Lucy Monroe - Moon Craving

He did not have a tattoo on his arm either, and she was guessing that was significant. His left cheek was marred by a battle scar; even so, he was almost as handsome as the other man.

Abigail felt an instant rapport with the marked soldier. It was too easy for others to judge a person’s worth on a physical affliction. This warrior could do no more about his scar than she could her deafness.

The raven-haired man came toward her with purposeful strides. The other giant warrior followed him, a strange half smile on his face. The puckered flesh gave him a sinister look that the amusement in his eyes belied.

At that moment, Abigail definitely should have ducked behind the window covering. She couldn’t. The tattooed warrior held her attention as firmly as she held on to the hope of seeing her sister again one day.

His silent command to stay still was unmistakable.

Even if the command was only in her imagination, it would not let her go. Her body felt strangely heavy, but her head felt light. Fear and exhilaration coursed through her as her fingers curled around the window covering in a stranglehold.

As he came closer, the pace of her breathing increased until she was panting as if she had been chasing her sister through the meadow near her stepfather’s keep like she had when they were children.

He did not stop once he reached the cottage as she expected, but continued around to the front. She stared after him, confused and painfully disappointed when she should never have wanted to speak to the man alone in the first place.

Her gaze swung back to the light-haired soldier where he had stopped a few feet from the window. He looked at her, but if he was curious about her like the MacDonald clan, he did not show it. His scarred face and gray eyes were devoid of emotion, his square jaw set as if words would not leave his mouth anytime soon.

She stared back, uncertain if she should do or say anything.

The lack of communication stretched between them until the dark-haired man returned, a scowl of anger twisting his masculine lips. His blue gaze seared her, his eyes darker than the daytime sky, but nothing like the dark blue velvet of night.

Her heart beat more quickly in her chest, and she laid her hand against her throat to ensure she was not making sounds she was unaware of.

“Why are you angry?” she felt herself asking without first thinking to do so. She spoke in Gaelic, not so halting as it had been when she had been learning with Emily, but at a lower volume.

She should not have spoken at all. It was forward behavior Sybil would have scolded her severely for with a certainty.

“No one guards you.”

“There are soldiers in their tents on the west side.” Surely he had noticed.

“They sleep.”

“They would come if I called for aid.” Though honestly, she did not know if she was capable of yelling any longer.

It had been over two years since her sister had left and equally as long since she had someone to help her determine the height of her voice.

The man’s scowl only deepened. “Where is the guard for your door?”

She so wished she could hear his voice. The pain of her loss pricked at her in a way she had not let it do in many years. Everything else about him was the stuff dreams were made of. No doubt his voice would be the perfect pitch for such a powerful man.

“There is none.” She knew the answer was not what the man wanted to hear the moment she’d uttered the words.

He said a word she could not interpret and glared over his shoulder, barking out an order she could not hear. She didn’t need to though, because one of his other soldier’s was making his way rapidly around to the front of the cottage. Abigail knew it was to take up a guard’s position at the door.

She would have gone to check but could not make herself leave the dark-haired warrior’s company.

“Where are your father’s soldiers? Surely they do not all sleep?”

“Those on duty, or who wished to visit with the MacDonald soldiers, are inside the keep. With him.” She kept her hand against her throat to make sure it vibrated with sound, monitoring her tone as Emily had made her learn to do.

“He is not on his own land. All of his soldiers are on duty at all times,” the Sinclair warrior bit out, his jaw clamping between words.

Abigail looked toward the keep where her parents entertained themselves with no thought to a deaf daughter’s terror on the night before her forced wedding. “It is not for me to say.”

“You are Emily’s sister. The woman I am to wed.”

She nodded and brushed her curls back in a nervous gesture Sybil would have harped at her for. “You are Talorc, Laird of the Sinclair. I knew it the moment you faced me. You carry yourself like a lord.”

Talorc’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and she thought she had offended him with her out-of-turn comment. He reached toward her, and she wanted to flinch back, but she would not let herself.

She must face this man with strength or forever lose herself to the fierce terrors plaguing her.

Perhaps he would think her wanton for not attempting to avoid the shockingly gentle brush of fingers against her cheek, but she would not move. The most amazing sensation of shivering pleasure spread throughout her body at that one small caress.

She would question her sanity on the morrow, she was sure, but she felt as if in that moment she had been touched by a piece of her soul that had been missing. How could that be?

“Who hit you?” His fingertip rested gently on the least painful of Abigail’s bruises. The one Sybil’s slap had left on her cheek.

“It is nothing.”

He did not respond, nor did he take his hand away. It was as if he was willing her to answer him.

And she could not stand against that will.

She sighed. “My mother was not happy with my response to her.”

“Your mother? Not your father?”

“No. Sir Reuben has never raised a hand to me.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

Talorc nodded and then frowned again before pushing the loose neck of her sleeping gown aside. “There is another bruise. This one uglier.”

The word broke her trance as nothing else could have. No, Abigail could not claim beauty. She could not claim anything that would make her the right wife for this powerful laird.

Her only hope was that he did not discover that truth before taking her to the Highlands.

She jerked back, stepping out of his reach yet still holding the covering back from the window. “I am sorry my looks displease you.”

“That is not what I said.”

“Nay, he remarked on your bruise, lass. Ye’d best tell him who gave it to you.” The other giant soldier said.

Abigail only caught the words because her movement had reminded her they were not alone and she needed to watch the other soldier as well, lest she be caught in her subterfuge before the wedding.

She held back a sigh of frustration with herself. For all she knew, he had spoken before this. She must be more careful.

“My mother,” she said again, making sure she could see both warrior’s faces.

Talorc’s darkened with fury. “She beat you. Why?”

Abigail spent her life lying by omission about her affliction, but she had promised herself long ago not to lie about anything else. Ever. “I would rather not say.”

“You will tell me.”

“Perhaps she was no more reconciled to this marriage than you, Talorc.” The pale-haired giant seemed amused by the possibility.

“You find this entertaining, Niall?” Talorc demanded of the other soldier.

“A bit,” Niall replied, clearly not frightened of his laird.

“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.