by Lucy Monroe
Abigail found herself smiling at the claim, despite the seriousness of the argument between two of her favorite Sinclairs.
“Is she?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Yes, what did that mean? Abigail would like to know, too.
“You spent the night in her bedchamber.”
“You dare to imply—”
“I’m not implying anything.” Niall rubbed his hand over his face. “Just leave it, Guaire.”
“I won’t leave it. Our lady deserves better than you are giving her.”
“I would protect her with my life.”
Abigail believed him; there was nothing but sincerity and an inexplicable sadness in his eyes.
“She is more than a responsibility to you.” Guaire was not giving any quarter. “She is your friend. Or at least I thought so.”
“I believed so as well.”
“What? So you don’t believe it any longer?”
“She deceived my laird. She hurt him. She deceived me.”
“She had her reasons.”
“They don’t matter.”
Abigail feared her husband shared his warrior’s belief.
“They do.”
“She doesn’t need my friendship, she has yours.”
Abigail could not stand it any longer. She headed toward the two arguing men. So intent was she on reaching them she did not immediately take note of the vibrations of the ground. When she did, she instinctively moved to the side, turning to see what was making the earth shake.
Talorc’s giant black stallion was almost upon her. She’d moved away from his path, but not enough. Realizing it, she dived to the ground, rolling farther away from the deadly path of the beast.
She felt the rush of air as he charged behind her. Now that was what she called close. Shaking a little from the near mishap, she stood and dusted off her plaid. Only then did she notice the soldiers running toward her.
Niall got there first. “Are you harmed?”
“No.” She tried a tentative smile that was not returned. “Just a little shaken.”
“Several of the clan yelled a warning, but you did not hear.” He didn’t appear to be making an accusation so much as an observation.
Nevertheless, a blush of humiliation crawled up her body. “No, I do not hear anything.”
“How did you know to move away, then?” he asked, curiosity and concern both there for her to see in the way he watched her.
“I felt the earth pound beneath my feet.”
“Aye, that is our lady,” one of the soldiers said.
The sting of humiliation faded a little.
Guaire reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “Well done.” He glared up at Niall. “Even if some are too damn stubborn and mean to admit it.”
She grabbed Guaire’s hand. “Don’t.”
“I’ll not tolerate him treating you so coldly.”
“Guaire …” She sighed and said what needed saying. “My deception hurt him.”
“I do not need you defending me to my … to Guaire,” Niall said, a sulfuric glare encompassing them both. Then he stormed away, toward the training ground, knocking two soldiers right on their bums on the way.
“What is the matter with him?” Earc asked.
Abigail and Guaire both shrugged helplessly. Barr came walking up, leading the still-agitated beast between two of the more seasoned Chrechte soldiers.
“Is he all right?”
“Is who all right, lady?” Earc asked.
“Talorc’s horse,” she said, replying to Earc but fixing her gaze on Barr.
“He is under control.”
“You must find whoever is responsible for upsetting him so. I dare say you’ll find the culprit among the youth. A prank they had no idea could have such serious consequences, but that cannot be repeated.” She bit her lip, looking at the poor lathered horse. “I wish Talorc were here, he could calm the beast more quickly.”
“If our laird were back from hunting, I do not believe his first concern would be for his horse,” Barr said with an amused look.
Abigail grimaced. “If you say so.” But she wasn’t convinced of Barr’s point of view. Not at all.
“What’s got Niall in a more foul mood than usual?” Earc asked. “Even with a hangover, he isn’t usually such a bastard.”
Barr glared at the warrior.
“That is, I mean …” Earc stumbled over his words most uncharacteristically.
Barr looked at Abigail’s hand still resting on Guaire’s. “I believe you will find the reason for my brother’s anger in something other than the tail end of a whiskey cask.”
Abigail dropped her hand, still not really understanding what had Niall so upset. She thought it was discovering her secret, but now Barr implied Niall was jealous maybe? Of what? Her friendship with Guaire? That made no sense.
He was not so petty.
Without further elucidation, Barr led the horse toward the stables.
Guaire watched the other man’s progress for several seconds before shaking his head and sighing. He turned to Abigail. “Are you ready to return to the keep?”
“I don’t think you can call that stone castle a keep,” she said, renewing an argument they’d had when she first arrived.
“But castles are taxed, my lady.”
“Then by all means, lead me to the keep.”
They made it there eventually. After several clan members had expressed both their gladness that Abigail had not been hurt and their appreciation of her cleverness in moving out of the horse’s way despite her inability to hear the shouted warnings.
Talorc returned to the fortress just before the evening meal. His hunt had been successful and he delivered the boar to Una in the kitchens.
She praised his hunting skills and then gave him a look of commiseration. “I am sorry, laird.”
“What are you sorry for?” he asked, with little interest. His thoughts were elsewhere, as they had been all day.
“That you were tricked into marrying a woman both flawed and so full of deceptive wiles.” She made a tsk sound and shook her head. “I don’t know why the rest of the clan is behaving as if she managed some great feat in deceiving us all.”
He didn’t either, but he was grateful if that were true. He wasn’t looking forward to having to protect Abigail from her own clan.
Not really wanting to get into a discussion with the widow, he simply shrugged. And then could not help thinking the action would have had his angel glaring at him rather than looking overly sympathetic as Una did.
Feeling uncomfortable from the brief conversation for no reason he could fathom, Talorc went to the great hall to join his soldiers and his wife.
She was already seated in her customary place at the banquet table. Her hair shone golden, her curls smooth as if she had just brushed them. She’d donned one of her embroidered blouses with her plaid and it struck him she had made her best efforts to look lovely for him.
At least it had better be for him.
He looked down at his plaid with small blood spatters caused by carrying the pig and gave a mental shrug. He was no woman to worry about his appearance, but perhaps he could have washed off the sweat from his walk back to the fortress before joining her in the hall.
There was nothing to be done about it now. He walked toward the table, his attention fixed on his wife.
She was blushing and looking mildly distressed. He frowned and listened to what was being said around him. The hall was abuzz with something to do with his horse and his wife. Had she tried to ride him? He thought the stallion had shown a great deal of tolerance for her thus far.
She looked up with shock on her porcelain features when he touched her shoulder to let her know he was there. “You have returned.”
“As you see.”
“Was your hunt successful?”
“Yes. We will have boar tomorrow.” They would have had it today, but the one he’d killed the day before had been s
cavenged by other predators. It was only to be expected when he had left it there for them to find.
He took his seat beside his wife and turned to Barr. “What has happened with my horse and my wife in my absence?”
“Someone tormented the stallion into a lather and then released him from the stable on a rampage.”
Talorc had barely taken Barr’s words in when Earc said with relish, “Your wife was directly in the horse’s path.”
A subsonic growl of fury rumbled in his throat, making the other Chrechte around the table send back immediate growls of submission. Only the fact that she was sitting there looking unharmed in any way kept him from roaring out his anger.
He turned abruptly to face his wife. “You are well?”
“Right as rain.” She even smiled.
“Someone saved her. Who?” he asked Barr.
“She saved herself. She didn’t hear the shouts of warning, but she noticed the earth trembling beneath her feet,” he said with clear admiration.
Hell, Talorc was more than a little impressed himself. “Where was her escort?”
From the look on Barr’s face, that was the first time the question had occurred to him. “I do not know, Talorc. Who did you assign to escort her today?”
Talorc’s memory flew back to that morning and his leave-taking from the fortress. He had not assigned anyone the specific duty of watching his wife. He rotated the duty amongst his soldiers daily, so none missed too much training time. Despite the fact that he had not assigned a soldier to the task, his wife knew better than to leave the tower without an escort.
“You know you are supposed to be escorted when you leave our room,” he censured her.
A wisp of something like anger passed through her beautiful brown eyes before she blinked and it was gone. “I was never alone.”
“If you had an escort, you never would have been in danger.”
“I avoided the danger on my own. I’ve been doing so for years.”
“She’s a liability to the clan. Anyone can see it,” Osgard said angrily from his place down the table.
Talorc looked at his wife to see her reaction to the old man’s words, but she appeared not to have noted them. It struck him then that she rarely looked in Osgard’s direction. Considering the fact that she could not “hear” him if she did not see him, her behavior effectively eliminated the crotchety warrior from her notice.
It was an effective way to deal with his advisor’s annoying inability to accept his new lady. Talorc had to admire the simplicity and ingenuity of it as well.
He turned so she could not see his lips either and glowered at his advisor. “She is my wife.”
“To hell with the clan, then?”
“Watch yourself, Osgard. You will go too far with your prejudice and find yourself living with your great-niece in an already crowded cottage.”
“It wasn’t the clan in danger today, but our lady,” Guaire said from his customary place on the other side of Abigail.
“I wasn’t actually in any more danger than anyone else,” Abigail asserted, obviously having read Guaire’s lips.
Osgard snorted, but several soldiers nodded in agreement, their respect for their lady clear.
“What did the stable master have to say?” Talorc asked Barr.
“He did not see anyone.”
“No one at all?”
Barr shook his head. “He was training one of the young mares in the paddock, so was nowhere near the stable at the time your horse got out.”
“And the stallion?”
“Shows signs of being whipped on his left flank.”
Talorc let out a growl that had several warriors’ heads snapping up. “Did you check for scent?”
“There was naught but the stable master and his helper, and nothing in the whip marks themselves at all.”
Talorc frowned at that. Whoever had played the prank clearly knew enough to avoid detection by masking their scent. In addition, they had been careful to use an implement that they had not touched at the end used to whip the horse. “You think one of the boys?”
“It could be.” Barr was a cautious man and would not accuse without some indication of guilt.
Not even youths known for their pranks.
Despite being unsure what her husband was feeling toward her, Abigail found the evening meal surprisingly pleasant. It was more relaxing than any meal she had eaten in the presence of others since coming downstairs for the first time after her fever when she was ten. She did not have to worry about revealing her secret anymore.
The release of pressure was most amazing. No one got impatient with her when she missed something they said. Everyone acted like her ability to understand them was some great talent, that she was something special.
Not someone cursed.
“Did you hide your deafness among your English family?” Earc, ever the curious one, asked.
“Of course. Only my mother, stepfather and eventually my younger sister Jolenta knew.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“At best my affliction was considered a great misfortune.”
“And at worst?” Earc prompted.
“Many priests teach that to be so infirm indicates possession by a demon.”
“Are English priests so gullible, then?” Fionn asked. “Or are you expecting us to be by believing you?”
“I assure you, it is the truth.” She only wished it was not. “The abbess says they cry demon when they cannot explain why a fever leaves one person deaf or blind but another untouched by any such difficulty.”
“Your abbess sounds like a wise woman,” Guaire said.
“I never met her. We only corresponded through letters, but I counted her friend. She was the only person besides my sister Emily who found value in me after discovering my affliction.”
Talorc took hold of her face and turned her head so their eyes met. “Stop calling your deafness an affliction.”
The rest of the room ceased to exist for her. “It is—”
“An infirmity, though not much of one in your case. You have learned to compensate for it in amazing ways.”
“I have no choice. I did not want to live the rest of my days in a nunnery’s locked cell.” She shivered at the thought that still plagued her dreams some nights.
“You had a choice, but you did not give up.” He shook his head, looking puzzled, but she did not know what by. “The only true misfortune is the idiocy your parents showed upon learning of your changed circumstances.”
“Emily protected me from my mother’s wrath.” As much as she had been able to anyway.
“There should have been no wrath. You did not make yourself deaf.”
“She always blamed me. I was supposed to make a good match and forward her social ambition.”
“Marriage to a laird should please any mother.”
“Sybil was just glad to get rid of me, but my younger sister Jolenta was jealous.”
“It matters not. You are now mine to protect.”
Abigail stared at him, not sure how to take that. Just yesterday, he had said there was no place for her in the clan. Now he acted as if he had no intention of banishing her. She wanted to know his plans but was not about to ask about them in front of his soldiers.
Someone must have said something because Talorc frowned and looked over his shoulder. He spoke, his face averted so she could not read his lips. Osgard got up and stormed from the great hall.
“He does that a lot,” she said quietly.
Talorc returned his attention to her. “What?”
“Osgard is of an age to be revered, but he acts the child, storming off.” She bit her lip, hoping she had not gone too far in criticizing the old man.
“He paid a great price when my father’s second wife betrayed our clan to her English lover.”
She gently pulled her face from his hold and turned to Guaire, refusing to hear again how she was held responsible for the heinous actions of a dead woman. “When
is the next trade gathering?” she asked the seneschal in what she hoped was not an obvious bid to change the subject.
“In the early fall.”
“Will we attend?”
“The Sinclair always sends a delegation.”
“He does not go?” Abigail asked, disappointed. “I would have liked to go.”
Guaire looked past her to Talorc and then had to bite back a smile. “I believe your husband would like your attention.”
She turned to Talorc, determined not to answer if he made another comment about the infamous Tamara or the betrayal of the English. From the fierceness of the frown on his face, that was exactly what he was thinking about.
She stifled a sigh. “Yes?”
“Would you like to attend the gathering?” he asked, each word bitten off.
Shock had her eyes widening, but she was no fool, no matter what Sybil said. “Very much so.”
“Then we will attend.”
“Will I see Emily there?” Excitement coursed through her.
Talorc’s countenance, which had just begun to lighten, went dark again. “I do not know.”
“She is my sister and I love her.”
“I know how much.”
“Please, Talorc …” She pleaded to him with her eyes not to get into her sins in front of his soldiers.
“I will make sure the Balmoral is made aware of our intention to attend.”
Pleased at her husband’s kindness, tears of frustration still clogged her throat as she forced out a simple “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. It is my duty to provide for your happiness.”
Rather than feeling defeat at his reasoning behind his kindness, Abigail was glad. “Few husbands would see it so. You are a good man, Talorc.”
“Chrechte know their responsibilities to their mates.”
“Is a friend more important than a wife?”
He didn’t answer, choosing instead to ask Barr a question about the soldiers’ training that day.
She leaned toward Guaire and whispered, “He can be very abrupt.”
“He is laird. He does not waste words.”
“Is an answer a waste of words?”
When Guaire shrugged, the knowing expression in his eyes told her he remembered her complaint about that particular gesture so favored by the Highland warriors.
