Lucy Monroe - Moon Craving

It was wild, wanton and utterly decadent.

And then he was coming, his essence filling her mouth and bursting across her senses. She swallowed, taking him into her with joy that marked her soul as his lips and teeth often marked her neck.

“Abigail. My angel. My true mate.”

This time she didn’t blink at the voice. She did not try to hear it, or anything else, again. She just enjoyed it. She did not care if it was her imagination or not. That voice spoke in a tone of awe, affection, maybe even love. She let the emotions wash over her. It did not matter in that moment that they were fantasy; they fed her hope and the kernel of happiness that she always felt in his presence.

He lifted her from her place between his legs with gentle hands, his expression almost reverent. “Sweet wife. My angel.”

Tears pricked her eyes and she did nothing to force them back. The feelings were too big to hold inside.

He pulled her up to lie on the furs with him, his hands caressing her as she settled against the ultrasoft pelts. “Now, I make love to you.”

“You already did.”

His eyes closed and then opened, the blue surrounded by a golden glow that sent shivers through her. “You are perfect for me.”

“Even flawed?”

“We are all flawed in one way or another.”

Her mother did not ascribe to that theory, but Abigail could thank God that her husband did. “You are perfect for me.”

“As it should be.”

Then he went about proving to her just how perfect for her that he was. Big calloused hands skimmed over her body with touches both gentle and demanding, drawing forth an uninhibited response. He caressed her neck, her belly, her thighs and finally her breasts, nipples and that spot of ultimate pleasure between her legs. She cried out in sheer delight when he entered her, responding eagerly to the long, drawn-out pace he set.

Her climax took her by surprise, sending her body rigid as she felt his seed, hot and wonderful, inside her.

They curled together in the furs that she loved better than any wood-and-rope bed because she and Talorc shared them.

Abigail could not believe the difference it made in her days having her clan know of her inability to hear.

She no longer had to constantly maneuver herself so she could see people’s faces. Knowing she needed to read their lips, the clan members made sure they faced her when they spoke to her. No one got impatient when they had to repeat themselves, and that made her more willing to ask them to do so. People made sure she “heard” important news personally, not relying on her overhearing it.

She was aware of what went on around her on a level she had never achieved before. And it was magnificent. She felt like she truly belonged.

Each day in this new, open environment, she relaxed more. She tried new things, ventured farther afield in the holding, meeting clan members that did not often visit the fortress. Guaire was often her companion, but she missed Niall’s friendship. That was not to say she did not see him. Along with the intensely curious Earc, he frequently accompanied her and Guaire on their forays to visit herds-men and other far lying clan members.

But Niall acted as the silent escort, rarely speaking to Guaire or Abigail, and turning a fierce frown on them any time they touched in friendship.

Una had gone back to treating her laird’s wife less than warmly as well. Abigail tried to talk to other women about her chilly demeanor, but the housekeeper denied any negative feelings. Nevertheless, in ways both subtle and overt, Una made it clear she would prefer Abigail leave the domestic duties to her.

However, Abigail refused to give up her place of domestic leadership in the tower. She was Talorc’s wife and would not allow another woman to make her feel inadequate in the role. Whatever grudge Una held against her, Abigail was still lady of the keep. Full stop. Period.

While she had no desire to lord her position over others as her mother did, she was not about to be walked over either. Thus, she moved delicately into a more solidly supervisory capacity each day. She made it a point to give personal direction to the women who helped Una do the cooking and cleaning for Talorc and his elite warriors.

And continuing in her campaign to make the great hall and the rest of the tower more of a home than a fortress, Abigail instructed Una in further additions and changes she wanted made.

Chairs now flanked the great fireplace and fresh flowers graced the banquet tables. A long plaid, about four feet wide, hung down the wall behind the table at which Talorc, Abigail and her husband’s highest-ranking soldiers sat. She was embroidering the Sinclair coat of arms in black thread on a piece of blue silk she had brought with her from England, which she planned to sew onto the banner’s center.

Una resisted the changes, complaining to others about the fresh flowers and additional furniture to dust in the great hall. When she thought she could get away with it, she also countermanded Abigail’s orders to the other women.

Abigail was contemplating what to do about that while she worked in the now-thriving herb garden. Despite the widow’s negative attitude, Abigail did not want to remove Una from her position. She kept hoping Una would settle to Abigail as her lady and start acting accordingly.

In that way, she was very different from her mother, she knew. Sybil would have had the woman thrown out of the keep and off her husband’s lands for such behavior. No question.

Abigail wondered sometimes if she gave Una so much tolerance because she could not stand to be like her mother. Was her compassion good for the clan, setting a positive example of tolerance? Or did her unwillingness to take direct action weaken her position as lady and therefore the sense of stability in the clan?

She could not decide the answer to these questions and was wishing her sister were there to advise her when a commotion caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see what was going on and stopped still to stare in shock.

Talorc and Barr were walking with a big, black-haired warrior wearing a dark blue, green and pale yellow plaid. He had his arm firmly around a much smaller woman holding a baby.

Abigail rubbed her eyes to make sure they were not deceiving her, but the same glorious vision showed upon opening them again. Her brain might trick her into thinking she’d heard her husband’s voice, but this had to be real. She wanted it to be so badly, she ached with it.

Abigail gave a glad cry when she allowed herself to accept the recognition of gold and brown curls surrounding a beloved face.

Emily!

Abigail popped to her feet and rushed to her sister, dropping her little trowel, her skirts flying. Emily was running, too, her expression mirroring Abigail’s sheer elation. Abigail threw her arms around the other woman, little one and all.

Kisses on her cheek and a one-armed hug that was hard enough to take Abigail’s breath told her it was true. Her sister was really here. Tears tracked down both their faces as they grinned at each other.

“I worried I would never see you again,” Abigail choked out.

“I knew God would not be so cruel, but I will admit I never considered he would use Talorc of the Sinclairs to restore you to me.”

Abigail’s gaze flicked nervously to her husband to see how he took her sister’s words. While they had reached a rapprochement of sorts and their lovemaking was more intense than ever, he had never openly acknowledged her words of love, though she told him each night, and often at least one time during the day. It went without saying that he never said the words back.

They had never discussed her plan to use him to get to her sister again, but the knowledge of it was a barrier between them. Invisible, but felt all the same.

However, right now, there was nothing but indulgent pleasure on his face.

Grateful for that much understanding, she smiled at him, her joy making her simple. “My sister is here.”

“I noticed.” His lips quirked at one side drolly.

Emily touched Abigail’s cheek in a long-familiar gesture to get her attention. “He invited us to come.”

“Oh . . .” She looked back at Talorc, her eyes filming with happy tears. “You are too good to me.”

Talorc leaned forward and kissed her softly. Right there in front of her sister and brother-in-law. And not on her cheek, but on her lips. “I would not withhold your family from you.”

Dazed by the kiss, Abigail turned to what was no doubt a goofy smile on her sister. “Is he not wonderful?”

“I am willing to concede he is not a goat,” Emily teased with an eye roll.

Her husband threw his head back, obviously laughing.

Talorc frowned at Emily in censure, but the amusement in his blue eyes belied any true anger. “It is about time you acknowledged the truth.”

Abigail shook her head, so happy she could explode with it.

Talorc brushed the shell of her ear with his forefinger, his indication he wanted to say something to her. With a brilliant smile, she gave him her full attention. “Yes?”

“Wife, this near-decrepit warrior is the man your sister chose to marry over me.” He waved his hand at the other man. “Lachlan, Laird of the Balmoral.”

“It is a true pleasure to meet you,” Abigail said, her hand to her throat to make sure she had enough volume to be heard. “I am selfishly grateful that my sister married you rather than the man your king intended for her. Talorc accepts me as I am.”