The massive warrior’s body shuddered at her touch, and she could not help feeling as if she had accomplished something special.
Suddenly he lifted her from the water, breaking her hold on his manhood. “That is enough.”
“You are clean?” she teased, shocking herself.
He gave her a heavy-lidded look that promised pleasure and something else . . . claiming. “It is time.”
She could not respond. She would not deny her own desire. For that would be a lie, but she could not force agreement from her tight throat either.
For the longest time, he simply looked at her. His eyes seemed to glow yellow in the torchlight. “You are so beautiful.”
“Not like you,” she choked out.
He jerked as if surprised by her words. But how could he be? The Sinclair laird was a study in male perfection.
Long black hair gleamed darker than the night around handsomely chiseled features that bespoke relentless strength and fierce pride. His big, well-honed warrior’s body was only the physical manifestation of that strength. Eyes that continued to astonish her with their bright blue depths revealed an inner power she had seen in no other man. They said Talorc could be nothing less than laird of his people; no other position would do for the man so clearly born to lead.
Right now those eyes glowed with striations of gold that sent pinpricks of sensation down her spine.
Strangely, she found that incredibly alluring rather than frightening. This man had authority over her life as only her parents had before him. He was so much stronger than either her mother or stepfather. His personality and form should intimidate, but she felt inexplicable safety. In this moment, Abigail did not worry Talorc would use either his mental or physical power to hurt her.
No, his intent to give her pleasure was undeniable. Baffled by the truth but unable to deny it, she craved the experience. Of all the scenarios she had entertained in her worried imaginings before leaving her stepfather’s keep, none had included her being attracted to her Scottish husband. Even in her most closely held dreams, she had not let herself imagine desiring Talorc, wanting to be claimed by him—much less needing to claim him, too.
But he was everything desirable.
Each of his muscles was sculpted as if honed by the most talented of artists. And had they not been? Surely God had given her husband more than his share of masculine beauty as well as inner power only a select few in history would ever know.
“You are amazing to me,” she admitted, not sure her voice was working.
He said something she could not understand.
Fear that she did not want in this place washed over her. “Please. I don’t . . .”
Please don’t talk. Please don’t expose her secret before revealing the full mysteries of the marriage bed. Could she not have one time of normalcy in her life? One thing not marred or ruined entirely by her affliction?
“It is Chrechte.”
Relief did not cancel out the fear that had become too much a part of her, but it was still welcome. “I do not understand Chrechte.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“What did you say?”
“I called you an angel.”
“An angel?”
“Aye. When Cait and I were children, my mother told us angels were beings with hair the color of spun gold and beauty to rival our own blessed Highlands.”
“You see me that way?”
“’Tis the only way to see you.”
“Oh.”
“I also said you are mine. My angel.”
“Oh.” She would not . . . could not . . . deny that.
He lowered her until they were eye level. “Now you say it.”
“I am yours.” Though she would not call herself an angel.
He spoke again in the ancient tongue. Then in Gaelic, “I belong to you.”
She didn’t wait for him to instruct her to repeat the phrase. “You belong to me.” At least until he knew her damning truth.
“I promised to protect you during our marriage ceremony and you promised to accept my protection. Now I promise to keep you as my mate for our lives forward.”
Why did it seem he spoke the word mate with a finality not even wife could embody? Could the lifetime promise be real? Or were even Chrechte vows subject to her defect? “I promise to protect you to the best of my abilities and to be your mate for as long as you want me.”
He frowned at her addition, or was it her caveat? “Now it is time for the Chrechte blessing. I will speak it as both pack leader and your husband.”
“That sounds nice.” Better than the priest’s hasty blessing as Talorc strode with her from the chapel.
He carried her from the pool and stood her on the furs. Then he dropped to his knees and tugged her down in front of him. Kneeling, they faced each other. His expression was so intent she could barely breathe. He tipped his head back slightly and said something, as if issuing a command. She did not understand, but he did not look at her expectantly, as if she should.
Then she thought she knew who he had spoken to as two warriors came into her sight. They took a stance behind Talorc as she realized they had not come into the cavern alone. All of his soldiers now stood in a circle around her and Talorc. None of them wore their plaid, or anything else.
She should be mortified—both by their nudity and hers, but she wasn’t. It felt inexplicably fitting—as if she had been born to this obviously ancient Chrechte rite. It helped that none of the men were looking at her. They had their backs to her and Talorc, their heads tilted as if looking toward the heavens.
Each of the soldiers had a simplistic indigo marking of a wolf on his left shoulder blade. Talorc had that tattoo as well. Was that their Chrechte marking?
Her gaze slid from the big soldiers to her husband. He was looking at her with a patience she had not expected from a man who had declared it was time for them to consummate their marriage. He put his hands out and she laid hers in them.
He nodded and then began speaking.
The blessing went on for long moments in the language she had no hope of deciphering. Nevertheless, a sense of well-being grew inside her with each word he uttered. She did not know what the blessing entailed, but she could tell from the serious expression in Talorc’s glowing eyes that it was important to him.
He stopped speaking, but neither of them moved. The air around them was completely still, indicating the soldiers had not moved either. They were all waiting for something. She could feel it. But she could not guess what it was.
He tilted his head back like his soldiers, drawing her attention entirely to him. His expression had turned feral, his eyes glowing once again with that strange light. Talorc opened his mouth and she thought he howled.
Unable to hear it, she could not be sure. Whatever it was, she felt a mystifying need to share the experience. Without conscious thought, she reached out with one hand and laid it on his chest so she could feel the vibration of sound through her fingertips. He was howling.
Truly. Just like a wolf.
And she thought the others were as well, their heads thrown back, their arms reaching high, palms out. The air shimmered with the sound she could not hear, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up and goose bumps rise on her exposed limbs.
Then, as suddenly as he had begun, he stopped. The other men lowered their arms, and she could feel that they had stopped howling as well. One by one, they came to her and Talorc. Each man dropped to one knee beside them, speaking some Chrechte pledge before bowing their heads and then leaving the cavern.
When she and Talorc were once again alone, he released her hand and cupped her face with both of his. “You are no longer English.”