Lucy Monroe - Moon Craving

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.

“No one touches a laird’s wife without his permission,” she spit out in heavily accented English. The glare she gave the Englishwoman indicated she had seen Abigail’s bruises and either guessed their cause or had asked Abigail and learned the truth.

“Sybil,” the baron barked. “Come here, now.”

“You would let him deny me my final good-bye to my daughter?” Lady Hamilton asked with furiously offended dignity.

“If she touches what is mine, she dies,” Talorc said in a tone that promised he made no threats, only promises.

“I deny it,” the baron said furiously. “You reneged your rights as her mother on too many occasions to count. She is no longer your daughter. She is a Sinclair.”

His willingness to marry such a viper put his wisdom in question, but Talorc thought the Englishman might actually have some marginal intelligence after all.

“His king promised proof of the consummation,” the woman shrieked. “How are we to get that if he leaves with her now?”

“He can send the bloodied sheet by messenger.”

“What if he doesn’t?” She scooted around her husband and stood in front of Talorc. “You promised your king. Are you a man of honor or not?”

Talorc’s fury burned so bright, his wolf literally itched under his skin to get out and tear out the bitch’s throat. “You dare question my honor?”

He didn’t wait for the baron to translate Talorc’s words for the stupid woman. His king had made the requirement, and Talorc had no intention of wasting a messenger on sending bloodied sheets to the grasping Englishwoman.

He marched forward, grabbed his bride and dragged her to the cottage. He went inside and slammed the door so hard the walls rattled.

Talorc turned to face his bride. “Your mother is a bitch.”

“She is no longer my mother,” Abigail said in a bare whisper, terror coming off her in waves. “Sir Reuben said I am a Sinclair now. You did not deny it.”

“One barrier stands between you and that truth.”

“My maidenhead.” There was no sound to the words, merely a breath of air as she mouthed them.

“Aye.”

Abigail’s hand flew to her throat and she looked wildly around her. “You would take me now?”

Not likely. He would not be dictated to by his king, much less an English lady in this matter. But before he got a chance to say so, his bride simply crumpled.

Using the preternatural speed of his wolf, he caught her before she landed on the floor. Damn, she was vulnerable. Not like her sister. Emily would have called him a goat and told him to go to hell before having her maidenhead breached within minutes of her wedding.

Talorc should have been disgusted by his new wife’s weakness, but instead he felt regret to have caused her such distress.

The feeling shocked him, but even more astonishing was the way it echoed in his wolf’s heart. Neither of them wanted her hurt. He gently laid her on the smaller of the two beds in the cottage. The other stank of the baron and his wife. The narrow bed Abigail had slept on smelled only of her and fresh air.

Her eyes fluttered open, her body going immediately taut with wariness.

Their gazes met. Her eyes flared and then filled with sadness. “This is it, then.”

“You are so bothered by the prospect of sharing my bed?”

“Frightened. I know nothing of the ways of men.”

“That is to be expected.”

“You do not understand. My mother, my maid, no one has told me anything.” And clearly, the unknown scared her out of her wits.

“Do you want me to tell you what is going to happen?”

Her dark eyes widened with surprise, but they glowed with hope. “Would you?” Again her words came out silently, but he had no trouble reading her meaning.

“Aye.”

Though her skin was the color of a dark rose in bloom, she nodded and swallowed. “Please.”

“I will. Please you, I mean.” It was a matter of pride for both him and the wolf that lived in him. “I will begin by kissing you. Have you ever been kissed, Abigail?”

He doubted it and might have to kill someone if she had, but he needed to ask.

She shook her head.

“That is good. I do not want to have to go hunting in England.”

Her eyes widened farther and stayed that way as he described in minute detail how he would touch her before, during and after her deflowering. He left nothing out of how it would feel for her or how he expected to feel.

He laced their fingers while he spoke and was in no way surprised when her hold on him grew so tight he would almost think she had the strength of the Chrechte in her. But she never balked at his description or turned away from the words he spoke, her gaze fixed on him with desperate intensity.

When he finished, she stared at him for several seconds.

“Truly?” she finally asked in a whisper. “You will do all that?” Her cheeks were so crimson, the bruise from her mother’s slap was almost hidden.

“I will.”

“You will be careful.”

“I told you I would. It may hurt, but I will prevent as much pain as possible. It is my duty as your husband.”

“Are English husbands so considerate?”

He shrugged. “They are English.”

“I am English.”

“You are mine.”

“I suppose I am.” She looked surprised by her own acknowledgment.

“Do you still fear?”

“A little.”

He nodded. “That is to be expected in your innocence, but I will take care of you. Starting now.”

She flinched but said nothing. And then nodded resolutely.

“Stand up.”

She gave him a questioning look but obeyed.

He pulled the knife from his boot. It was sharper than the one he kept on his belt.

She took a step back, but confusion rather than fear showed in her eyes.

He put his hand out over the right spot on the sheet and then cut a thin, short line down his palm. Her mouth was open, but no sound escaped as she stared in uncomprehending fascination as drops of his blood decorated the sheet.

“Your mother wants the blood proof. I will give it to her, but I will not claim you on the land of another.”

Abigail nodded as understanding, and then relief, settled over her lovely features. She gave him an intense look and stuck her hand out. “Cut me, too.”

Very little had the power to shock him, but her offer slammed into him like a blow from Niall. “It is not necessary.”

“It is.”

He shook his head.

She stubbornly put her hand right over his, palm up. “We share in this as we will share in the other. Later.”

His entire body reacted to her touch and the unexpected words coming from between her innocent lips. A growl of approval came from the wolf, and Talorc acquiesced with a jerk of his head.

He laid his knife against her small, white palm. “You are sure?”

She nodded.

“So be it.” He cut her, just a prick, but enough to let her drops of blood mingle with his on the sheet.

When there was sufficient blood to indicate a bedding, he ran a hand across the drops to make streaks as if there truly had been a sex act. Then he raised her palm to his mouth, and allowing his wolf’s saliva to mix with his own, he licked her cut. The bleeding stopped immediately, but he did not release her hand. The flavor of her skin and the few drops of blood on his tongue was unlike anything he had ever known. And yet like something he would never have expected—the satisfaction his wolf felt after a successful hunt.