Lucy Monroe - Moon Craving

“So?” Talorc asked.

“There was a boy I played with as a girl. My father’s blacksmith’s son. He was torn apart by a wolf. I saw his body.” She shivered at the grisly memory, not faded one iota by the years that had come between. “It was horrible. Death comes too easily.”

Talorc went curiously still. “You have nothing to fear from wolves.”

“You think not?”

“I will protect you.”

“What about bears?”

His lips quirked in a half smile, no impatience at her reticence in his face. “You have nothing to fear at all when you are with me.”

She nodded and that seemed to please him.

“I had my soldier scout ahead.”

“Oh.”

She let him pull her into the cave and noticed immediately that rather than the dank, cold air she associated with caves, it was warm with a faint scent of sulfur. He led her down a long tunnel into a cavern lit by torches and ambient light from somewhere above. Their light reflected off the water of a large pool in the center. Beside the pool, the furs they had slept in the past two nights were piled invitingly beside the water.

Abigail stared around herself marveling at the warmth of the cavern. “A hot spring?” she asked in awe. She had heard of such a thing but never seen one.

“Yes. One of the reasons we fought for this section of land. The springs have healing properties.”

“Really?”

“So it has been believed by my people.”

“And these caves are yours now? Because of your king’s gift?”

“Aye.” Talorc smiled savagely. “Though it is my responsibility to keep them.”

“Will you establish an outpost?” Her father had guard posts on the four corners of his lands.

Talorc shrugged.

“Do you simply not want to answer or do you not know?”

“I know you are delaying the inevitable with conversation.”

Smart man. “I am nervous.”

“I’m not.”

She opened her mouth but honestly did not know what to reply to such arrogance, so she snapped it shut again.

He smiled, this time almost gently, and produced a soap cake. “You can have a proper bath.”

“I . . .” This was the Talorc her sister had written of in her letters? Abigail could not believe it. “Thank you.”

She had to blink back tears. No one but Emily had ever been so concerned for Abigail’s comfort.

He looked around the cavern with satisfaction. “’Tis a suitable place for a Chrechte mating.”

“Mating?” Oh, he meant joining their bodies. Heat crawled along her skin as images assaulted her mind from the discussion they had had back at the MacDonald holding.

For some reason, he looked chagrined by his own choice of words. “I simply meant the marriage claiming.”

She nodded, having no desire to argue, even if she saw nothing simple about the physical consummation of their marriage. Though he looked as if he expected her to.

He indicated the pool. “You will bathe now.”

“In front of you?” She’d learned already he had a much different sense of modesty than she did—and Heaven help her, he seemed to expect her to adjust to his. But did he really expect her to bathe in front of him?

“Is that how it is done in your clan? Your men and women bathe together?” she asked, scandalized to her core.

“I did not offer to bathe with you, but if that is your preference, I will indulge you.”

Before she could get the horrified no out of her tightly constricted throat, he had shed his plaid.

She stared in mute shock as he disrobed right there in front of her, as he had the past two nights in the privacy of their tent—at night.

“It’s only midday. Surely you do not plan to accomplish the bedding right now?” Had she thought him considerate? He was worse than the goat her sister had called him . . . He was a randy goat with no sense of decorum or modesty. Or . . . or . . . or anything else.

“It is time.”

“No . . . no . . . we should wait until tonight. You said I could wash, with soap.”

“I will wash you.” He closed the distance between them before she realized he was moving. “Let me help you with this.”

She pulled back, but it was too late. He had her belt undone that fast. The pleats of her plaid simply fell, leaving the Scottish garment hanging over her shoulder like a long blanket. He tugged and it was gone completely, falling to a pool of fabric around her feet.

She turned and leapt for the relative safety of the pool, grateful that unlike her older sister, Abigail had learned to swim. It was deeper than she expected, and warmer than any bath she had ever taken. Her head submerged before her feet hit the bottom of the pool. Water swirled around her from Talorc’s entry into the pool as she kicked upward and away from where she had felt him come in.

His hands locked on her waist and she broke the surface right in front of him. He was looking at her quizzically. “Do the English bathe in their clothes, then?”

“My blouse needed washing.” Which was nothing less than the truth.

“It is not the time for laundry; it is time for you to become my wife.”

“No . . . I . . .”

He leaned down and brushed a kiss over her wet lips. “Yes.”

“But . . .”

“I have waited long enough.”

“It has only been two nights.”

“I will have you now.”

She shook her head.

He nodded.

Just like outside the cave. Only this time, she did not have some puny ravenous wild beast to worry about; she had her new husband’s amorous nature.

She leaned back, trying to put distance between them.

“Take off your blouse.”

Taking comfort in the fact he had not mentioned her shift, she tugged the now-soaking blouse over her head and tossed it to the side. It really would need a washing tomorrow after that treatment.

He looked down at her and his eyes burned. “Perhaps we should develop a new tradition of washing your shifts on you.”

She looked down and immediately tried to cover herself. The thin fabric was completely transparent in the water. “You should not look at me like that.”

“I am the only man that should.”

“Naturally, no one else should either.”

He pulled her toward him in the heated water until their bodies brushed. “Get used to it. I like looking at you.”

“It is not decent.”

“It is.”

“Talorc . . .”

“Come, let us wash your shift.” He let go of her waist but immediately slipped one of his arms around her so that he held her just as securely to him. Only he now did so with one hand free.

Backing toward the edge of the pool, he reached behind him with his hand. “Aha.” He held the soap up for her to see.

For a moment Abigail’s need for cleanliness overshadowed her shyness and she reached for it.

But he shook his head. “I will play your handmaiden.”

The idea was so ludicrous, she laughed. The sound might have been hysterical; she did not know. She could not hear the sound, and for once, she did not mind. Her nerves were too close to the surface of her control to care if her voice was working properly in this instance.

“You must be patient with me. ’Tis not my usual role.”

She stared at him, unable to speak. He did not mean to wash her. He could not. And yet, he did not appear in the least like he was joking either. His mouth was set in a serious line while his eyes devoured her.

“I can wash myself.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

“But—”

No more words had a chance to make it past her lips before he began to wash her shift most thoroughly. Only every stroke of the soap cake over the fabric was a caress against the skin below it. He made sure the soap touched every inch of the shift before putting the bar on the rock ledge of the pool.

“I believe next I am to work the suds into the cloth, aye?”

Too choked to speak, she could merely nod warily.

Using his free hand, he did exactly that, being far gentler than the washerwoman and her helper in Abigail’s father’s keep. Indeed, every movement of his hand against the linen was more a caress than a scrubbing. And each touch left her more and more breathless.

“You have a strange way of washing clothing in the Highlands.”

“You think so?”

A strangled laugh made it past her tight throat and she nodded.

“Then you will be relieved to learn ’tis not something I have ever seen done.”

“Only lairds wash their wives’ clothing thus?”

“Only this laird.”

“Oh,” she gasped as all pretense at cleansing her garment slipped away.

Knowing and clever fingers caressed her through the wet shift, causing it to rub sensually against her skin. She’d never known such sensation, not even when he had touched her in the tent. This was pure decadence, making her feel more naked wearing her shift than she had under the furs for the past two nights.

She did not know when he had released her to touch her with both hands, but they cupped and squeezed her buttocks through the fabric. She felt marked and possessed by that simple touch. Then one hand slid around to draw indecipherable patterns on her stomach. Bit by slow bit, his hand moved upward until he reached her breast.

Long, masculine fingers curled around her in an intimate hold that seared her to her soul. Using the wet fabric, he abraded her nipples until her thighs quivered with the tension of wanting more. Yet for all the pleasure she knew there was to be had in his arms, she could not make herself ask for it.

He continued to caress her bottom through the shirt and her legs parted of their own volition as she fought the urge to return the touch. More out of fear of doing it wrong than what it might lead to.