Moon Craving

Chapter 11

The redheaded soldier Abigail had noticed earlier stepped forward. “I will show our lady to your quarters so she can rest from her journey, my laird.”

Talorc nodded. He turned to Abigail. “Wife, this is Guaire, seneschal to the Sinclair holding.”

“Seneschal? I don’t know this word.”

“It is similar to a steward,” Guaire replied in English, earning himself a glare from the other warriors around him.

Except for a slight tightening of his shoulders, he ignored the reaction, showing he was used to such from the others. For some reason that bothered Abigail. She knew she was going to like this soldier. He had been happy when Niall laughed and that pleased Abigail.

Niall was one of the few people in the world she counted as friend.

As they walked away, Talorc must have said something because Guaire stopped and looked back at his laird. Abigail swiveled her head so she could read her husband’s lips as well.

“You will give her your arm on the stairs and assure her safety.”

“Aye, my laird.”

“I’m no bumbler, Talorc.” She was deaf, not lacking in grace. “I’m not about to go tumbling down the stairs.”

“Nevertheless you will allow a soldier to aid you whenever you use them.”

She gave him one of his famous shrugs, refusing to agree to such a ridiculous instruction and unwilling to lie either.

As she and Guaire left, Abigail was actually grateful for her inability to hear the many whispers and comments that had to be going on behind them.

They stepped into the hall and Abigail sucked in a breath.

The interior was every bit as imposing as the exterior and far more austere. No colorful silks adorned the stone walls to give the hall a more cheerful aspect. No chairs surrounded the huge fireplace, conspicuously unlit despite the late-afternoon chill in the cavernous room. The sun might shine outside, but it had not penetrated the thick stone walls of Talorc’s tower home. The only furnishings in the great hall were two long tables with backless benches down each side.

“How many of the soldiers dine in the hall?” she asked Guaire, rather than commenting on the cheerless aspect of the huge room.

“Ten of the elite soldiers live here in the hall as well as Talorc’s advisor, Osgard, and myself. Another ten to fifteen of the unmarried soldiers will join us for the midday or evening meal.”

“The married soldiers never share a meal with their laird?” That surprised her. Talorc struck her as a leader who would prefer to stay connected to all his people.

“It would be considered rude to leave their wives and families for such. Is it not the same in England?”

“Well, I know that all Sir Hamilton’s soldiers were on rotation to eat in the great hall once a month. It was considered an honor.”

“As it should be.”

“Of course, their families were welcome to join them. Some did and some preferred not to. My mother liked to lord her position over the other women living in my stepfather’s barony.”

“Interesting.” Guaire did not appear as if the comment was merely a polite one. He looked intrigued. “I do not think we have had a child at the laird’s table since Talorc and Caitriona themselves were children.”

“Perhaps it is time to change that.”

Guaire smiled at her, his expression saying he was amused but approved. “Perhaps it is.”

“How long have you lived in the laird’s tower?” she asked as Guaire guided her up the stairs.

The stone steps curved in a gentle spiral along the wall up to the first story, which was a good fifteen feet above the great hall. She understood Talorc’s insistence on her having an escort a little better. The stairs were not wide enough for two people to walk abreast and they had nothing between them and a sheer drop to the main floor.

Guaire led her one step ahead, while her hand was held firmly in the crook of his arm. “Since the laird’s sister left to live with the Balmoral clan. I had been seneschal for two years already then, but not afforded the privilege of living within my laird’s home.”

“Well, I’m glad you do now. The stairs are very narrow,” she observed.

Guaire led her across the small landing at the top of the stairs and through a doorway there. “It is a tactical advantage.”

“Talorc seems very concerned with the safety of his fortress.”

“Not the safety of the fortress.” Guaire stopped and gave her a look that conveyed his desire for her to understand. “Our laird cares greatly for the security of the people that live within it.”

“Because of what happened to his father?”

“More like because of what his father’s actions allowed to happen to the rest of the clan. Our former laird was only one of many that died when his bitch of a wife betrayed the clan to her English friends.”

“I can’t imagine an English force coming this far north to wage war on a Scottish clan. What could they possibly hope to gain?”

Guaire shrugged and she was sure it did not mean that he did not have an answer, but that it was one he didn’t wished to share. “Does it matter? They came and they killed.”

“Yes.” At the behest of a woman who should have been loyal to the old laird and his people. And Abigail’s husband still called her his mate. It was a miracle to her way of thinking. “I must be grateful Talorc accepted me so readily.”

“He did not have a choice. You are his mate, a true one if he willingly acknowledged so to the Chrechte warriors.”

“I didn’t even realize he saw me as his friend. It is an honor I plan to live up to.”

Guaire gave her a puzzled look. “Friend?”

“His mate.”

The redhead’s leaf green eyes widened. “He did not tell you what it meant to be his mate?”

“We discussed it last night.” Sort of. In a roundabout way. “We both feel it is a blessing for a husband and wife to be true friends.”

Guaire seemed to be choking on something, but he just shook his head and led her down the hallway that bisected the first story. He pushed open the first door on the right. “This is Talorc’s chamber, now yours as well.”

Considering the sparsity of furnishings and decor on the main floor, she should not have been surprised by this room. However, it would make a monastic cell appear decadent by comparison. A pile of furs much like the ones she and her husband had slept in on the trip north occupied a spot against the far wall. There was a chest under the window but no chairs or chest of drawers.

The only decor, if you could call it that, was a huge well-oiled sword and a selection of knives hanging above the fireplace mantel. She turned in a circle and noted torch holders on either side of the door. That was something at least. A small indication that her husband acknowledged they were no longer cave dwellers.

“It’s, um . . . is he having a bed made?”

Guaire’s look was definitely tinged with humor this time, and maybe a little pity. “I do not believe so.”

“You would know, I’m guessing.”

“Aye.”

She sighed. The furs had been comfortable enough the past few nights, she supposed. “He is a man of few indulgences.”

“I think ‘few’ may be overstating the case.”

That was what she was afraid of.

“She is your true mate?” Barr asked Talorc with nothing less than shock.

He and a small group of Chrechte warriors had come into the great hall after Talorc had dismissed the clansmen.

Talorc looked toward the floor above as if he could see his beautiful blond wife through the timbers. He sighed at his own foolishness. She wasn’t even up there. Guaire had taken her on a tour of the fortress. “Aye.”

“But . . .” Clearly his second-in-command did not know what to say because he did not finish his thought.

Osgard’s feelings were easily read. He was furious, his craggy, aged features tightened in fierce lines. “Impossible.”

“You doubt my ability to read the signs?”

“Your father insisted Tamara was his true mate as well, but we all know how that turned out.” Osgard snorted. “The man was infatuated and that was that.”

“I am not infatuated with my wife.” He was protective of her, possessive in a way he never would have anticipated, but that was all because of the wolf. She was not just his wife. She was his sacred mate. “I have no intention of sharing the secrets of our clan or our people with her.”

“Your father did not intend to tell your mother about the Royal Treasure either, but he did it all the same.”

“I am not my father,” Talorc growled.

Osgard was still hurt from his former laird’s betrayal, but no one knew the pain of looking up to that man as sire and having all feelings of respect and admiration wiped out in a single night. No one but Talorc.

“Our lady does not know she is your mate?” Niall asked, scowling.

“She thinks it means we are true friends.” And Talorc refused to feel bad about that. Abigail was human. She would not understand anyway.

The fact that her sister seemed to in her bond with Lachlan of the Balmoral was not something Talorc wanted to examine closely.

Talorc’s words startled a laugh from Osgard. “The English are fools.”

“What is foolish about a woman mistaking a word that has more than one meaning?” Niall demanded. “There is no honor in making a gull of your sacred mate.”

“That is not my intention. She is not one of us; she does not need to know she is anything more than my wife. ’Tis all she expects as a human.”

Niall looked far from convinced.

Osgard frowned at the scarred warrior. “Has she ensnared you, then?”

“Our lady does not seek to snare. She is innocent and kind.” Niall crossed his arms in a stance that said he would not be moved. “I count her friend.”

Barr gasped.

“She does not fear me. She thinks I am romantic and kind.” Niall rolled his eyes. “She sees the best in people. ’Tis a strangely appealing trait. You’ll see.”

Osgard puffed up with anger as only an old Scotsman could. “I see the lass has you and our laird bamboozled.”

“She’s nothing like Tamara,” Talorc insisted, and he realized how deeply he believed the words as he spoke them. “She would never deceive me as that woman did my father.”

“Your feebleminded father believed the same.”

“Enough!” Talorc accepted much from Osgard, but this was going too far. He surged to his feet and loomed over the old man. “My father was your laird. He made a mistake in trusting the wrong woman and paid with his life. I learned from that mistake and will not repeat it. You should need no more than my word to accept that fact. Insulting his memory as you have just done is an affront to the title he wore.”

“Better cause offense than to watch this clan taken down by another scheming Englishwoman. I’ll not do it.”

“There is no falseness in my mate!” Talorc felt his eyes change and the world went black-and-white.

Osgard flinched back as all the color leached from his wrinkled skin. “My only concern is for the clan,” he said with much less vigor than before.

Talorc could respect the older man’s motivations, if not his opinions. “I’ll see to the protection of my people, as I have from the beginning of my leadership. But know this. My wolf demands protection of my sacred mate just as surely.”

Osgard grudgingly nodded, and then sighed. “I did not intend to speak insolence against ye, for all that I see you as the son I lost in that bloody, fiery battle, you are my laird, and I respect both your decisions and your commitment to your clan.”

The words were a major concession from the old warrior, and Talorc treated them with the respect they deserved, pounding his right fist over his heart with a nod.

Though it was late afternoon when they arrived at the Sinclair holding, Abigail declined Guaire’s suggestion she take a nap before the evening meal. “I would rather get acquainted with the motte and lower bailey if you don’t mind escorting me.”

“I would be delighted.”

Abigail smiled. “You are very kind. You do know I’m English, don’t you?”

“You used to be English. Now you are married to our laird. That makes you a Sinclair.”

“That is similar to something Talorc said on the journey here.”

Guaire nodded. “’Tis truth we’re speaking.”

“I hope the other clanspeople are of the same mind.” Though she took leave to doubt it.

However, she was pleasantly surprised to discover that most of the Sinclairs were actually quite amicable when Guaire introduced her. She’d met a group of women who spun the wool harvested from the sheep the clan tended. They dyed and made it into the Sinclair plaid as well as other plaids of similar colors for trade with clans at the twice-yearly gatherings.

The only building larger than the spinning cottage in the lower bailey was the smithy. Abigail was delighted to learn that Magnus, the blacksmith, was married to a woman originally from the clan Abigail’s sister had married into. She was even happier when Magnus called his wife from their cottage behind the smithy to meet the new laird’s wife.

A lovely woman, with a sweet smile, Susannah welcomed Abigail to the clan. “I’m sure you’ll find many friends among our clan just as I did when I came.”

“Thank you.”

They got to talking about their family members on Balmoral Island and Abigail said, “I brought gifts for Emily, but I do not know when I will be able to take them to her. Are there messengers that go between the two clans very often?”

“No more often than necessary,” Magnus replied laconically.

“The lairds have approved our visit to the island after the next full moon so I can visit my family,” Susannah said with a smile. “My mother is eager to see our children.”

Abigail smiled. “That’s wonderful.”

“Your family is now the Sinclair clan,” her husband admonished with exaggerated patience.

“And I’m not going to pretend my mother, my brother and his wife no longer exist just because I’ve married one of the reclusive Sinclair clan.”

“We are recluses? The Balmoral live on an island with no other clans.”

“And it’s not an island you mind visiting. You like the hunting there.”

Magnus didn’t reply, but Abigail wasn’t disturbed by the couple’s banter. She was more adept than most at reading the language of the body, and it was clear the blacksmith and his wife held no real animosity over their discussion.

Susannah rolled her eyes and spoke to Abigail. “My point, before my husband interrupted with an old argument, was that we could take your gifts and deliver them to your sister if you like.”

“That would not be too great a burden?” Abigail asked, truly moved at the offer and blinking back moisture. “I should love to let my sister know I am well and living in the Highlands now.” She could not trust Sybil to send word of Abigail’s new circumstances to Emily.

“I will pass on any messages you like,” Susannah generously offered.

“Thank you so much. If you do not mind, I will include a letter with her gifts.”

“You can write?” the blacksmith asked curiously.

“Yes. Emily taught me.”

“She is independent, that one. Our laird can read as well,” Magnus announced proudly. “As can our Guaire. ’Tis why he was chosen seneschal.”

“That and the fact he is the only clan member who can read that does not shake the pleats from his plaid when the elite warriors gather together in one place.” Susannah smiled with approval at Guaire.

He shrugged, but his expression said the clanswoman had a point.

“Your parents must be proud of you for being chosen for such an important role in the clan,” Abigail observed as she and Guaire walked away from the smithy.

“No doubt they would have been pleased, but my father died during the war with the English baron’s forces.”

“And your mother?”

“She caught a fever the next year and never recovered.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. Sadly, the fever was not one we had experienced before the battle with the English. Our healers did not know what to do.”

“Often there is nothing you can do,” Abigail replied, remembering her own fever that left her life without sound.

Abigail’s further meetings with the men and women of the Sinclair clan continued to go surprisingly well. That was until they returned up to the motte and reached a small cottage located behind the kitchens. Guaire introduced Abigail to Una, the housekeeper and head cook for the residences of the tower.

The widow, who was only a few years older than Abigail and quite beautiful with her dark red hair and doe-like eyes, gave her new lady a once-over that left no doubt she found her laird’s new wife lacking. “You’re his forced English bride, then?”

“Una!” Guaire admonished. “The laird expects the clan to welcome her.”

“She’s English,” Una spit out, her lovely features twisted in ugly disapproval.

A small boy who clung to his mother’s skirts, peeked from behind her and scowled at Abigail. “We hates the English.”

Guaire gave Una a look that would have had Abigail taking a few steps back and served to make the other woman avert her eyes at least.

Ignoring her for the moment, he dropped to one knee and looked right into the young boy’s eyes. “We do no hate our laird’s wife. Where she comes from is of no matter. She is a Sinclair now.”

“Tamara was a Sinclair, too, but she had her English baron lover bring his forces to our land and wage a coward’s war, attacking with fire while our clan slept,” Una replied with venom. “Too many of us lost loved ones to an Englishwoman’s treachery to forget it.”

It was this attitude that had caused Emily so much distress and fed Abigail’s earlier concerns about meeting the clan. However, Abigail had spent the past several years being reviled by her own mother. She had developed a core of solid stone. She would not be cowed by irrational hatred.

“MacAlpin betrayed his own people. We don’t distrust the Chrechte because of what one man did,” Guaire stood and replied before Abigail had a chance to defend herself.

“It’s not the same.”

“No, it isn’t,” Abigail agreed. “MacAlpin wanted power and Tamara had her own reasons for betraying your clan, but I have nothing to gain by making enemies here. I have nothing to return to in England.”

“Why should I believe you?” Una asked belligerently.

“Because I’m telling the truth, but maybe you will need time to accept that.”

“Time is not something she has,” Guaire said, his face set. “I will make sure the laird is made aware of your stand on the matter, Una.”

Una blanched, proving she might be prejudiced, but she wasn’t stupid.

Abigail shook her head though. “No.”

His brows drawn together in a frown, Guaire said, “The laird’s instructions in the matter were clear.”

“My mind is made up.” Abigail crossed her arms over her chest and gave Guaire her best no-nonsense frown. “I will spend the next month getting to know Una and she will come to know her lady, not the English hobgoblin she imagines that has her so frightened.”

“I am not afraid,” Una denied with disdain.

“What will happen in a month’s time?” Guaire asked, ignoring the other woman’s continued posturing.

“If she cannot learn to respect, if not actually like me, then she will be relieved of her position as housekeeper and head cook for her laird.”

Una’s mouth opened and then snapped shut without forming any words.

Guaire shook his head at her. “It is more than you should expect. Talorc made it clear he would consider disrespect shown to our lady as a direct challenge to his leadership.”

Una sighed. “I know. I was there.”

Abigail tensed. “That changes things.” She wished it didn’t, but the fact that Una had witnessed Talorc’s words meant Abigail could not choose her own course in the matter.

For the first time, Una looked at Abigail with something approaching respect. “In what way?”

“I cannot allow such a challenge to my husband’s authority stand. As much as I find it distasteful to do so, I must inform him of our discussion. However, I will attempt to convince him to allow you the month’s grace. In fact, I will ask him to give the entire clan a month to get to know me before he takes seriously any disparaging comments about or toward my person.”

Una and Guaire stared at her in varying degrees of shock.

“You would—”

“Talorc is not known for his patience,” Guaire said, interrupting Una.

“That is quite all right. I am convinced I have enough for both of us.”