she forced herself to climb back onto her mare without complaint. She would not add to Talorc’s belief she was weak.
They had been riding for an hour when he grabbed her reins and forced her to meet his eyes. “Agree, wife.”
“Of course,” she said, before she could think better of it.
“I will tell you when it is safe to speak again.”
Ah, he had instructed her silence.
She nodded.
“Good.” He nodded. “You are a unique woman.”
Because she spoke little unless in a direct conversation of someone else’s making? It was a trait by necessity only. She would spend more time talking if she could trust herself not to betray her secret doing so. As it was, her silence at the wrong time was damning enough.
They stopped to water the horses again but did not dismount, just like the day before. This time, she noted no one spoke though. The warriors were all alert, and Talorc looked grimmer than usual.
She met Niall’s eyes and asked a question with her own.
“Enemy territory,” he mouthed.
Her eyes widened. It had not occurred to her that they would have to cross enemy territory to get to Sinclair land. She did not remember mention of her stepfather’s soldiers having to do so when they escorted Emily to the Highlands nearly three years ago.
Suddenly, Talorc was there and she was being swept from her horse to his. She landed against his chest with a silent gasp.
He looked down at her with a fierce expression, as if prepared for her to argue the change. She simply let herself go limp against him and closed her eyes for sleep.
She wasn’t a warrior, and if he was going to give her an unexpected opportunity for a nap on this bone-jarring ride, she was going to take it.
She sensed his surprise but ignored it as his arm wrapped her close and secure against him. She was asleep a moment later.
Bemused, Talorc held his sleeping wife to him.
He was not sure what had prompted him to put her on his horse with him. She’d been tired, but his action had been an instinctive reaction to the silent exchange between his wife and his warrior at the water.
Talorc had had no idea that he and his wolf would become so possessive with a wife—particularly an English one. He had not reacted thus with Emily, but then three years ago, he had had no intention of marrying the Englishwoman sent to him by order of their kings.
That must be the difference this time. Abigail was indisputably his wife, not a woman he was supposed to marry.
Yes, that must be it.
She moved in her sleep but made no sound. Not that it would matter now. They were in safer territory now and would be until midday tomorrow when they would cross Donegal’s holding. Donegal’s people were not Talorc’s enemies, but the other clan was not happy at the king’s edict to cede the disputed boundary land to him.
“She is surprising.”
Talorc felt a growl build in his chest at Niall’s words, but he merely grunted in reply to Niall’s comment.
There was no reason for the jealousy burning inside him. Niall had a mate, though the youth seemed oblivious to the connection between them. Humans could be funny about the natural way of things.
Regardless, Niall would never be untrue to his mate, even if the scarred Chrechte warrior never lay true claim. He was, in fact, the safest of companions for Talorc’s wife. Even his wolf recognized that.
And yet, the jealousy remained.
If he had known taking a wife would come with such complications, Talorc would have put his king off, recommending his sovereign choose a different laird to bestow the honor on. Even as he had the thought his wolf growled viciously in response to the idea of Abigail married to another.
And Talorc knew his frustrated thinking for the lie it was.
“She is not afraid of me,” Niall said, bringing Talorc’s attention back to the soldier.
“I noticed.”
“I think she likes me.”
Talorc would shift to wolf form and tear the other man’s throat out if he thought Niall meant any disrespect, but he knew the scarred warrior did not. “She does not see the scars.”
“Nay.” Niall seemed bemused by that fact.
Talorc did not answer. There was nothing to say. Niall frightened most women of their clan. Most of the men, too, when it came down to it.
“She sleeps in your arms as if she trusts you with her very life.”
“Does she have a choice?” He was her husband. She had no better protection.
“No,” Niall acknowledged, “but she is not afraid.”
“She fears something.” He’d noticed the trepidation right away and believed that meant
she was weak. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Aye. But not you.”
“She’s nervous about the marriage bed.”
“You claimed her last night. Every Chrechte warrior here could smell it. Hell, even a human soldier probably would have.”
Just as he’d meant it to be. “Not completely.”
“What are you waiting for?” Niall frowned. “You aren’t going to try to annul the marriage?”
“You think she is a fitting mate for your laird?”
“Before we met her, I would have said no. She was English.”
“Now?”
“She hasn’t likened you to a goat yet.”
“There is that.”
“So, you will keep her?”
“She is mine.”
“Yet you wait to claim her.”
“I will not perform the Chrechte mating rite on any land but my own.”
Understanding dawned in Niall’s eyes. “So, that’s why we’re riding so damn fast. We didn’t keep this pace on the way to the MacDonald holding.”
“I want to get home,” Talorc growled.
Abigail shifted in his arms and tilted her head back so she could see his face. “Did I sleep long?” she whispered.
“Aye.”
She blushed but didn’t say anything else.
“You can talk,” he told her.
“We’re off your rival’s land?”
“Yes.”
“My father’s soldiers said nothing of having to pass through enemy territory when they were in Scotland escorting Emily.”
“The whole time they were out of England they were in his enemy’s domain.”
“But our kings are allies.”
Talorc shrugged.
She crossed her arms and glared. “You do that every time you don’t feel like answering.”
“What?”
“Shrug.”
He did again. Just to see what she would do.
She laughed, a soft, muted music he wanted to kiss from her lips.
She screeched as he bent to do just that, but he swallowed that sound, too. She tasted like sleepy innocence.
When he lifted his head, she looked dazed.
Niall laughed, loud and long. “I believe your ways will take some getting used to.”
The other Chrechte soldiers around them stared at Niall as if they had never seen him before. True, the man rarely laughed. Okay, until this trip, Talorc had not heard him do so in years, but that was no reason to gawk like a bunch of gossiping women.
He gave his warriors a look that told them so, and they went back to watching the terrain as they should do. Talorc never lost his awareness of their surroundings, even when his mouth molded to Abigail’s.
“Will we be at the Sinclair holding soon?”
“We will be on Sinclair land late tomorrow.”
He felt the tension fill her. She knew exactly what that meant. “You do not think it would be better to wait until we reached your keep?”
She did not say what would be better, but they were both fully aware.
“No.”
“Oh.”
His wolf would kill something if Talorc made the beast wait to claim his mate.
“Why did you take me off my horse earlier?” she asked.
“You were tired.”
“You noticed?” She sounded chagrined by the possibility.
“Yes.” He had, but he’d also noticed the way she’d been bonding with Niall, and rational or not, his wolf had insisted Talorc stake his claim.
“You are not as I expected.”
“Why?”
“You hate the English and you would have killed my stepfather without blinking, but you have shown me consideration.”
“You are my bride.”
“Emily was to be your bride, but you were not so considerate of her.”
“I had no intention of marrying Emily.”
“So, why agree to marry me?”
He had lived almost three more years without a mate and realized he would probably never find one. “My king offered sufficient incentive.”
“My dowry.”
“Aye.”
“At least you get something you want from this marriage.” She spoke quietly, almost as if to herself.
“I want you, too.”
“You don’t want an English wife.”
“You aren’t English.”
“What am I, then?”
“Mine.”
Abigail was once again riding her own horse the next day when Talorc signed for his soldiers to stop. It was nowhere near nightfall and they had watered the horses recently. It had been another silent ride today, and Abigail had not minded a bit.
Trying to keep track of the conversations around her while on horseback was quite taxing.
She did not ask why they had stopped because she did not know if it was safe to speak.
Talorc swung down off his horse, said something to Niall and then crossed to Abigail’s horse. He put his hands out. “Come.”
She reached toward him, allowing her husband to lift her from the horse. He helped her to find her feet, holding on to her until her stiff muscles started working again.
“Why have we stopped?” Not that she was complaining.
“Would you like a bath?” he asked.
She looked around, unsure where such a feat might be performed. She saw no source of water, but she did not allow the apparent lack to dull her enthusiasm. If he offered, he had a way to make it happen.
“Yes!”
He laughed and then turned and walked away. She assumed she was supposed to follow, so she did. He led her to a cave opening. She hung back as he entered the cave.
He stopped inside the entrance and put his hand out. “Come.”
She shook her head.
He nodded.
“What if there are wild animals in there?”
“You must trust me.”
“It is not you I mistrust.”
“Who then?”
“Wild animals.” She swallowed, trying to wet her dry throat. “I do not easily make friends.”
In truth, she had made none since discovering what the fever had taken from her. But her friendship with Jack, son of Jon the blacksmith, had predated her fever.
And he had not let her push him away afterward. He’d even ferreted out her secret—to this day she did not know how. But the young lad had told her it didn’t matter and insisted on being kind to her.
“So?” Talorc asked.
“There was a boy I played with as a girl. My father’s blacksmith’s son. He was torn apart by a wolf. I saw his body.” She shivered at the grisly memory, not faded one iota by the years that had come between. “It was horrible. Death comes too easily.”
Talorc went curiously still. “You have nothing to fear from wolves.”
“You think not?”
“I will protect you.”
“What about bears?”
His lips quirked in a half smile, no impatience at her reticence in his face. “You have nothing to fear at all when you are with me.”
She nodded and that seemed to please him.
“I had my soldier scout ahead.”
“Oh.”
She let him pull her into the cave and noticed immediately that rather than the dank, cold air she associated with caves, it was warm with a faint scent of sulfur. He led her down a long tunnel into a cavern lit by torches and ambient light from somewhere above. Their light reflected off the water of a large pool in the center. Beside the pool, the furs they had slept in the past two nights were piled invitingly beside the water.
Abigail stared around herself marveling at the warmth of the cavern. “A hot spring?” she asked in awe. She had heard of such a thing but never seen one.
“Yes. One of the reasons we fought for this section of land. The springs have healing properties.”
“Really?”
“So it has been believed by my people.”
“And these caves are yours now? Because of your king’s gift?”
“Aye.” Talorc smiled savagely. “Though it is my responsibility to keep them.”
“Will you establish an outpost?” Her father had guard posts on the four corners of his lands.
Talorc shrugged.
“Do you simply not want to answer or do you not know?”
“I know you are delaying the inevitable with conversation.”
Smart man. “I am nervous.”
“I’m not.”
She opened her mouth but honestly did not know what to reply to such arrogance, so she snapped it shut again.
He smiled, this time almost gently, and produced a soap cake. “You can have a proper bath.”
“I …” This was the Talorc her sister had written of in her letters? Abigail could not believe it. “Thank you.”
She had to blink back tears. No one but Emily had ever been so concerned for Abigail’s comfort.
He looked around the cavern with satisfaction. “’Tis a suitable place for a Chrechte mating.”
“Mating?” Oh, he meant joining their bodies. Heat crawled along her skin as images assaulted her mind from the discussion they had had back at the MacDonald holding.
For some reason, he looked chagrined by his own choice of words. “I simply meant the marriage claiming.”
She nodded, having no desire to argue, even if she saw nothing simple about the physical consummation of their marriage. Though he looked as if he expected her to.
He indicated the pool. “You will bathe now.”
“In front of you?” She’d learned already he had a much different sense of modesty than she did—and Heaven help her, he seemed to expect her to adjust to his. But did he really expect her to bathe in front of him?
“Is that how it is done in your clan? Your men and women bathe together?” she asked, scandalized to her core.
“I did not offer to bathe with you, but if that is your preference, I will indulge you.”
Before she could get the horrified no out of her tightly constricted throat, he had shed his plaid.
She stared in mute shock as he disrobed right there in front of her, as he had the past two nights in the privacy of their tent—at night.
“It’s only midday. Surely you do not plan to accomplish the bedding right now?” Had she thought him considerate? He was worse than the goat her sister had called him … He was a randy goat with no sense of decorum or modesty. Or … or … or anything else.
