Lucy Monroe - Moon Craving

No more than he could rid himself of the desire, no—the need—to keep his wife. Not that he had much of a choice. Were he to banish Abigail from the Sinclair holding, he banished any hope of children to carry his Chrechte lineage along with her. As a true-mated Chrechte, he was not physically capable of engaging in the mating act with anyone but Abigail. At least, until that mating was severed through death, or a betrayal so great, even his wolf spirit would reject her.

Apparently, his wolf was not bothered by Abigail’s perfidy. He felt as possessive and protective toward her as ever. He still craved her approval and the opportunity to scent her in his wolf form. It was a craving that grew stronger each day, becoming acute when the least incident indicated another man’s encroachment on what he considered his territory.

The wolf had howled in displeasure at the sight of the furs Guaire had slept on in Talorc and Abigail’s bedchamber. Talorc had wanted to throw the damn things out the window. He hadn’t, showing remarkable restraint in his opinion. Particularly when his mate had rolled them up so carefully, her scent mixing with Guaire’s on the fur.

His angel had much to learn about the Chrechte nature.

And him.

She claimed to love Talorc, but in the same breath, Abigail had indicated she thought him capable of throwing away his wife for something so insignificant as an inability to hear. Surely that was a grief she had to bear, not him. Her deafness did not impact him except that he had to be more diligent in his protection, knowing she was less aware of her surroundings than he had believed.

It also explained the times he thought she ignored him when in fact she simply had not realized he’d been speaking.

How could that be a bad thing?

Yet she had hidden the truth with a diligence that both worried and impressed him. No Chrechte had ever hidden their nature with more talent and ingenuity than his wife hid her deafness. When the time came for him to trust her with the secrets of his people, he could not doubt her ability to maintain his confidences.

But he could not help his concern at the knowledge she had deceived him so well and so easily. She had assured him she had not lied about anything else, but could he believe her?

She had married him with the intention of using him to gain access to her sister. She had spoken her marriage vows and the ancient Chrechte pledge of troth without meaning the words at all. That truth twisted something deep inside him, hurting in a way he had not done since losing each of his parents. His sacred mate had spoken her Chrechte promises like a child with her fingers crossed.

That, at least, caused his wolf to grieve.

Despite the fact that she was English and human, he had given his oath in good faith, both before the Lowlander priest and in the cave before his Chrechte brethren. From the very beginning, he had made no plans to find a way out of the unwanted covenant. The fact that his angel had approached their marriage with such spurious intentions acted like a spear right through his gut.

He hated discovering she had the power to hurt him thus. It made him angry to have his emotions at anyone’s mercy, even his mate’s, but particularly a mate whom he could not trust. It was a state he had convinced himself he would never experience. Talorc had been so sure he would never make the mistakes of his father.

Yet here he found himself vulnerable to an English human woman. ’Twas an anathema to be sure.

She claimed to have changed her mind about using him, as if he should now believe she wanted to be with him. As if that should make her actions acceptable.

It did not. It only showed she was capable of betrayal for the sake of her own agenda, just as Tamara had been. Even if Abigail had come to love him as she claimed, she had started out with the intention of using him, of throwing away their marriage and their Chrechte mating.

Just how much like his dead stepmother was Abigail?

It was that question that kept him in wolf form running through the woods rather than returning to the fortress, to his wife.

Talorc did not send Abigail away. At least not that day.

Of course, he wasn’t around to order her banishment. He’d disappeared after their discussion early that morning and had not returned to the fortress since.

He wasn’t training the soldiers. Barr was doing that today. Without the help of his twin, Abigail noted when she walked by the training ground in the lower bailey on her way to the smithy. She wanted to ask Magnus if he could make her a three-pronged, handheld digging tool for her herb garden.

She approached the blacksmith with some trepidation, unsure what her reception would be. However, not only was he as respectful and helpful as always, but he even smiled when she described what she wanted.

“Aye, I can make that right enough. It’s a clever idea, it is.”

“Thank you.” He must not have heard of her deception.

But his next words dispelled that thought. “Is it true, then, that you canna hear?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a sly one, you are.”

She opened her mouth to defend herself, but the look of approval on his face forestalled her.

He nodded. “You’re a fitting mate to our laird.”

“Um . . . thank you.”

“A Chrechte has to be stealthy and good at keeping a secret.”

“But I’m not a Chrechte.”

“Nay, you are not, but you’ve got the heart and the smarts of one.” From the way his chest puffed out and his eyes gleamed, it seemed that was highest praise coming from the blacksmith.

And that was only the first of several such strange conversations Abigail had that day with members of her clan. Far from making them hate her, learning of her affliction and how well she had hidden the weakness increased her stature in their eyes.

She only wished the same was true of her husband, but then no one else knew she had planned to use him to get to her sister.

As incomprehensible as she found it, the fact was her husband seemed far more offended by her deception than her deafness. The clan admired her deception and appeared to have no qualms about her deafness. Indeed, they showed awe at her ability to discern their presence since she could not hear their approach.

That was, everyone but Niall. He ignored her completely.

She watched in awe herself from the other side of the bailey when Guaire took him to task for it. Perhaps she should not have eavesdropped, but old habits were hard to break. Besides, she found the exchange fascinating.

Guaire glared up at Niall with green fire in his eyes. “What is the matter with you?”

“Aren’t you standing a little close, Guaire?” Niall asked, rather than answer the seneschal’s question.

Guaire’s fists clenched at his sides. “Does my nearness offend you?”

“You are the one that runs in the other direction whenever I get within breathing distance.”

“That isn’t true.”

“It is.”

“I’m not running right now.”

“I noticed. It looks like you will face even the scarred demon of your nightmares if it is for your laird’s wife.”

“Don’t call yourself that!” The tendons in Guaire’s neck stood out, making it clear he shouted.

Niall didn’t look in the least repentant, just grumpy. Really, really grumpy.

Guaire took a deep breath, obviously pulling himself under control. “You are treating her cruelly.”

“How I act toward Abigail is none of your business, seneschal.”

“She’s my friend.”

Abigail found herself smiling at the claim, despite the seriousness of the argument between two of her favorite Sinclairs.

“Is she?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Yes, what did that mean? Abigail would like to know, too.

“You spent the night in her bedchamber.”

“You dare to imply—”

“I’m not implying anything.” Niall rubbed his hand over his face. “Just leave it, Guaire.”

“I won’t leave it. Our lady deserves better than you are giving her.”

“I would protect her with my life.”

Abigail believed him; there was nothing but sincerity and an inexplicable sadness in his eyes.

“She is more than a responsibility to you.” Guaire was not giving any quarter. “She is your friend. Or at least I thought so.”

“I believed so as well.”

“What? So you don’t believe it any longer?”

“She deceived my laird. She hurt him. She deceived me.”

“She had her reasons.”

“They don’t matter.”

Abigail feared her husband shared his warrior’s belief.

“They do.”

“She doesn’t need my friendship, she has yours.”

Abigail could not stand it any longer. She headed toward the two arguing men. So intent was she on reaching them she did not immediately take note of the vibrations of the ground. When she did, she instinctively moved to the side, turning to see what was making the earth shake.

Talorc’s giant black stallion was almost upon her. She’d moved away from his path, but not enough. Realizing it, she dived to the ground, rolling farther away from the deadly path of the beast.

She felt the rush of air as he charged behind her. Now that was what she called close. Shaking a little from the near mishap, she stood and dusted off her plaid. Only then did she notice the soldiers running toward her.

Niall got there first. “Are you harmed?”

“No.” She tried a tentative smile that was not returned. “Just a little shaken.”

“Several of the clan yelled a warning, but you did not hear.” He didn’t appear to be making an accusation so much as an observation.

Nevertheless, a blush of humiliation crawled up her body. “No, I do not hear anything.”

“How did you know to move away, then?” he asked, curiosity and concern both there for her to see in the way he watched her.

“I felt the earth pound beneath my feet.”

“Aye, that is our lady,” one of the soldiers said.

The sting of humiliation faded a little.

Guaire reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “Well done.” He glared up at Niall. “Even if some are too damn stubborn and mean to admit it.”

She grabbed Guaire’s hand. “Don’t.”

“I’ll not tolerate him treating you so coldly.”

“Guaire . . .” She sighed and said what needed saying. “My deception hurt him.”

“I do not need you defending me to my . . . to Guaire,” Niall said, a sulfuric glare encompassing them both. Then he stormed away, toward the training ground, knocking two soldiers right on their bums on the way.

“What is the matter with him?” Earc asked.

Abigail and Guaire both shrugged helplessly. Barr came walking up, leading the still-agitated beast between two of the more seasoned Chrechte soldiers.

“Is he all right?”

“Is who all right, lady?” Earc asked.

“Talorc’s horse,” she said, replying to Earc but fixing her gaze on Barr.

“He is under control.”

“You must find whoever is responsible for upsetting him so. I dare say you’ll find the culprit among the youth. A prank they had no idea could have such serious consequences, but that cannot be repeated.” She bit her lip, looking at the poor lathered horse. “I wish Talorc were here, he could calm the beast more quickly.”

“If our laird were back from hunting, I do not believe his first concern would be for his horse,” Barr said with an amused look.

Abigail grimaced. “If you say so.” But she wasn’t convinced of Barr’s point of view. Not at all.

“What’s got Niall in a more foul mood than usual?” Earc asked. “Even with a hangover, he isn’t usually such a bastard.”

Barr glared at the warrior.

“That is, I mean . . .” Earc stumbled over his words most uncharacteristically.

Barr looked at Abigail’s hand still resting on Guaire’s. “I believe you will find the reason for my brother’s anger in something other than the tail end of a whiskey cask.”

Abigail dropped her hand, still not really understanding what had Niall so upset. She thought it was discovering her secret, but now Barr implied Niall was jealous maybe? Of what? Her friendship with Guaire? That made no sense.

He was not so petty.

Without further elucidation, Barr led the horse toward the stables.

Guaire watched the other man’s progress for several seconds before shaking his head and sighing. He turned to Abigail. “Are you ready to return to the keep?”