Lucy Monroe - Moon Craving

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.

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.

“She is right here.” Abigail frowned at both big men.

Really. She was accustomed to being ignored by her family, but this was getting out of hand.

For good or ill, Talorc gave her his full regard. “Niall is not my second-in-command. His brother holds that place.”

“But . . .” She did not understand. “Which one is his brother?” She looked at the other warriors, not seeing any that looked like they could get away with ordering Niall about.

“Barr has command of the clan while I am away,” Talorc replied.

“I see. So, Niall is your second-in-command at present.” She nodded, satisfied by her ability to reason that out in her current state of exhaustion.

Talorc did not reply. No doubt because he did not wish to admit she was right.

“I will look forward to meeting him, then.”

“Why?”

“Because he is your second, and I like his brother. I am bound to like him.”

“You like Niall?” Talorc asked.

“You needn’t be so incredulous. I do not hate the Scottish as you do the English.”

“Most in our clan find Niall intimidating.”

“Then they must find you positively terrifying.”

That had Talorc looking pleased and Niall laughing, which from the shocked expressions of the other soldiers, must not happen often.

Abigail decided she had had enough of the discussion and attempting to be awake when all she wanted was to sleep. So, she curtsied and excused herself before ducking into the tent. Bright moonlight filtered between the edges of the plaids draped to make the walls of the tent and soon her eyes adjusted.

She had barely removed her shoes so she could settle on the furs when Talorc joined her, making the already small quarters feel overwhelmingly crowded. She scooted to the very edge of the tent to make room for him.

He handed her an apple. “Eat.”

She thought of arguing, saying she just wanted to sleep. Only it would probably take more effort to convince the big warrior than to eat.

She accepted the apple and took a bite. Crisp and juicy, the fruit’s flavor exploded over her taste buds, reminding her body how long it had been since she’d last fed her stomach. When she finished with the apple, he handed her a skin of water to drink from. She drank and then found herself presented with a hunk of yellow cheese and a hard roll. She ate the cheese.

However, after one bite of the hard roll and chewing it for what seemed forever, she placed it aside. “I’ll just save this for the morning.”

“I will provide you with food to break your morning fast.” He looked downright growly.

“I’m full.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not a warrior. I don’t need that much.”

“I’ll not have you wasting away, wife.”

She felt a blush climb her cheeks at his verbal claim to her. “I won’t.”

“You are small.”

“Are Highlander women so much larger, then?” Emily hadn’t mentioned such a thing in her letters.

“Nay, but you are fragile.” He said the last word with a twist of his mouth.

Ah, the weakness thing again. “Emily is no bigger than me, and she’s doing just fine among your brethren.”