Moon Craving

by Lucy Monroe

  Niall chuckled, the sound rusty from disuse. “It appears your wife likes her vegetables.”

  Talorc nodded. “Then go find more, Earc. Fionn, you will stay to face the challenge these young warriors have made on behalf of their clan for rights to this land.”

  He would not have the youths face Niall. None but the boldest Chrechte would be able to do so without pissing himself, and Talorc intended to face that challenger personally.

  Both men did as he said without another word.

  He faced the six Donegal youths again. “All who have come in challenge will fight, except him,” he said, indicating the Chrechte who had offered his neck already.

  The boy who had already offered his submission bowed his head as if in shame. Talorc growled and the youth’s head snapped up. “You are omega, there is no shame in submitting to the more powerful alpha.”

  An omega’s place in the pack had not always been a respected one, but when the Chrechte realized their warring ways were on the verge of decimating their people, that changed. Initially, it had been an omega who first suggested the Chrechte should insinuate themselves into the surrounding clans, rather than warring with them. Once the wisdom of the recommendation was acknowledged, respect for the thinking of the omegas grew.

  Since then, omegas were given a place of honor on the pack councils. They were considered both wise and level-headed, which in most cases was exactly right. They were also considered strong in ways brawn could not defeat, because omegas had managed to eke out lives among their more powerful Chrechte brethren despite being the physically weakest. Generation after generation. It was not something easily dismissed by thinking men.

  In addition, each omega now stood as a living reminder to their pack that no matter how strong the Chrechte might be, they could not escape the weakness among them—that of mortality. They had to respect life in order to continue thriving. They were still influenced by their wolf natures, but not controlled by them. Those that were often died young, and that, too, stood as a prominent reminder for those that came after.

  “Talorc, don’t you think you could refer to these young men in more humane terms? Or are there more meaning to the Gaelic words you are using I do not understand?”

  “I am not being offensive,” he assured his wife and then wondered at his doing so. Did it matter that his English wife thought him rude?

  He wasn’t civilized, damn it, and had no desire to be.

  Giving vent to his irritation, he crossed his arms and glared at the other Donegal Chrechte. “Why did you bring an omega to a challenge?”

  “He is my younger brother. I cannot leave him unprotected, but he refused to stay in the forest while I challenged you.”

  “I will share my brother’s fate,” the omega wolf said quietly.

  Talorc’s respect for these young soldiers grew. He had no doubt they would lead the Donegal clan and pack one day. He nodded his acceptance of the explanation. “You,” he said looking at the omega, “stand with Niall and my lady during the challenge.”

  The omega dipped his head in acknowledgment of the order.

  Niall led Abigail away from the cave and the men squaring off to challenge. The omega followed, taking a position on the other side of Niall. Away from Abigail, as was proper. He showed no fear in the huge warrior’s presence, patently trusting Talorc’s Chrechte honor as the superior alpha. One day he would learn not all of the wolf nature were worthy of that faith, but not today.

  Talorc instructed Airril and Fionn to face the four humans.

  Then he nodded toward the leader Chrechte. “Come face your challenge, boy.”

  “I am no boy.”

  “You are no alpha either, not yet.”

  He could tell his final two words had given the young soldier pleasure by the expression that flitted across his face before seriousness settled back over his features. “My name is Circin.”

  “And I am Talorc, laird of the Sinclairs and pack leader to my Chrechte brethren.”

  Then he waited, letting Circin make the first move. Talorc countered it, glad when it took some effort on his part. He would be sorely disappointed in the Donegal laird if the man hadn’t seen to any training in the young Chrechte warrior under his care. Talorc made his own move, explaining why it was a good counter, but how it could be better.

  Circin’s eyes widened at the instruction, yet he did not allow the flow of words to splinter his focus. Even so, it was obvious he was listening to everything Talorc said. And in doing so he earned another measure of Talorc’s esteem.

  He allowed the sparring to continue long after the human boys had been defeated and submitted to Airril and Fionn. He could have taken Circin down to forced submission at any time. However, he wanted to teach the young wolf moves usually reserved for the Chrechte because they required greater speed, strength and stamina than most human warriors possessed.

  Circin showed his appreciation in voluntarily baring his throat when Talorc pulled him into a nearly unbreakable hold. The younger soldier could have held on to his pride until Talorc forced an acknowledgment of his superior force. The laird was glad to see the boy understood how to take dignity in defeat.

  It was a lack in that respect that had led to their people nearly wiping themselves out in the past.

  Talorc had allowed Circin to fight long enough that there should be no shame in his loss of the challenge. Yet the young man’s honor should be fulfilled as well, since he had fought for right to the land and lost.

  Nevertheless, it was good to check. Talorc did not need an enemy cropping up from a source he was close to naming friend. “You are satisfied?”

  Circin nodded, sadness tingeing his gaze. “I am.”

  Even knowing the outcome before the first blow was struck, there could be no joy in defeat.

  “Good.” He placed his right fist over his heart.

  Circin copied the action and bowed his head.

  “Tell your laird the Sinclair laird would consider it an honor to train Chrechte warriors from his clan should he desire it.”

  Circin’s eyes lit with excitement. “You mean it?”

  “The first thing you need to learn, boy, is that an alpha never says something he does not mean or cannot back up,” Niall chided from his position between Abigail and the omega.

  “Even Muin?” Circin asked.

  “Muin is your brother?” Talorc asked, rather than reply.

  Circin wiped blood from the corner of his lip with the back of his hand. “Yes.”

  “An omega is always welcome among his Chrechte brethren, regardless of what colors they wear.”

  “You adhere strictly to the Chrechte laws.”

  “Aye.” Even if the Balmoral had believed for a time he did not.

  “I will pass your invitation on to my laird.”

  And would not take no for answer, if Talorc’s guess was accurate.

  He was not surprised when Abigail invited the Donegal warriors to share in their evening meal. He was only surprised by the fact her presumption in doing so did not bother him. He supposed that she was his wife after all.

  “I could not help but notice you did not take your horse hunting,” Abigail said, breaking the silence she had maintained since inviting the other soldiers to eat with them.

  His wife was a curious mixture of timidity and boldness. She had not hesitated to confront him before he faced Circin’s challenge, but she had spent the hours since then watching everyone else and saying very little. ’Twas odd. In his experience, women tended to talk more than men, often filling a peaceful silence with unnecessary verbal noise. Abigail was the first woman he had met who might actually speak less than his warriors.

  “I did not need a horse.”

  “Perhaps you should reconsider that notion.” She paused, giving him a look from between her lashes. “Considering the fact that your soldiers returned with game and you did not.”

  Everyone around the fire went silent at his wife’s innocent observation, waiting
for his response.

  He wasn’t about to admit that his wolf had spent the morning preoccupied with a woman who had responded with naught but fear at his presence. He frowned at her, letting her know he had no intention of justifying his failure to return with game.

  “Perhaps it was forgetting your plaid that caused your lack of success. You scared the prey away.” The edges of her lips curled upward, though her expression remained demure.

  She was teasing him. His shy little human wife dared to tease the Sinclair. The look of astonishment on Earc’s face and subtle mirth on Niall’s said they realized it as well. The other men wore a mixture of trepidation and concern, clearly mistaking his wife’s words as criticism.

  “Highlanders have been hunting without covering for as long as they have claimed these lands.”

  “Hmm … ,” she replied noncommittally.

  “Are you worried about my ability to provide for you?” he asked, keeping his expression hard and unreadable.

  Crossing her arms she gave him an arch look that about had him falling backward. “Maybe I am.” She wasn’t buying his pretend annoyance, not even with worthless English gold coin.

  A gasp from one of his warriors said they had though.

  “You needn’t concern yourself, lady. Our clan provides for the laird as he provides for us,” Niall said, adding his own bit to bait Talorc.

  “It would seem that is a good thing,” she replied and took a delicate bite of the roasted rabbit.

  When Talorc did naught but give Niall a halfhearted glare and a shake of his head, Circin frowned much more fiercely. “You accept such an insult from your warrior?”

  “Niall did not insult me, nor did my wife.” He looked at Abigail, who was definitely smirking now. “Did you?”

  “Nay, my laird. I would never do so.”

  Circin looked wholly unconvinced. “But—”

  “In fact, I have full confidence that my wife will readily promise to eat only that which I proved for the next week.”

  “Certainly,” Abigail said promptly.

  Only then did the Donegal youth catch on. “You were teasing your laird.”

  An almost silent giggle issued from her throat. “Yes.”

  “No one teases the Donegal laird.”

  “Not even his wife?” Abigail asked.

  “Our lady died ten years ago.”

  “That explains it. He’s probably still grieving,” Abigail said, clearly tongue in cheek.

  The young soldier nodded quite seriously. “Aye. That he is. The biggest part of his heart died with her. They were true mates.”

  “It is good for a husband and wife to be friends,” Abigail observed, clearly mistaking the meaning of the word mates.

  Circin gave Abigail a confused look that went right past her as she studied Talorc’s face. He stared back.

  “Do you agree?” she asked, a wistful expression on her pretty oval features.

  “’Twould be enough to wish not to be enemies,” was all he was willing to concede.

  How could he be friends with a woman born and raised Sassenach? He would never have a true mate now that he had accepted her into his bed. He would not be able to father children, for a Chrechte could not have offspring with a human unless a true mate bond existed. He, who believed strongly in preserving the Chrechte, would not be able to pass his own wolf nature on to the next generation.

  The thought had him surging to his feet. “I will take the first patrol.”

  Abigail paced, her attention drifting to the cavern entrance every few steps. It remained as empty as it had been since she said her good-nights to the warriors and found her way to her and Talorc’s temporary sleeping chamber.

  Her husband had disappeared at the end of dinner and not returned since. At first, she had been relieved by his absence. His cruel comment regarding not being enemies with his wife being enough to wish for had put her on the verge of tears. Coupled with the way he had ignored her all day to hunt, on foot yet, left her in no doubt about how he saw her.

  As an unwelcome interloper.

  Just like her parents.

  For just a little while, when he had taken such tender care of her after consummating their marriage the night before, she had let herself begin to believe it might be different.

  Only, no matter what he had said during the Chrechte marriage ritual about her no longer being English, regardless of how deeply emotional their physical joining had felt to her, he did not care for her. She had been a fool to think one day he might. An absolute fool. The intense physical intimacy that had been so transforming for her had meant less than nothing to him.

  She was his enemy. That she was his wife could not cancel out that salient fact.

  She could not credit her own stupidity in allowing even a tendril of hope to grow that there might be a place for her among his clan, even once they learned the truth of her deafness. Talorc would be only too happy to use the deception as an excuse to get rid of his unwanted English wife. Just as she had first believed.

  She swiped at the moisture trying to pool in her eyes. She would not cry. She would not.

  Nor would she have Talorc return to find her pacing with impatience for his arrival.

  With that thought in mind, she stripped to her shift and climbed between the furs to force or feign sleep. Either would work, so long as Talorc did not realize how hurt she was to learn her idiotic hopes had been just that.

  Chapter 10

  Only one torch burned in the cavern when Talorc entered sometime after midnight. The water of the pool looked like obsidian in the muted amber light. He contemplated soaking in it before joining Abigail, but he recognized it for the stalling tactic it was and turned from the pool to look at his wife.

  She slept fitfully, having kicked off the fur that should be covering her beautiful body. She was wearing her shift, though she had not done so since attempting to the night of their wedding. If preserving her modesty was her goal, she had failed miserably. The undergarment had ridden up her thighs until the pretty blond curls that covered her mound were revealed.

  Her shapely legs glowed in the soft light, beckoning him to touch. Everything about his wife’s body appealed to his senses and his wolf’s nature. Instead of pouting like a little boy deprived of his lifemate, Talorc should be grateful he at least found Abigail desirable.

  He hadn’t her sister.

  He did not know why he had avoided the lovely blonde gracing his furs tonight. Their situation was less her fault than his. He, at least, could have chosen to disregard his king’s desires. Again. Abigail’s stepfather might have offered to refuse the marriage, but the reality was Abigail’s mother would have made her life even more a misery if the baron had been fool enough to do it.

  And Talorc would have been forced to kill him. After all, he had decided to accept the marriage knowing the cost of doing so from the moment he sent his demands to his king.

  Besides, he wanted his wife. One of the few compensations from this ill-conceived marriage was the fact he was free to have sex with her as frequently as they both desired. And yet he had stupidly avoided her for a good part of the night.

  It might be past midnight, but he had finally wised up.

  Stripping off his plaid, he joined her on the furs, his cock already standing at attention and his wolf clamoring for touch. Talorc reached out and traced the curve of her soft, feminine belly with one fingertip.

  Her forehead wrinkling like she was frustrated, Abigail shifted toward him in her sleep. He moved as well, readily allowing their bodies to settle against each other. She seemed to like that as she stopped moving and the lines of her face smoothed to peacefulness.

  If he did not know better, he would think she was part Chrechte, the way she reacted with almost animal-like instincts.

  Leaning down, he took a deep breath, inhaling her addictive fragrance. Emily had not smelled this good; no woman ever had. But his lovely wife’s natural perfume was like wildflowers on the floor of Heaven t
o his wolf’s senses. Unable to help himself, Talorc nuzzled into the smooth skin of her neck.

  She tilted her head back in an unconscious gesture of submission that went straight to his sex and his wolf’s spirit.

  He continued to nuzzle her until the urge to scent her in the way of his people grew irrepressible. He rubbed his cheek against hers on one side of her face and then the other. His wolf cried out for Talorc to change and to scent his mate properly, but he resisted. Abigail would no doubt have heart failure were she to wake to a giant gray wolf rubbing his muzzle against her cheeks and neck.

  She’d been terrified enough meeting him in the woods. She had an unhealthy fear of wild animals he would have to help her get past. ’Twas a good thing he had no intention of ever revealing his wolf nature to his wife. Even if he could trust her with his secrets, her terror would remain a barrier between them.

  So, scenting her as a man would have to do. It would be enough to mark her as his for the other Chrechte. Now that they had access to water for washing, his fastidious wife would not leave the scent of their lovemaking rubbed into her skin.

  Unfortunately.

  Abigail’s breath hitched and then changed to reflect a waking state. Her smell changed subtly as she experienced some kind of agitation. Tension crept into her limbs even though she had not moved. He lifted his head to meet her eyes.

  She blinked sleepily at him, something unreadable in the brown depth of her gaze. “You’re here.”

  He did not ask where else he should be, considering he had spent most of the night away from their temporary bed. He simply nodded and then covered her lips with his before she could say anything else, or ask any questions he did not want to answer.

  She went rigid against him, all implications of unconscious surrender disappearing as she jerked her face away from his and broke the kiss.

  He reared up to lean on his arms above her. “What is wrong, angel?” Then a thought struck him. “Are you still sore?”

  She did not reply, keeping her face averted so he could not read her expression.