“Is this true?” Talorc asked her.

As close as she could get to it. “Yes.”

“You were beaten until you agreed?” Talorc asked, disgust clear in his features.

“I did not submit.”

“And yet you are here.”

“Sir Reuben told me I could choose once I had looked you in the eye.”

Something like respect crossed Talorc’s features. “You have now looked me in the eye.”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“What would you have done if it had been my father who beat me?” she asked rather than answer.

“Kill him.”

“You would not beat a woman?”

His lips twisted in an animalistic snarl. “I am not English.”

Abigail felt laughter well up for the first time since Emily had left Sir Reuben’s keep. Talorc really did despise the English, and instead of it frightening her further, she found that assurance far too amusing in the current situation.

And he could not conceive of a Highlander male beating a woman. That knowledge comforted her as nothing else had.

“You find that humorous?” the other soldier asked.

“I find your laird’s arrogance amusing,” she whispered, covering herself. “His assumption that only an Englishman would beat a woman relieves some of my fear of what is to come.”

She hadn’t meant to make the admission, but she needn’t have worried. Neither warrior seemed particularly moved or impressed by it.

Niall said, “He is your laird as well.”

“If I marry him, he will be.”

“You will marry me.” She could not hear his tone, but the certainty in his eyes left no room for doubt. In either of them.

“Surely you would be pleased if Sir Reuben refused the match,” she could not help saying.

“I would be insulted and forced to kill him.” He didn’t look particularly bothered by that possibility, nor did he appear to be making a joke.

She, on the other hand, felt another clammy hand of fear take hold of her heart. The probability Talorc would declare war on her stepfather when he discovered her deception—as he was sure eventually to do—only increased in her mind.

“Why be insulted? You hate the English.”

“Aye.”

Her stomach dropped, her concern for her stepfather forgotten for the moment. “Then you hate me.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Nay.”

“He does not hate the innocent,” Niall clarified.

Talorc looked over his shoulder at his warrior and then back to Abigail. He shrugged. “I do not hate the innocent.”

There was something about the way he said it, something in his expression that implied he thought English and innocent antithetical to each other. And yet he had said he did not hate her.

She searched his gaze for the truth. She knew hatred. She’d lived with her own mother’s for years now. Talorc’s stance was not combative, nor was it, or his demeanor, dismissive. He stood ready for action, but not with an attitude of boredom or any indication he had better things to do than converse with his English bride-to-be.

Even if he had made no effort to be in attendance upon her arrival. Suddenly, she considered the possibility that slight was meant for her parents, not necessarily for her.

When he looked at her, Talorc’s expression showed wariness. There was also distrust, even frustration, though from what, she did not know, but he did not look at her with hate.

She knew that once he learned of her inability to hear, he would reject her as his wife. He might even hate her then, but her choices were meager. If she thwarted the marriage, Sybil would find a way to punish Abigail much more severely than with a single beating. Her only chance at seeing Emily again lay in marriage to this man.

Who might hate the English but did not hate her. “I will marry you.”

He nodded as if it had never been in question. No doubt in his mind, it hadn’t. He seemed the type of man to get what he wanted and who allowed nothing to stand in the way.

“The Sinclairs do not beat women, but we do kill traitors.”

As her mind translated Talorc’s words, Abigail felt herself flinch. “I will never betray your clan.”

“You give me your word?”

“On my soul.” Hiding her affliction was not a betrayal of his people. Indeed, from their lack of welcome to her sister, Abigail was certain the Sinclairs would be only too happy to be rid of her once her defect was revealed. But she would never put the clan at risk or reveal Talorc’s secrets, as her mother sometimes did her stepfather’s in gossip and in search of admiration from her peers.

He scoured Abigail’s gaze as carefully as she had his. Finally, satisfaction gleamed in his amazing blue eyes. “Your mother deserves death for what she did to what is mine.”

He was completely serious. He was not posturing. This was no idle threat to impress the English with his might. He meant it.

She shook her head, glad her muscles no longer ached with the slightest movement. “No, please. She believes it is her right to dictate my life and force my will to bend to hers.” Abigail was sure it was the same for most parents among the nobility. “Regardless, my stepfather does not deserve death. He stopped her. He promised to protect me from a marriage that terrified me.”

Abigail’s throat muscles hurt from all this talking. Sometimes, days and days would go by without her uttering a single word and now she was forced to converse as she once had with Emily. Only she knew Talorc made no effort to read her lips, so she had to modulate her voice to be heard. Even if it was a whisper, it was there.

“He would challenge me over the vicious bitch you call mother?”

Abigail’s gasp was not audible to her, but she could feel the expulsion of her shocked breath. “Yes,” was all she said though.

“They will never be welcome on Sinclair land. She hurt you. He should have done a better job of protecting you.”

“Okay.” She did not care if she ever saw her parents again. Emily was another matter entirely. She swallowed for courage. “But Emily, she is welcome on your land?”

“The Balmoral is an ally. His wife is welcome.”

“I am glad. I have missed her.”

Talorc nodded and then spun on his heel and started walking away. Niall didn’t leave, however. He took up a guard’s stance a few feet from the cottage. When she looked over at him, he winked.

She smiled back and mouthed a thank-you.

He jerked, as if surprised, but then grinned back before turning to face the front, his expression gone serious, scary even. A few minutes later, two of her father’s soldiers joined him, but the big soldier did not leave.

When she checked out the front window, sure enough, she had both a Hamilton guard as well as one of Sinclair’s soldiers.

Abigail went to sleep, feeling safer than she had in a very long time.


Talorc stood before the English priest in the small chapel. The MacDonald warriors and most of the English baron’s soldiers had to remain outside. His own warriors, the MacDonald and five of his men, his bride’s family and a few English soldiers were the only witnesses for the wedding to come.

There were no flowers, no pomp and ceremony for this royally dictated marriage. That should not have bothered him, but the soft-spoken woman he had met the night before seemed to deserve more. Even if she was English. She had been so vulnerable, and yet when he had demanded to know if she planned to marry him, she had taken her time replying.

She had weighed him. He could feel her doing it, and she hadn’t been adding up the size of his lands in her head. She’d been judging him personally, and something inside him had refused to be found wanting.

She was nothing like Emily, which was both good and bad. He did not relish the prospect of being likened to a goat by another Englishwoman, but he had no desire to see Abigail Hamilton eaten up and spit out by his clan. Emily had come to the Highlands to protect this very sister from such a fate. He could not help believing her fears had been justified.

Abigail spoke in whispers, seemed oblivious to her beauty and had a nervous habit of holding her hand over her throat when she talked. As if she was preventing the wrong words from coming out. His wolf felt protective toward her like he did no other besides family. Since the only one left, his younger sister, Caitriona, was now mated to the Balmoral’s second-in-command, it had been a long time since Talorc had felt those instincts stir so restlessly.

He wanted to believe it was only because the woman was slated to be his wife, but his wolf had shown no such concern for her sister when King David had originally instructed Talorc to marry Emily. The wolf had wanted to howl at the evidence of bruising on Abigail’s pale skin.

And then hunt.

Talorc spent his time waiting for his bride’s arrival glaring at the woman’s mother and forcing down the wolf’s threatening growls.

Lady Hamilton had that same greedy, unreasonable look to her that his stepmother, Tamara, had had. As if she expected the world to do her bidding, and woe betide anyone who refused. At first, the bitch had attempted a smile, but Talorc merely warned her with his eyes how close to death she had come by mistreating the woman that was his.

The fact that he had not wanted an English bride made no difference. The kings had dictated that Abigail was to be his, and no one dared to mistreat a Sinclair. He was still tempted to kill Lady Hamilton, despite his bride’s pleas to the contrary. His wolf clamored for retribution, if not death.

Eventually, the English lady began to squirm under his hostile regard.

Good. She had no place in Abigail’s life and he meant her to know it.