And she kissed with the hunger of a Chrechte woman claiming her mate.

As soon as the thought formed, he banished it with an angry growl. For all that she looked like an angel right out of Heaven, she was human. She had been born and raised English. She was not his mate, but she was his wife.

This night their bodies would consummate that truth.

He grabbed both her wrists and placed them by her head. “Keep them there.”

Her soft brown gaze was dark with desire, and she dared shake her head at him.

“Obey me.”

This time it was her eyes that spoke denial, though her lips remained immobile.

“I mean it.” He caressed her wrists with his thumbs. “Your hands are to remain in this exact position.”

Her sensuous, bow-shaped lips twisted in mutiny. “I would touch.”

“Your touch incites my lust, angel.”

“Is that wrong?” She paused, looking at him with an unfathomable expression. “Between a husband and wife?”

“If it is the wife’s first time to hold him within her body, it is dangerous. I would not hurt you.”

“I know you will not.” Again a pause as if she searched for words. “At least not more than necessary. Some pain is inevitable.”

He wished he could deny it, but she spoke truth. Nevertheless, there was a difference between carefully breaking her maidenhead and rutting on her like a beast. Which he was in danger of doing if he did not maintain control. “Obey me,” he repeated.

“What will you do if I do not?”

He could not believe his shy wife had the temerity to ask that question. He glared down at her, his passion making him more ferocious. “I will assure compliance.”

She licked her lips, her eyes dilating with increased arousal, but she did not reply.

There was no need. Her reaction was as clear as his favorite loch. His angel liked the idea!

Without thought, he stretched her hands above her head and grasped both small wrists together with his left hand. His wolf howled in approval while Abigail gasped and then moaned, her eyelids dropping to half-mast.

He spent no time wondering why they should both enjoy him mastering her in this way so much. He was a warrior, not a philosopher. He knew only that the delicate bones of her wrists felt all too right in the grasp of his hand.

He lowered his head and kissed her again. Within seconds she was writhing as before, only with utter abandon. The movement of her pelvis would have thrown him off her body if he was not so strong. And yet he knew that was not her intention.

If the glazed expression on her beautiful heart-shaped face was any indication, she was not thinking at all. Certainly not enough to have conscious intentions.

Her instinctual responses were devastating enough. She spread her legs just enough to make the invitation clear, and yet, he was sure she was unaware of extending the offer. He rolled off her to lie on his side. Keeping grasp of her wrists, the position still left him the freedom he needed to touch her body and make her ready for the physical claiming.

She mewled at the loss of his weight and began to thrash her legs, undulating her body in beautiful, abandoned need. He had to throw one thigh over hers to keep her in place beside him.

Then he set about ensuring her arousal reached a fever pitch through which she would be only marginally aware of the pain that breaching her maidenhead would inevitably cause. He kneaded her breasts, teasing her nipples until she cried out in mindless desire.

He had touched every inch of her silken skin in the hot springs and he wanted to do so again, but both their need called out to him with too much urgency. He allowed his hand to slide down to the juncture of her thighs, sliding his middle finger between her swollen, wet labia.

He had not breached her vaginal opening beyond a fingertip during his nightly explorations of her body in their tent, but now he allowed himself to press deeper. He stopped only when he felt the supple barrier of her virginity.

She made a small, pained sound and he comforted her with small tender kisses on her face and neck. He whispered promises and compliments she did not respond to. The part of his brain that still functioned on a fully human level was grateful she was so lost to her desire she wasn’t making sense of his words.

He would feel like an idiot later for saying them otherwise.

He did not pull his finger out, but massaged the thin barrier inside her body, that which proved she had not played love games as he heard many in the English Court indulged in. He had been told that the English Court actually revered love between parties married or promised to others as some sort of romantic ideal.

Both he and his wolf found the concept utterly distasteful.

And his beautiful, sensual bride was clearly not a practicing participant in such ludicrous games. She was wholly innocent and deserving of all his consideration for their first claiming.

With that thought in mind, he brushed his thumb over the nub of her pleasure. Her body jolted and he smiled to himself. He continued his ministrations, massaging her maidenhead in preparation to breaching it and her clitoris in preparation to her pleasure.

Only when his angel begged for more with both her body and broken little words barely whispered past her parted lips, did he move over her and fit his cock to her opening. He slid inside a mere inch, causing himself untold pleasure and her a level of shock.

“You are inside me.” Awe laced each syllable.

He thrust gently with his hips, both he and his wolf working together to control the urge to take her quickly and without remorse. “I will be so deep inside you—”

“You will touch my soul,” she completed and then tears spilled over her eyes.

Her body did not speak of pain; his wolf senses confirmed she was not in distress. The tears were some women’s reaction to the claiming.

Even so, he asked, “You are well, angel?”

“In this moment, I am complete.”

She wasn’t, not yet, but he did not contradict her. Soon, she would understand. And then she would probably cry some more. Women. But so long as it was not from pain, he would tolerate her feminine emotionalism.

He pushed deeper and his head met the barrier of her innocence.

She stared up at him as if waiting for him to force himself through, but he had a better plan. He arched his hips so that he could get his free hand between their bodies. While he remained in stillness poised at her virgin’s barrier, he caressed her clitoris with his thumb.

She whispered his name as her breathing grew even more ragged. He had not brought her to climax, but he had spent two nights teaching her body to crave the pinnacle of pleasure. It reached for it now, straining against him, and only as he felt the convulsion that signaled her orgasm did he surge forward to embed himself fully in her body.

His own cried out for movement, but he was a Chrechte warrior, not a callow youth to undo the careful preparation for this moment.

He allowed her to ride out both the pain and pleasure before he began to move. He could seek his own completion, and if he allowed himself, probably come with a couple of well-delivered strokes, but he wanted more.

He swiveled his hips on each downward thrust, and she gasped with obvious pleasure. He held himself with rigid control, building her pleasure again until he felt her body once again tightening around him. He allowed himself release as she screamed his name and came a second time.


Abigail woke with a residual soreness between her legs. No doubt it would be much worse if Talorc had not taken such care with her. He had made the consummation of their marriage incredibly special, but he had not stopped his ministrations there.

He had carried her to the bathing pool and washed her body with gentle hands while she dozed in his arms. She had been so exhausted. She did not know how long they soaked in the hot springs, but she could remember snuggling into his arms in sleep at some point.

She had woken alone though. Just as she had each morning of her marriage thus far. Her clothing was folded neatly on the edge of the furs. There was food to break her fast with there as well. She took her time eating, then combing her hair and finally doing her own pleats on her plaid when Talorc did not show up to help her.

When she came out of the cave it was to find Niall, not her husband, waiting for her.

She tamped down her disappointment and the embarrassment she hadn’t been smart enough to feel the night before to ask, “Where is your laird?”

“He is your laird, too, lady.”

“He is my husband.”

Niall smiled, causing the only other soldier nearby to wince. Abigail ignored him and returned the big warrior’s expression.

Niall crossed his arms, making the muscles of his biceps bulge. “Talorc hunts.”

“I thought we would ride to the keep today?”

“He said we are to spend at least one more night here.”

“But . . . why?”

“He is laird. He need not explain why.” Which simply said Niall did not know.

She thought so anyway; maybe the warrior did know and didn’t want to share. “And he’s hunting right now?”

“Aye.”

She looked over the clearing where four horses fed, her husband’s dark stallion, the horse she had seen Niall ride, one she assumed the other soldier rode and the mare she had ridden for part of the journey—when she was not sharing a steed with her new husband. “He is hunting without his horse?”

“Aye.”

“Is that common?”

Niall shrugged, but then surprised her by adding, “Sometimes Talorc prefers to hunt completely alone.”