“You doubt my ability to read the signs?”
“Your father insisted Tamara was his true mate as well, but we all know how that turned out.” Osgard snorted. “The man was infatuated and that was that.”
“I am not infatuated with my wife.” He was protective of her, possessive in a way he never would have anticipated, but that was all because of the wolf. She was not just his wife. She was his sacred mate. “I have no intention of sharing the secrets of our clan or our people with her.”
“Your father did not intend to tell your mother about the Royal Treasure either, but he did it all the same.”
“I am not my father,” Talorc growled.
Osgard was still hurt from his former laird’s betrayal, but no one knew the pain of looking up to that man as sire and having all feelings of respect and admiration wiped out in a single night. No one but Talorc.
“Our lady does not know she is your mate?” Niall asked, scowling.
“She thinks it means we are true friends.” And Talorc refused to feel bad about that. Abigail was human. She would not understand anyway.
The fact that her sister seemed to in her bond with Lachlan of the Balmoral was not something Talorc wanted to examine closely.
Talorc’s words startled a laugh from Osgard. “The English are fools.”
“What is foolish about a woman mistaking a word that has more than one meaning?” Niall demanded. “There is no honor in making a gull of your sacred mate.”
“That is not my intention. She is not one of us; she does not need to know she is anything more than my wife. ’Tis all she expects as a human.”
Niall looked far from convinced.
Osgard frowned at the scarred warrior. “Has she ensnared you, then?”
“Our lady does not seek to snare. She is innocent and kind.” Niall crossed his arms in a stance that said he would not be moved. “I count her friend.”
Barr gasped.
“She does not fear me. She thinks I am romantic and kind.” Niall rolled his eyes. “She sees the best in people. ’Tis a strangely appealing trait. You’ll see.”
Osgard puffed up with anger as only an old Scotsman could. “I see the lass has you and our laird bamboozled.”
“She’s nothing like Tamara,” Talorc insisted, and he realized how deeply he believed the words as he spoke them. “She would never deceive me as that woman did my father.”
“Your feebleminded father believed the same.”
“Enough!” Talorc accepted much from Osgard, but this was going too far. He surged to his feet and loomed over the old man. “My father was your laird. He made a mistake in trusting the wrong woman and paid with his life. I learned from that mistake and will not repeat it. You should need no more than my word to accept that fact. Insulting his memory as you have just done is an affront to the title he wore.”
“Better cause offense than to watch this clan taken down by another scheming Englishwoman. I’ll not do it.”
“There is no falseness in my mate!” Talorc felt his eyes change and the world went black-and-white.
Osgard flinched back as all the color leached from his wrinkled skin. “My only concern is for the clan,” he said with much less vigor than before.
Talorc could respect the older man’s motivations, if not his opinions. “I’ll see to the protection of my people, as I have from the beginning of my leadership. But know this. My wolf demands protection of my sacred mate just as surely.”
Osgard grudgingly nodded, and then sighed. “I did not intend to speak insolence against ye, for all that I see you as the son I lost in that bloody, fiery battle, you are my laird, and I respect both your decisions and your commitment to your clan.”
The words were a major concession from the old warrior, and Talorc treated them with the respect they deserved, pounding his right fist over his heart with a nod.
Though it was late afternoon when they arrived at the Sinclair holding, Abigail declined Guaire’s suggestion she take a nap before the evening meal. “I would rather get acquainted with the motte and lower bailey if you don’t mind escorting me.”
“I would be delighted.”
Abigail smiled. “You are very kind. You do know I’m English, don’t you?”
“You used to be English. Now you are married to our laird. That makes you a Sinclair.”
“That is similar to something Talorc said on the journey here.”
Guaire nodded. “’Tis truth we’re speaking.”
“I hope the other clanspeople are of the same mind.” Though she took leave to doubt it.
However, she was pleasantly surprised to discover that most of the Sinclairs were actually quite amicable when Guaire introduced her. She’d met a group of women who spun the wool harvested from the sheep the clan tended. They dyed and made it into the Sinclair plaid as well as other plaids of similar colors for trade with clans at the twice-yearly gatherings.
The only building larger than the spinning cottage in the lower bailey was the smithy. Abigail was delighted to learn that Magnus, the blacksmith, was married to a woman originally from the clan Abigail’s sister had married into. She was even happier when Magnus called his wife from their cottage behind the smithy to meet the new laird’s wife.
A lovely woman, with a sweet smile, Susannah welcomed Abigail to the clan. “I’m sure you’ll find many friends among our clan just as I did when I came.”
“Thank you.”
They got to talking about their family members on Balmoral Island and Abigail said, “I brought gifts for Emily, but I do not know when I will be able to take them to her. Are there messengers that go between the two clans very often?”
“No more often than necessary,” Magnus replied laconically.
“The lairds have approved our visit to the island after the next full moon so I can visit my family,” Susannah said with a smile. “My mother is eager to see our children.”
Abigail smiled. “That’s wonderful.”
“Your family is now the Sinclair clan,” her husband admonished with exaggerated patience.
“And I’m not going to pretend my mother, my brother and his wife no longer exist just because I’ve married one of the reclusive Sinclair clan.”
“We are recluses? The Balmoral live on an island with no other clans.”
“And it’s not an island you mind visiting. You like the hunting there.”
Magnus didn’t reply, but Abigail wasn’t disturbed by the couple’s banter. She was more adept than most at reading the language of the body, and it was clear the blacksmith and his wife held no real animosity over their discussion.
Susannah rolled her eyes and spoke to Abigail. “My point, before my husband interrupted with an old argument, was that we could take your gifts and deliver them to your sister if you like.”
“That would not be too great a burden?” Abigail asked, truly moved at the offer and blinking back moisture. “I should love to let my sister know I am well and living in the Highlands now.” She could not trust Sybil to send word of Abigail’s new circumstances to Emily.
“I will pass on any messages you like,” Susannah generously offered.
“Thank you so much. If you do not mind, I will include a letter with her gifts.”
“You can write?” the blacksmith asked curiously.
“Yes. Emily taught me.”
“She is independent, that one. Our laird can read as well,” Magnus announced proudly. “As can our Guaire. ’Tis why he was chosen seneschal.”
“That and the fact he is the only clan member who can read that does not shake the pleats from his plaid when the elite warriors gather together in one place.” Susannah smiled with approval at Guaire.
He shrugged, but his expression said the clanswoman had a point.
“Your parents must be proud of you for being chosen for such an important role in the clan,” Abigail observed as she and Guaire walked away from the smithy.
“No doubt they would have been pleased, but my father died during the war with the English baron’s forces.”
“And your mother?”