He lifted a brow to his bride, asking why she had not complied with his request.
In a move that surprised him and clearly Sir Reuben as well, she dropped her stepfather’s arm, stepped around him and took Talorc’s hand.
He nodded, grasping her hand firmly and turned to face the priest.
The man looked flustered and took several moments to collect himself before beginning the service. In Gaelic, after only one false start.
Talorc spoke the vows of his people in Chrechte when the time came, ignoring the murmurs around him. When his bride’s turn came, he moved her so they saw only each other, not the rest of the congregation gathered as witnesses. He told her the vows to speak, speaking slowly so she would not stumble on the unfamiliar words.
Her expression puzzled, but accepting, she whispered them back to him, making lifetime promises he was determined she would keep.
Her mother had a fit then, demanding their vows be repeated in English. Talorc ignored her until the priest intervened.
“I have married her in the way of my people,” Talorc said in Gaelic.
The priest nodded. However, when he told Lady Hamilton in English what Talorc had said, the older woman refused to be appeased.
Talorc did not care. The vicious bitch’s opinion was of no importance to him. Bored with the argument and unwilling to stay in the company of the English any longer, he swung his new wife into his arms and carried her out of the chapel.
Abigail’s arms flew around his neck, but she did not fight him. Nor did she make so much as a peep in surprise. He looked down at her only to find her gazing at him with an expression bordering on panic in her dark brown eyes.
“You are mine now.”
“I know.”
“You have no need to worry.”
“Was the wedding over? The priest did not say the final blessing.”
“We spoke the blessing ourselves as befits my people.”
“I did not think the Scottish were so different from the English.”
“I am from the north. We have not taken on your civilized ways.”
“A priest’s blessing is civilized?”
“It is unnecessary. He spoke the words that made us man and wife and we said our vows.”
“All right.”
He should have been glad she gave up so easily, but again he worried about her spirit when faced with the people of his clan. They were not cruel usually, but they respected strength and abhorred weakness.
Sir Reuben shouted something behind them, but Talorc ignored the baron just as he had the man’s wife.
His warriors had followed him out of the chapel and were already mounting their horses, clearly as eager as he to get out of the Lowlands. He went straight to his horse, but when he went to toss Abigail on its back, she squirmed from his arms faster than he would have thought possible for a human.
He grabbed her arm before she could dart to the cottage.
She frowned up at him. “I need my things.”
“No.”
She shook her head and twisted from his grasp with shocking agility.
He went to grab her again, but she backed up. “Please. I have gifts for Emily.”
“She needs nothing from England.”
“Thank you for your opinion on the matter, but I must disagree.” She spun and headed toward the cottage.
She had disobeyed him. The shock kept him from going after her at first.
“What is she doing?” Niall asked.
“Getting her gifts for her sister.”
“The Balmoral will not like his wife receiving tokens from our enemy’s land.”
“I know. ’Tis why I have chosen to allow Abigail to get the things.”
Niall laughed. “His wife will be grateful.”
“’Tis another reason to allow Abigail leeway in this.”
“Aye.”
The Balmoral might now be his ally, but Talorc did enjoy needling the man.
Just when Talorc was considering the possibility Abigail had taken refuge in the cottage rather than merely gathering her belongings, she came out. She was carrying one large and two small bundles.
He glared. “You’ll not wear English clothes as my wife.”
“I left all but what I wear now behind,” she said, showing more sense than he thought one born a Sassenach might have. “These are the gifts, my sewing and other personal things, and herbs for healing.”
The English baron and his wife had come out of the chapel and had spent the last few moments haranguing the priest. But even a holy man knew better than to question the will of the Sinclair. He had refused to demand further concession on the wedding vows.
So, now they were shouting at Talorc, demanding to be heard.
Talorc derived marginal pleasure from ignoring them. He looked at the MacDonald. “Do you have a woman who can help my wife don my colors?”
The laird of the Lowland clan nodded. “Aye, indeed.”
He waved his wife over and told her what Talorc wanted. The redheaded woman gave Talorc an approving nod before going to Abigail and guiding her back into the cottage, after handing her bundles to Talorc’s warriors.
The English baron had given up on the wedding and was now demanding Talorc share the nooning meal with them like a civilized man. As if Talorc desired to be such. Idiots.
“Surely you wish to partake of the game you hunted yesterday for just this occasion.”
He had hunted to avoid spending more time than necessary with the English. He had given his game to the MacDonald as thanks for the use of the clan’s holding to host the wedding demanded by their king’s edict.
When the other man did not seem to know he was supposed to shut up, Talorc turned to the baron with the full force of his displeasure. “I am neither civilized nor am I English. We leave as soon as my wife is garbed appropriately.”
“There was nothing wrong with her dress. Her clothes are the height of fashion.” Lady Hamilton looked mortally offended.
“Niall, inform this woman who thinks nothing of beating her daughter into submission how close to death she came.”
Niall said the appropriate words in English.
The woman started shrieking at her husband to take exception to such an insult.
Talorc turned to the baron. “You allowed her to harm what belongs to me. You live only because your daughter pled for your life.”
Niall started to translate into English, but the baron waved the words away. “I speak your language,” he said in English. “I was led to believe you speak English as well.”
“Our laird does not allow the language of traitors to pass his lips,” Niall said with harsh anger.
Instead of getting angry, as Talorc would have expected, Sir Reuben merely looked thoughtful. “Your father married Lady Tamara of Oborek.”
Talorc nodded.
“I would not wish such a match on my worst enemy.”
It was Talorc’s turn to be shocked, but he did not allow his surprise to show on his face.
“Sybil can be a grasping shrew, but she would not betray her house,” the baron said in Gaelic.
“That shrew will never see her daughter again.”
“I supposed as much.”
The woman in question was still complaining, but no one paid her any heed, not even her husband. She moved from complaint to wheedling, trying to talk Talorc into staying so Abigail could share a last meal with her family.
Since she continued to utter the profanity to his ears that was English, he made no attempt to answer. Or even acknowledge she was speaking.
A few minutes later, Talorc’s attention was drawn to Abigail coming from the cottage.
She wore a pale yellow blouse under his plaid. She looked worried, her lower lip caught between her teeth and her gaze flitting from one person to another so quickly it was like a butterfly lighting.
He put his hand out again and she seemed to relax a bit. She started walking toward him with a faster gait.
Her mother went to grab her arm rather than let her pass.
Talorc let out a subvocal growl, and the only thing that saved the abusive witch from his wolf was the MacDonald’s wife slapping the Englishwoman’s hand aside.