Lucy Monroe - Moon Craving

“Because I am no child and did not feel like waiting to descend the stairs until someone came along to hold my hand,” Abigail said with asperity. Honestly, how could they all not see what a ludicrous directive it was that she needed a babysitter to descend the stairs?

“Una and I were on our way to see if our lady had woken when we arrived to find her coming down with you,” Guaire said. The look he gave Niall was filled with resigned longing.

From the way the big warrior crossed his arms and frowned, Abigail surmised he was entirely blind to the other man’s feelings. Which was probably for the best. If Niall did not return Guaire’s regard, he would most likely only hurt the seneschal’s feelings were he to discover them.

Those with afflictions such as blindness and deafness were not the only ones the Church taught their followers to revile as tainted.

Still, she wished there was something she could do to help.

“Was the water in the pitcher still warm when you woke?” Una asked, interrupting Abigail’s thoughts.

“Yes, it was fine. Very welcome, in fact.”

“I am glad.”

“It was your idea,” Abigail said as the thought came to her and then wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

But Una did not look offended. “Aye, the laird would have happily left you smelling of him to let all in the keep know who you belong to.”

“As if there could be any question.”

They shared a moment of female understanding, until Abigail realized Niall and Guaire were still arguing over her being left to come down the stairs alone. Normally, she would have paid attention to their conversation, but she’d been so shocked by Una’s consideration, she had forgotten to watch the men’s lips.

“Will you two please stop apportioning blame? If you must assign responsibility, then place it where it belongs. With me. I am no child to hide behind another’s plaid. I walked down the stairs alone. There you have it, my heinous confession. And you may as well get used to it, because I’m not going to wait around for someone to escort me when I want to go somewhere.”

“You would defy your laird?” Niall demanded.

“Of course she would. I spent only a few hours with her yesterday and already I know our lady well enough to recognize a stubborn nature that rivals that of our laird. You spent days traveling in her company, how could you not notice the same thing?”

“I noticed that our lady respects our laird too much to dismiss his instructions out of hand,” Niall gritted out.

Abigail, who had had quite enough of being discussed in the third person, glared at them both. “Of course I respect my husband, but I am his lady, not his slave or his child.” And this was far too dangerous a subject to continue pursuing, because when pushed, she would have to admit that refusing to obey her husband wasn’t really all that acceptable. “I had hoped to get something to break my fast. Would that be possible?”

Niall nodded. “Guaire will see to it.”

“I am the housekeeper now? I may not be an oversized Chrechte, but I’m no woman. In case you had forgotten, I am seneschal here, not handmaiden.”

Niall looked like he wanted to explode, but he clamped his jaw and turned on his heel instead, leaving without another word. Guaire’s green gaze filled with pain as the other soldier stomped away.

The older soldier surged to his feet. “I suppose you are happy, sewing discord already,” he said to Abigail before making his own less-than-happy exit.

“That one has a temper,” Una observed.

Abigail asked, “The older warrior?”

“Oh, Osgard can be unpleasant right enough. My dam says he’s never been the same since losing both his wife and son to the English attack.” Una sighed and shook her head.

“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.

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 lavender 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.