And there was naught she could do about it.
Talorc did not know what caused his new bride to draw back into herself, but he admitted, if only to himself, he did not like it.
He had enjoyed her pleasure in the ride, her laughter a truly beautiful sound. He shook his head. He was going as daft as she claimed him to be if he thought an Englishwoman’s laughter beautiful.
But she was not English any longer, was she? She was his.
Or so his wolf and his king claimed.
The beast had never laid such certain claim to another, not the members of his pack, not even of his family. The wolf howled for the moment when they reached Sinclair lands so they could claim Abigail in the most basic and irrevocable of ways. Words could be dismissed, but joining his body to hers could not be undone.
When Talorc called a halt to his men for the night, Abigail’s joy in the ride had given way to numb exhaustion. They had stopped only twice to water the horses, and only one of those times had they dismounted. They had eaten bread and cheese then, but that had been hours ago. Yet, as hungry as Abigail was, she was too tired to contemplate eating.
She stumbled into the forest to deal with her body’s most pressing needs. When she returned to the men and horses, Niall and one of the other warriors were erecting a small tent of skins.
He noticed her when she came near and nodded, his frowning visage not changing, but there was an understanding in his gray eyes that nearly moved her to tears.
“I thought Highlanders slept under the stars,” she found the energy to tease.
He smiled at that, pulling the scars on the left side of his face into a twisted grimace. “It’s for you, English.”
“Oh.” She swallowed inexplicable tears. “Thank you.”
He shrugged and she decided that was the Scottish warrior’s answer when he did not want to be bothered with speaking.
When the other soldier finished putting furs inside the tent for her to sleep in, he left and only then did Abigail’s tired brain tell her she had been rude not to ask Niall for an introduction. When she said so, the giant scarred warrior gave her an odd look.
“Talorc will make them known to you at the proper time.”
“Oh.” She did not know what that meant and was too fatigued to try to make sense of it.
She turned toward the tent and stumbled. Niall was there faster than she could have imagined possible, stopping her from falling on her face.
She looked up at him with gratitude. “Thank you.”
He held her arm, obviously concerned she would stumble again. “Are you all right?”
When was the last time anyone had inquired after her with no more reason than basic human concern? These Chrechte warriors might not be civilized, but they showed more care for her well-being than her family.
She brought forth a smile, a weary effort at best. “Merely tired. It has been a . . . complicated . . . two weeks.”
“Preparation for marriage is that way for women, I have heard.” He dropped her arm but stayed close enough to be of assistance should she need it.
“I did not know I was preparing for marriage. I believed I was going to Scotland to visit my sister, Emily.” She was not sure why she had admitted it; maybe it fell under being as honest as she could be. More likely it was simply that she trusted this big, scarred warrior as a friend. For no more reason than her heart told her she could.
“The Balmoral’s wife?” he asked, confusion lurking in his gray eyes.
“Yes.”
“I do not understand. Your father petitioned your English king for redress when she married the wrong laird. Your marriage to our leader has been a foregone conclusion—at least to our monarchs—these past weeks.”
“I did not know that.”
Niall looked at her with pity and something else. Something that told her she was right to trust him as friend. Understanding. “When did you learn you were to be married?”
“The day before we left my stepfather’s keep.”
Looking properly furious, Niall nodded as if agreeing to something someone said, and his gaze fixed on something behind Abigail.
Chapter 5
She turned to find her new husband standing not a foot behind her. Normally, she was much more aware than this. It must be her exhaustion.
“Hello, Talorc.”
“I will not apologize.”
“I will not ask you to,” she said, trying to figure out why he thought she expected it.
“It was her idea, wasn’t it?”
Ah, he had overheard her conversation with his soldier and had correctly surmised her mother’s machinations had been behind Abigail’s ignorance. Maybe he had called Sybil an indelicate name?
Abigail did not care. “Yes. She did not think I needed to know the plans for my future.”
Neither man asked Abigail why her mother would treat her so cruelly. Thank goodness. They probably attributed it to the fact Sybil was English.
Talorc winced. “When I arranged my sister’s first wedding, I told her the moment the plans were finalized.”
Emily used to remind Abigail that tone of voice held as much or more meaning than the words people spoke, but Abigail could not even remember what those tones might sound like. She only knew that when watched closely, a person’s face told its own story. One that did not always agree with the spoken word either.
Talorc’s expression was a mixture of chagrin and righteousness, both at odds with his claim.
“That was the same night he had her wed to his second-in-command,” Niall said with a wink.
Ah, that explained it. Her husband had no wish to think he was like the Englishwoman he had called bitch.
“’Twas not the same. I had not arranged her mating with a stranger from a foreign land. Caitriona knew Sean from the time she was a babe, and they liked each other well enough.” But something in Talorc’s expression told Abigail he felt guilt for his actions all the same.
She liked him for that. He cared that he might have hurt his sister. It was something Abigail could cling to in regard to her own future. She hoped.
“The first time she wed?” she asked.
“Sean died in battle. Cait wed Drustan, second-in-command to the Balmoral, after.”
“No wonder you are now allies.”
Niall snorted. It was not words but an expression of disbelief that Abigail had seen far too many times not to recognize. Talorc gave his soldier a quelling glare—with little appreciable effect.
“Your sister and my own would have it no other way,” Talorc said.
There was definitely more to it than he was saying, but Abigail was caught by one truth above all others. “And you listened to them?” she asked in true shock.
Her stepfather never admitted to taking the advice of a woman, even Sybil’s.
“It was a good alliance to make.”
“Aye, it was.” Niall inclined his head toward Abigail. “Your bride is so tired, she can barely stand.”
“She needs to eat.”
“Let her eat in the tent, where she can sleep after.”
“You think to advise me how to treat my bride?” Talorc asked, looking dangerous.
“Why not?” Abigail asked. “He is your second-in-command, isn’t he? Surely he is allowed to have an opinion.” She wasn’t trying to be rude but realized after speaking that her questions could be taken that way. She simply wanted to understand the Highlander’s way of things.
Niall’s smile might be considered frightening by some, but Abigail saw the honest amusement lurking in his gray eyes. “Your wife is feistier than I thought.”
“She is.”
“She does not flinch from me.” He appeared both pleased and astounded by that fact.
“I noticed you held her arm.”
“She would have fallen otherwise.” Niall’s head bowed in apology.