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 to 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.
That bothered him more than he cared to admit and he carefully grasped her chin to turn her head so their eyes met. “Answer me.”
She stared at him, her soft brown gaze shimmering with what looked like resignation.
“You are sore. It is all right. We will wait until you have healed.” He was no monster.
“I am not sore.”
“Then why did you turn away?” he demanded with exasperation.
“How can you share your body with your enemy?”
“I would not.” Disgust at the idea laced his voice.
Her brows drew together in confusion. “You said I was your enemy when we were eating the evening meal.”
“I did not.”
“You did. I do not always understand . . .” She hesitated and blew out a clearly frustrated breath. “Gaelic. I do not always understand Gaelic perfectly. It is not my first language, but I know the word for enemy.”
He mentally reviewed each word he said to her over the evening meal and comprehension finally dawned. “I said it was enough that you and I are not enemies, I do not expect us to be friends.”
Her eyes glowed with pleasure, but dimmed almost as quickly as he finished speaking.
“You do not think we can be friends?”
She was formerly English. She was a woman. She was not Chrechte and could never know of that important part of himself. There was only one answer to her question, but he could not force the negative out. So, he shrugged and watched with amusement as her eyes narrowed in what could be only described as an adorable glare.
“That is not an answer.”
“Aye, my angel, it is.”
Her lips parted, but before she could argue, he covered them again with his mouth. This time, he took advantage of the opening and thrust his tongue forward to claim her sweetness.
Unlike a moment ago, her response was instant and blatant. She had really been bothered by the idea that he saw her as an enemy. Women were strange creatures with minds unfathomable.
He would never bed his enemy, but he would not be overly worried if she considered him less than trustworthy. He would still bury himself in her softness. Not that she would distrust him. He was the Sinclair, and by her words and actions, she had shown she knew what that meant—at least to the extent that she trusted her safety in his hands.
For her to refuse intimacy because she thought he viewed her in a negative light when she so clearly enjoyed making love was overly refined thinking. ’Twas most likely the result of her more civilized English manners.