The idea was so ludicrous, she laughed. The sound might have been hysterical; she did not know. She could not hear the sound, and for once, she did not mind. Her nerves were too close to the surface of her control to care if her voice was working properly in this instance.
"You must be patient with me. 'Tis not my usual role."
She stared at him, unable to speak. He did not mean to wash her. He could not.
And yet, he did not appear in the least like he was joking either. His mouth was set in a serious line while his eyes devoured her.
"I can wash myself."
"It will be my pleasure."
"But—"
No more words had a chance to make it past her lips before he began to wash her shift most thoroughly. Only every stroke of the soap cake over the fabric was a caress against the skin below it. He made sure the soap touched every inch of the shift before putting the bar on the rock ledge of the pool.
"I believe next I am to work the suds into the cloth, aye?"
Too choked to speak, she could merely nod warily.
Using his free hand, he did exactly that, being far gentler than the washerwoman and her helper in Abigail's father's keep. Indeed, every movement of his hand against the linen was more a caress than a scrubbing. And each touch left her more and more breathless.
"You have a strange way of washing clothing in the Highlands."
"You think so?"
A strangled laugh made it past her tight throat and she nodded.
"Then you will be relieved to learn 'tis not something I have ever seen done."
"Only lairds wash their wives' clothing thus?"
"Only this laird."
"Oh," she gasped as all pretense at cleansing her garment slipped away.
Knowing and clever fingers caressed her through the wet shift, causing it to rub sensually against her skin. She'd never known such sensation, not even when he had touched her in the tent. This was pure decadence, making her feel more naked wearing her shift than she had under the furs for the past two nights.
She did not know when he had released her to touch her with both hands, but they cupped and squeezed her buttocks through the fabric. She felt marked and possessed by that simple touch. Then one hand slid around to draw indecipherable patterns on her stomach. Bit by slow bit, his hand moved upward until he reached her breast.
Long, masculine fingers curled around her in an intimate hold that seared her to her soul. Using the wet fabric, he abraded her nipples until her thighs quivered with the tension of wanting more. Yet for all the pleasure she knew there was to be had in his arms, she could not make herself ask for it.
He continued to caress her bottom through the shirt and her legs parted of their own volition as she fought the urge to return the touch. More out of fear of doing it wrong than what it might lead to.
"I think my shift is clean," she said between panting breaths.
"Then I believe it is time to wash you." He removed the garment without another word.
She thought she had felt naked and vulnerable, but now she knew it had been as nothing compared to being in the water with the barrier of her undergarment gone.
She stared up at him. "Shall I wash you?"
His eyes widened, telling her she'd managed to give voice to the words, not merely mouth them. As the silence between them stretched, she wanted to duck her head, to hide from his probing expression. However, she could not afford to miss anything he might say, so she stood in a wealth of trepidation to see how he would respond to her boldness.
"Do you remember what I said in the MacDonald cottage?"
She nodded. Every word had been seared into her brain.
"You will touch me as I touch you."
"But I don't know how," Abigail admitted. No matter how much she wished she did.
She wanted to give him pleasure as he had given her.
"You believe I have a wealth of experience touching women?"
Possessive fury welled up in her, taking her breath for a second. "Don't you?" she asked, nevertheless.
"No."
Her shock must have shown on her face because he smiled. "Our clan believes that penetration is as good as speaking vows between two people."
"There is a long distance between touching and deflowering." Or so her sister had insisted.
Talorc shrugged.
She frowned. "What does that mean?"
"Perhaps I have touched a woman or two, but never with the intimacy of this moment."
"You'd better not have." She didn't know where the words or the ferocity came from, but she wouldn't take either back.
Talorc did not seem bothered. In fact, once again, he smiled.
She would have told him to wipe the smug look from his face, but he lifted her against his body and all her air left her.
"If you are going to wash me, do it now."
She did not know how he expected her to do so and said as much.
He rubbed his hardness against her once before releasing her on the other side of the pool, where she found she could stand without going under. "There."
She looked around for the soap but he grabbed her chin, making her look at him.
"Just your hands."
She nodded, equal parts terror and desire fighting inside her. Then she reached through the warm water and brushed her hand down his arm. She'd seen her mother do that to her stepfather when he was tired or upset. It seemed such an intimate act.
Something a wife would do for her husband.
But from Talorc's expression, she knew he expected more.
She
wanted more. She took in a deep breath and then placed both hands flat against his chest. Skin hotter than the water covered hard muscles that felt like silk-covered granite under her fingers.
She used a washing motion but could not pretend that she was doing nothing more than a mundane chore. She trembled with the newness of touching another.
He made no move to direct her, allowing her to explore his torso in the guise of washing it. Neither spoke as she mapped his body with shaking hands.
She stopped with her hands resting against his stomach. "I want to touch you there."
He did not ask where "there" was; he merely nodded.
She did not move. "I'm afraid."
"Of what?"
It was her turn to respond with silence and a shrug. She could no more give voice to her fears than she could have stepped away from him in that moment.
"You have given me great pleasure these past two nights."
"You put your hand over mine," she reminded him. As if he could forget that tiny detail.
Without another word, his hands slid over hers and pressed downward. She let him guide her to the hard prick bobbing in the water. It jumped as her fingertips brushed along its length. He guided her fingers to curl around him and then moved his own hands to her hips, holding her in place.
The flesh in her hands was hot, hard and alive. So very alive.
She looked up into his heated gaze. "I feel like I'm holding the essence of your life."
Before she had a chance to feel stupid for saying something so ridiculous, he smiled a rogue's smile and nodded. "Many men would say that is exactly what you are doing."
"You said this would . . . it would . . ."
"Go inside you? Is that what has you worrying, wife?"
She swallowed and nodded.
"I'll fit as if you were made to hold me and no other."
"You're sure?"
"Aye."
"But . . . It's . . . You do realize there are small horses that would be pleased to be so endowed?" She had been raised in a keep after all; she'd seen more than one equestrian mating.
His head tilted back and she imagined his laughter boomed around the cavern.
She could not hear it, but she could feel the vibrations through his body.
She was not sure why he thought her comment so amusing. She found it much more worrying.
He shook his head. "I willna hurt you, lass."
"You're so sure? You said you don't have much experience."
"I am sure." And that clearly was supposed to be that.
And truthfully? Right now, she was less concerned with what was to come than the fact he had given her permission, nay
instruction
, to "wash" him.
She moved her hands along the large prick and Talorc's eyes fell closed as a fierce expression took over his features. She let her hands learn him in a way she had not the previous nights in their tent. She explored the softness of the skin, pressing into the flesh to feel just how hard he was. It was like holding heated stone.
The massive warrior's body shuddered at her touch, and she could not help feeling as if she had accomplished something special.
Suddenly he lifted her from the water, breaking her hold on his manhood. "That is enough."
"You are clean?" she teased, shocking herself.
He gave her a heavy-lidded look that promised pleasure and something else . . . claiming. "It is time."
She could not respond. She would not deny her own desire. For that would be a lie, but she could not force agreement from her tight throat either.
For the longest time, he simply looked at her. His eyes seemed to glow yellow in the torchlight. "You are so beautiful."
"Not like you," she choked out.
He jerked as if surprised by her words. But how could he be? The Sinclair laird was a study in male perfection.
Long black hair gleamed darker than the night around handsomely chiseled features that bespoke relentless strength and fierce pride. His big, well-honed warrior's body was only the physical manifestation of that strength. Eyes that continued to astonish her with their bright blue depths revealed an inner power she had seen in no other man.
They said Talorc could be nothing less than laird of his people; no other position would do for the man so clearly born to lead.
Right now those eyes glowed with striations of gold that sent pinpricks of sensation down her spine.
Strangely, she found that incredibly alluring rather than frightening. This man had authority over her life as only her parents had before him. He was so much stronger than either her mother or stepfather. His personality and form should intimidate, but she felt inexplicable safety. In this moment, Abigail did not worry Talorc would use either his mental or physical power to hurt her.
No, his intent to give her pleasure was undeniable. Baffled by the truth but unable to deny it, she craved the experience. Of all the scenarios she had entertained in her worried imaginings before leaving her stepfather's keep, none had included her being attracted to her Scottish husband. Even in her most closely held dreams, she had not let herself imagine desiring Talorc, wanting to be claimed by him—much less needing to claim him, too.
But he was everything desirable.
Each of his muscles was sculpted as if honed by the most talented of artists. And had they not been? Surely God had given her husband more than his share of masculine beauty as well as inner power only a select few in history would ever know.
"You are amazing to me," she admitted, not sure her voice was working.
He said something she could not understand.
Fear that she did not want in this place washed over her. "Please. I don't . . ."
Please don't talk. Please don't expose her secret before revealing the full mysteries of the marriage bed. Could she not have one time of normalcy in her life? One thing not marred or ruined entirely by her affliction?
"It is Chrechte."
Relief did not cancel out the fear that had become too much a part of her, but it was still welcome. "I do not understand Chrechte."
"You wouldn't."
"What did you say?"
"I called you an angel."
"An angel?"
"Aye. When Cait and I were children, my mother told us angels were beings with hair the color of spun gold and beauty to rival our own blessed Highlands."
"You see me that way?"
"'Tis the only way to see you."
"Oh."
"I also said you are mine. My angel."
"Oh." She would not . . . could not . . . deny that.
He lowered her until they were eye level. "Now you say it."
"I am yours." Though she would not call herself an angel.
He spoke again in the ancient tongue. Then in Gaelic, "I belong to you."
She didn't wait for him to instruct her to repeat the phrase. "You belong to me." At least until he knew her damning truth.
"I promised to protect you during our marriage ceremony and you promised to accept my protection. Now I promise to keep you as my mate for our lives forward."
Why did it seem he spoke the word
mate
with a finality not even
wife
could embody? Could the lifetime promise be real? Or were even Chrechte vows subject to her defect? "I promise to protect you to the best of my abilities and to be your mate for as long as you want me."
He frowned at her addition, or was it her caveat? "Now it is time for the Chrechte blessing. I will speak it as both pack leader and your husband."
"That sounds nice." Better than the priest's hasty blessing as Talorc strode with her from the chapel.
He carried her from the pool and stood her on the furs. Then he dropped to his knees and tugged her down in front of him. Kneeling, they faced each other. His expression was so intent she could barely breathe. He tipped his head back slightly and said something, as if issuing a command. She did not understand, but he did not look at her expectantly, as if she should.
Then she thought she knew who he had spoken to as two warriors came into her sight. They took a stance behind Talorc as she realized they had not come into the cavern alone. All of his soldiers now stood in a circle around her and Talorc. None of them wore their plaid, or anything else.
She should be mortified—both by their nudity and hers, but she wasn't. It felt inexplicably fitting—as if she had been born to this obviously ancient Chrechte rite. It helped that none of the men were looking at her. They had their backs to her and Talorc, their heads tilted as if looking toward the heavens.
Each of the soldiers had a simplistic indigo marking of a wolf on his left shoulder blade. Talorc had that tattoo as well. Was that their Chrechte marking?