“I would like to be a fly on the wall when you break the news to your husband you know all about his wolf.”

Abigail could not prevent a grimace from twisting her features.

“He’ll be relieved, believe me. Lachlan’s wolf needs my acceptance and love as much as his human side. He adores being scratched behind his ears; I bet Talorc does, too.”

Abigail forced a laugh and a smile that would even fool her sister. She maintained the façade through her sister’s final evening meal among the Sinclairs and leave-taking the next day.


That night for the first time, Abigail begged off making love with Talorc using the excuse of tiredness. Silent tears tracked down her cheeks in the darkness as her husband slept beside her on the furs.

He had deceived her just as she had done him, but still he had cruelly condemned her for keeping her own secrets. He doubted her love for him, but more important, it was clear now that he would never love her.

Not only was she not a Highlander by birth, but she was not a Chrechte. Emily had shared the role her humanity had played in Lachlan’s difficulty accepting his feelings for her. And that man was as besotted as any man had ever been in the history of the world.

What chance did Abigail have of overcoming a prejudice so noticeably more ingrained in Talorc?

He had no desire to share his special heritage with her in any way. The wolf, who according to Emily, needed Abigail’s love and approval, was withheld from her. Even though they could share the intimate bond of speaking in each other’s mind, Talorc held back from doing so with her.

And that was perhaps what hurt the most. Talorc must realize the devastation Abigail had experienced losing sound from her life. To have the chance to hear again, especially her husband’s voice, was the most amazing miracle possible.

But he denied it to her because sharing it with her meant sharing his secrets as well. It meant trusting her. Something he would never do for a woman born and raised in the country he reviled. The agony of that knowledge battered at Abigail’s already abused heart.

Emily had expressed the wish to be there when Abigail confronted Talorc with her knowledge of the truth.

Only Abigail wasn’t sure she had any intention of doing so. She had no desire to have him tell her to her face why he did not believe her worthy to know the truth. Nor did she want to risk Emily getting in trouble with the other Chrechte. No doubt Lachlan would protect her, after all Lachlan of the Balmoral loved his wife, but Abigail did not want to risk causing her sister even the slightest grief.

Emily had never done aught but protect and encourage her. She deserved the same in return.


The next day, Abigail left their “bed” before Talorc woke, having no desire to speak to her husband while her mind and emotions were in such turmoil.

She did not know if she could forgive him for withholding the sound of his voice from her when he had the power to gift her with it.

Her thoughts in a jumbled mess, she was not paying as close attention as usual traversing the narrow stairway. Her foot landed against the step, but something rolled under her shoe. Losing her footing, she tripped forward. She grabbed desperately for the wall, but the smooth stone did not give her purchase.

Terror gripped her. She was going to fall. Unable to stop her forward momentum, she did her best to throw her weight toward the wall, rather than the empty air, and tuck her head down. She wrapped her arms around it in hopes of preventing a fatal hit as she continued to try to halt her bumping tumble.

She screamed Talorc’s name in her head as she landed with a heavy thump at the bottom of the steps that caused her arms to flail involuntarily. Her head knocked against the wall and that was the last she knew.


Abigail awoke on the furs in her bedchamber to an insistent voice demanding her attention. Talorc was leaning over her, his expression fiercely concerned. Or so it seemed. She ignored the voice in her head, knowing it was him calling to her. She turned her head away.

He touched her ear, telling her he wanted to say something.

She refused to look at him. “I fell down the stairs.”

He tugged her chin, oh so gently, so she had to meet his gaze. “Do not worry. I am not angry for you walking down the steps alone.”

She did not need his assurances. “It was not my fault. There was something on the steps. It rolled under my shoes and I lost my footing.”

“Do not feel you have to make excuses.” Talorc shook his head. “Lachlan was right, though it pains me to admit it. The stairs are not safe for a family. I will have a rail installed.”

She ignored his reassurance for the important issue at hand. “There was something on the stairs. I felt it under my shoe.”

“There wasn’t. I found you moments after you fell and nothing was there.”

“You found me?”

“Osgard did at first, perhaps a second or two before me, and for all his bluster, he was most concerned.”

Talorc frowned and turned his head to glare at someone behind him.

Guaire returned his laird’s frown with equanimity. “Osgard has proven time and again that he does not accept our new lady. He knows of her habit to come down the stairs before anyone else in the morning. He is usually the first in the great hall. He could easily have put pebbles on the steps and cleaned them up before you arrived to discover your wife’s fallen body.”

Abigail did not like the possibility that someone in their clan had tried to hurt her, but she knew something had been on the stairs. Before she could say anything, Niall made his presence known.

His glower was twice as ferocious as Talorc’s as he stared at Guaire. “You dare accuse our laird’s advisor of an act that amounts to treason? He is a loyal Chrechte.”

“And because he is Chrechte, he is above reproach, but because I am merely human, my opinion counts for nothing? Even though I am seneschal to the holding and care deeply for the safety of my lady?”

The dangerous stillness that came over Talorc and Niall indicated something Guaire had said made them more than angry. It made them dangerous.

Abigail played her friend’s words back through her mind and understanding dawned. Guaire had referred to himself as human, not a Highlander, which implied he knew the true difference between the Chrechte and the rest of their clan. And neither Niall nor Talorc had known he was aware of their true nature.

The glare he turned on the two bigger warriors was sulfuric. “Do you think I am blind? I live here with you all.”

“That is enough,” Talorc bit out with a sideways glance at Abigail.

Guaire’s look turned to one of contempt. “By all means, keep your wife, your sacred mate, in the dark.”

“Leave,” Talorc ordered.

“No!” Abigail cried. “He is my friend.”

“You countermand my order?” Talorc asked dangerously.

“You withhold enough from me; you will not keep my dearest friend.”

“What do I keep from you?” he asked, so clearly certain his secret was safe he was genuinely confused.

That only made her angrier. And as Emily knew, when Abigail got angry, she went silent, not louder. “It is not worth discussing.”

He stared at her, clearly nonplussed. “Abigail . . .”

She glared back at him, as mute as she was deaf.

“I have duties to attend to,” Guaire said in an obvious bid to end the stalemate between laird and lady. “You need your rest.”

Abigail smiled her thanks for his concern. Then she gave Talorc and Niall her meanest look. “You will not hurt him.”

Niall jerked back as if hit. “I would not. He is my . . . fellow soldier. I would protect him always.”

Guaire looked about as convinced of that as she was of Talorc’s love, which was to say, not at all.

“Abigail, what the hell is going on with you?” her husband demanded.

“Mayhap my fall addled my brains,” she said with unadulterated sarcasm.

Talorc actually looked relieved by the explanation.

She and Guaire shared a look of pure understanding before the redheaded soldier left the room.

“I would rest,” Abigail said, looking at neither her husband nor his loyal soldier.

He brushed her cheek as Emily often did to get her attention. She let her gaze rest on him only because she knew she would not get rid of him if she did not.

“First you will drink some tea I had Una prepare from the recipes in my mother’s healing journal.”

With her luck, the tea would be poisoned. “No.”

“I insist.”

“Una hates me.” Someone had left pebbles, or something, on the stairs. If not Osgard, then maybe the widow.

“I will not drink or eat anything she makes. And don’t bother lying to me and pretending someone else did the preparations if it is her. I can read a face as well as lips and I’ll know you aren’t being honest.”

“I would not lie,” Talorc said, anger finally kindling in his gaze.

Abigail refused to dignify his ridiculous assertion with an answer. Of course he would lie. Or at least withhold the truth.

When she did not break the silence between them, Talorc turned to Niall and instructed, “Have one of the undercooks prepare the tisane.”

Niall returned ten minutes later with a steaming cup. Abigail had not spoken and had managed to ignore her husband by the simple expedient of closing her eyes and shutting him out.


Talorc was patient with her ill humor and solicitous over that day and the next, but Abigail kept him at a distance. The fact that she had the worst headache of her life made maintaining her cranky attitude easy. Even Sybil’s constant harping had never made Abigail’s head pound so.