by Lucy Monroe
“But I was speaking of Niall. He always holds back with you, Guaire. You are lucky he sees you as such a friend.”
“What do you mean?” Abigail asked, thinking Una had to be exaggerating Niall’s angry nature. Her new friend was sweet.
“If any other soldier had said something like that to Niall, he would have been knocked flat and had a knife drawn on him for good measure.”
“Never say so.”
Guaire sighed. “It’s true, but he did not hold back with me because we are great friends.” He looked terribly dejected in that moment. “Far from it, in fact.”
“Why then?” Abigail asked out of curiosity.
“He thinks I am too weak to bother with.”
“Nonsense. You may not be as big as some of our Chrechte warriors, but you are no weakling, Guaire. You might use your brain to serve our laird, but you have never neglected your soldier’s training. I would trust my life with you …” Una gave the redheaded man a wink. “That is, if I wasn’t laying some heads open with my own bread board.”
Abigail smiled as the other two laughed, though Guaire’s humor seemed forced.
That morning heralded a new direction for her interaction with the English-hating widow. Una shared with Abigail that her laird had forgiven her initial insult to his lady, after dressing her down but good. However, he had stressed his expectation that she help Abigail find her place in the clan. Una had not acted in the least surprised by this.
But Abigail had been thrilled to discover her husband had listened to her and given the other woman another chance. She hoped that meant he would not be too hard on the rest of the clan as they got to know her as well.
Una appeared to take the laird’s directive to heart this time and spent time each day familiarizing Abigail with the domestic working of the fortress. Abigail’s suggestions for meals and changes to the great hall were accepted without rancor, though she soon realized doing things as they had been done in her father’s keep was not always possible or desirable.
One thing she stood firm on, and that was a rotating invitation to each of the clanspeople and their families to dine with their laird. Talorc noticed immediately that different clan members now joined him at the long banquet table for evening meals. Rather than get angry, he had thanked Abigail for thinking of it and made sure he spent time speaking with each evening’s special guests.
While her husband trained his forces and oversaw improvements to what Abigail already considered an impenetrable fortress, Guaire helped her to become acquainted with the clan’s many industries. Not only did the Sinclairs keep several herds of sheep and harvest the wool for their own use, but they produced goods for trade with other clans as well.
Their blacksmith and his two apprentices provided services for the surrounding clans, and Guaire boasted that other Gaels came from as far as Ireland to trade for the weapons Magnus forged. Despite the fact that its own laird did not sleep in a proper bed, the Sinclair holding even boasted a carpenter and his apprentice son.
Abigail was more than a little impressed by their hard-working creativity and told Guaire so. He nodded, “Aye, we’ve a good, strong clan, but we can thank the sound leadership of our laird for a lot of it.”
A burst of pride warmed Abigail’s insides to be married to such a fine man. She did not know what her sister Emily had found so lacking in Talorc of the Sinclairs, but Abigail thought him to be a king among men. Her feelings for him grew steadily with each passing day and her plan to rejoin her sister became a secondary consideration to the hope of staying with the man she was coming to love permanently.
All was not blooming roses and sunshine among the Sinclairs for her, however. Hiding her affliction became increasingly difficult the more people she came to know and the greater the clan’s acceptance of her grew. Every night she went to bed thanking God for another day that her secret had not been revealed.
And while Una’s attitude had markedly improved, Osgard’s had not. Oh, he was careful enough in her husband’s presence, but when they were alone, he often made hurtful comments to Abigail. Una told her to ignore the old man’s words as he wasn’t really pleasant to anyone.
Sometimes that was a harder task to undertake than others. Like one morning when he “kept her company” while she mended one of Talorc’s shirts in the great hall.
“I suppose you’ve noticed you’re never left alone.”
It was difficult to sew and watch the older man’s lips, but Abigail had spent years learning to do this sort of thing. Thank goodness. The last person she wanted learning of her deafness was the crotchety old man.
“Yes, I had noted it.” How could she not? She’d assumed her husband was watching out for her safety and felt good because of it.
“Ye know ’tis because your laird and your clan dinna trust you.”
She stared at him, at a loss how to respond. She could not be sure he was lying, but she hated to think his words could be true.
He nodded, warming to his theme. “Ye cannot be left without supervision lest ye betray us in some fashion.”
Tears burned the back of her eyes, but she absolutely refused to show weakness in front of the cranky old man. She focused her attention completely on the small stitches she made with her needle, unwilling to dignify the barb with an answer.
It was easy to ignore him since she didn’t even know if he was speaking unless she looked at him, and that she refused to do. He’d pricked her with enough poison for one day.
Over the next few days, she wondered which was the truth: that her constant escort was the result of her husband’s concern for her safety or her trustworthiness? She was too disheartened by the prospect of the latter to ask one of her new friends for their opinion.
Even with Osgard’s animosity and the stress of hiding her inability to hear, Abigail found her life among the Sinclairs the happiest it had been since her sister Emily had come north.
The only thing missing was Emily herself. Even though Abigail no longer wanted to go live with the Balmoral, she desperately wished she could see her sister. To be so close and yet still unable to speak to her beloved sibling was hard indeed, but Talorc would not consider a trip to Balmoral Island right now. He said he had spent too much time away from the clan already.
Abigail suggested going by herself with an escort. However, he was even more intransigent on the subject of her traveling there without him. She would not complain, though. Magnus and Susannah had taken Abigail’s gifts and letter to Emily and returned with gifts and a long missive from her sister.
And Talorc had promised to extend an invitation to Emily to come for a visit.
Circin and his brother Muin arrived with two other Donegal warriors, both of whom were not even shaving yet. Guaire arranged for the four to sleep with the unmarried warriors in the barracks built into the thick wall surround the motte and tower. Talorc spent even longer days training with his soldiers after that, and often came to their bed exhausted.
Never too exhausted to make love, however. And no matter how long her own day had been, Abigail’s body always responded to her husband’s passion-filled touch.
Chapter 13
A week after the Donegal soldiers had arrived for training, Talorc found Abigail working what had been an overgrown herb garden, tucked away in the courtyard behind the tower.
She’d discovered it soon after her arrival at the Sinclair holding. Abigail had begun clearing the weeds immediately, thrilled to find something she could make her own. Next to reading, gardening was her favorite pastime. She’d learned much about plant and bed preparation watching the gardeners in her father’s keep and working with them when they allowed it.
She also knew a great deal about healing with herbs, having researched everything she could about the art in hopes of healing her own ailment. Though she’d never discovered a cure for her deaf ears, she had learned to treat a wide variety of illnesses and injuries.
She was digging in the dirt around a fragrant stand of l
avender when she noticed her husband’s approach. She looked up with a smile. Though she hated doing so, she avoided him as much as possible during the day on the supposition that the less time they spent in each other’s company, the less likely it would be for him to discover her secret.
Her heart always filled with gladness when she saw him, however. And she was sure it showed on her face. “Good day, Talorc.”
Her current escort bowed to his laird in greeting. Talorc returned the greeting and then dismissed the young soldier to other duties.
“You plan to rescue my mother’s garden?” he asked Abigail.
Shocked, she rocked back onto her heels. “This was your mother’s garden?”
“Aye.”
“She was an herbalist?”
He gave Abigail that look that said she was still a mystery to him and he blamed it on her English roots. “She studied the art of healing both body and spirit with herbs, if that is what you mean.”
Abigail nodded. “I wish I could have known her.”
For a woman who had gone so long speaking so very little, Abigail too often found her foot in her mouth now.
Thankfully, Talorc did not look offended by her unthinking observation. “I too wish you had that opportunity.”
“Thank you.” She bit her lip. “Does it bother you I am working in her garden?” Perhaps it had become so overgrown because Talorc had not wanted anyone else to touch his mother’s plants.
“No. It is fitting.”
“Because I am now lady of the Sinclairs as she was?”
“Because you are my wife and a sweet angel. She would have liked you.”
Abigail’s heart was about burst from the praise. “Thank you for saying so.”
“It is never a hardship to speak the truth.”
If only he knew. Some truths caused nothing but pain.
“She kept a diary of her recipes. Perhaps you would like it?” he asked.
Warmth suffused Abigail. “I cannot think of anything I should like better.”
“Nothing, my angel?” he asked with a wicked glint in his blue eyes.
She felt a blush crawl up her neck and could not speak in reply to save her life. She loved this playful side to her husband and saw it all too rarely.
“Thank you,” she said, meaning both his generosity and for sharing this side of himself with her.
“You need not thank me, but if you insist, you can do so by waiting for your escort before coming down the stairs of a morning.” His frown was marred by the twinkle in his gaze.
She grinned. “I’ll consider it.” But they both knew she wouldn’t.
It was shaping up to be one of those arguments like the one between the blacksmith and his wife regarding the disparity between the Sinclair and Balmoral clans. Neither held any true rancor over the subject, but neither would they change their view in regard to it. It felt good to have something like that between her and Talorc, something so normal and domestic.
“I now understand why you argued so fiercely for me to give my clan a month to get used to you. You were hoping that by showing leniency, I would learn to tolerate your flaunting of my authority.”
She widened her eyes in mock innocence, though she would be devastated if she truly believed he thought her guilty of such. “I do no such thing.”
“You think not?”
“It’s a ridiculous instruction.”
“You are a stubborn woman.”
“I thought I was your angel.”
“A willful one.”
“It runs in the family.”
“It is a more charming trait in you than your sister.”
“How can you say so?” she asked even as her heart swelled with the implied compliment. “Emily is everything that is wonderful in a sister.”
Talorc grimaced. “And the Balmoral would say she is everything that is wonderful in a wife.”
“But you do not say so?”
“She called me a goat.” He gave Abigail one of his rare smiles. “She is not you.”
Her hand flew to her mouth and she shook her head. She would not cry like a ninny, but no one had ever said anything so lovely to her. Not even Emily. That it was her usually taciturn husband made it all the more special. “Thank you.”
He shrugged and she grinned, knowing he had done so on purpose to tease her with what she still considered a non-answer.
Then his eyes grew serious as they usually did only at night in their bedchamber. “You are mine.”
Abigail could not hold it in any longer. She jumped to her feet and leapt into her husband’s arms. “Is it any wonder I am in love with you?” And without a thought to propriety, she kissed him exuberantly, first on his lips and then all over his face.
She could feel his laughter rumbling in his chest. Leaning back, she looked him in the eye, her expression as earnest as she could make it. “You are the best husband any woman could ever wish for.”
She rejoiced daily that he and Emily had not found each other as pleasing.
Talorc looked down at her with mock severity. “Such a display is most unseemly, my angel. Clearly this is behavior you learned in England.”
“Yes, because Sybil was always so open with her affection.” Abigail could not hold back the laughter bubbling up and made no effort to do so.
The idea of her mother kissing her father, much less anyone else, in the courtyard of their keep was so ludicrous it was impossible to even imagine.
Talorc did not laugh, but his half smile might as well have been a belly rolling mirth as far as Abigail was concerned. “I see I will have to teach you the proper way to treat your laird in a public setting.”
“By all means, teach me,” she offered saucily and without the least worry. After all, her feet were no longer on the ground because his hold on her was so secure.
“You should not kiss your husband thus,” he said quite severely.
She cocked her head to one side. “I shouldn’t?”
“Nay.” His blue eyes darkened with heat. “You should do it like this.” He took her mouth with possessive passion, his lips moving against hers in ways guaranteed to scramble her mind.
Forgetting where they were, she returned his kiss with enthusiasm, burying her hands in the hair at his nape.
When he pulled his lips away, she was breathing heavily. So was he.
She brushed at his neck. “I seem to have gotten dirt from your mother’s garden on you.”
“’Tis your garden now.”
“I will share it with her, and keep her memory alive there for our children.”
Just like that, the emotion grew thick between them.
Talorc traced the line of Abigail’s lips with the hand not clasping her to him. “Thank you.”
Unused to being the recipient of such gratitude, she rubbed at the soil clinging to the sweat on Talorc’s neck. “What shall we do about this dirt?”
“Lucky for me, I was planning a swim in the loch.”
“You were?”
“I thought you would like to join me. I remember how much pleasure you found in the water at the hot springs.”
A blush of equal parts embarrassment and pleasure heated her cheeks. “I should like that very much.”
“Good.” Rather than release her as she had expected, he put his free arm under her knees and swept her up against his chest.
“I can walk.” But she didn’t say it with any heat. After all, she enjoyed being held this way.
“I like carrying you.”
She giggled in pure joy.
He nodded at someone else and only then did Abigail realize they had an audience. Men and women of the clan were smiling at them and calling out teasing comments. For once, Abigail did not allow the fact she had been unaware of them bother her. Nothing could diminish the pleasure she felt in this moment.
She loved her husband and had had the courage to tell him so. While he might never repeat the words back to her, he clearly cared about and liked her. That was m
iracle enough for Abigail.
She rode to the lake on Talorc’s horse with him, feeling a sense of belonging unlike anything she had ever known. They played in the water, not even pretending their primary purpose was bathing. Afterward, they made love in the sweet green grass, surrounded by the scent of heather.
As she climaxed she heard his voice saying something in what she recognized as Chrechte. She pretended it was “I love you.”
If she was going to hear a voice that existed only in her imagination, it might as well say something she would never see spoken on her husband’s lips.
Later Talorc sat on a rock and smiled at Abigail’s efforts to do her own pleats. Determined to prove that she could dress her pleats every bit as efficiently as her laird husband, she was concentrating on getting each fold precisely the same when she heard Talorc’s voice inside her head for the first time outside of making love.
“Abigail, run!” The urgency was so strong, she obeyed without thought, only to trip on her unpleated plaid and go crashing to the ground.
Air rushed over her and she looked up in time to see a huge gray wolf. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, but the wolf did not attack. He sailed right over her.
She scrambled to her feet, yanking her plaid off as she went. She looked for Talorc, but he was nowhere to be seen. She turned her head and saw a wild boar and the wolf in a fight. Abigail ran to Talorc’s horse, screaming her husband’s name.
She scrambled onto the big black stallion’s back and kneed him into movement. She had to find her husband. Something must have happened to him.
Terrified but unwilling to leave the man she loved behind, she turned the horse toward the forest from which the wild boar had come.
“Abigail! Go back to the keep,” Talorc’s voice demanded in her head.
“I won’t leave you,” she said in her own head, feeling more than a little crazy for replying to the imaginary voice.
“Obey me.” The voice had never sounded so harsh.
But it wasn’t real and no matter how insistent it sounded, she did not have to listen. She wasn’t leaving Talorc behind. She skirted the fighting wild animals, but kept her attention on them in case they lost interest in each other and came after her.