Moon Craving (17 page)

Unfortunately.

Abigail's breath hitched and then changed to reflect a waking state. Her smell changed subtly as she experienced some kind of agitation. Tension crept into her limbs even though she had not moved. He lifted his head to meet her eyes.

She blinked sleepily at him, something unreadable in the brown depth of her gaze.

"You're here."

He did not ask where else he should be, considering he had spent most of the night away from their temporary bed. He simply nodded and then covered her lips with his before she could say anything else, or ask any questions he did not want to answer.

She went rigid against him, all implications of unconscious surrender disappearing as she jerked her face away from his and broke the kiss.

He reared up to lean on his arms above her. "What is wrong, angel?" Then a thought struck him. "Are you still sore?"

She did not reply, keeping her face averted so he could not read her expression.

That bothered him more than he cared to admit and he carefully grasped her chin to turn her head so their eyes met. "Answer me."

She stared at him, her soft brown gaze shimmering with what looked like resignation.

"You are sore. It is all right. We will wait until you have healed." He was no monster.

"I am not sore."

"Then why did you turn away?" he demanded with exasperation.

"How can you share your body with your enemy?"

"I would not." Disgust at the idea laced his voice.

Her brows drew together in confusion. "You said I was your enemy when we were eating the evening meal."

"I did not."

"You did. I do not always understand . . ." She hesitated and blew out a clearly frustrated breath. "Gaelic. I do not always understand Gaelic perfectly. It is not my first language, but I know the word for enemy."

He mentally reviewed each word he said to her over the evening meal and comprehension finally dawned. "I said it was enough that you and I are not enemies, I do not expect us to be friends."

Her eyes glowed with pleasure, but dimmed almost as quickly as he finished speaking.

"You do not think we can be friends?"

She was formerly English. She was a woman. She was not Chrechte and could never know of that important part of himself. There was only one answer to her question, but he could not force the negative out. So, he shrugged and watched with amusement as her eyes narrowed in what could be only described as an adorable glare.

"That is not an answer."

"Aye, my angel, it is."

Her lips parted, but before she could argue, he covered them again with his mouth.

This time, he took advantage of the opening and thrust his tongue forward to claim her sweetness.

Unlike a moment ago, her response was instant and blatant. She had really been bothered by the idea that he saw her as an enemy. Women were strange creatures with minds unfathomable.

He would never bed his enemy, but he would not be overly worried if
she
considered him less than trustworthy. He would still bury himself in her softness. Not that she would distrust him. He was the Sinclair, and by her words and actions, she had shown she knew what that meant—at least to the extent that she trusted her safety in his hands.

For her to refuse intimacy because she thought he viewed her in a negative light when she so clearly enjoyed making love was overly refined thinking. 'Twas most likely the result of her more
civilized
English manners.

Now that she had decided she could allow herself a natural response, she burned him with the fire of her need. He reveled in the carnality of their kiss, rubbing his naked body against hers. Her small hands grabbed onto his shoulders, her nails digging in and sparking satisfaction in his wolf's spirit at her flagrant possessiveness. He lowered himself, covering her body completely with his in a move demanded by his Chrechte blood.

He rubbed his body against hers, scenting every bit of skin that he could reach. His bones shuddered with the need to change, but he controlled it.

Barely.

His wolf howled for release. He willed the beast to submerge itself in pleasure.

Lifting her arms above her head, he nuzzled one of her armpits. An aphrodisiac like no other, the scent of her pheromones made him crazy. He nipped the tender skin right where arm and shoulder joined. Her body jerked, her hips pressing up into him. She wasn't trying to buck him off though, not with the way her smaller calves wrapped around his, holding him to her with unmistakable intent.

He approved and let her know how much by rubbing his hard cock against the apex of her thighs. She made a choked noise, her hips bucking again and again. It was amazing how perfectly their bodies were attuned, considering she was not part wolf.

He threw his head back and howled out his pleasure and his need.

Then his head dipped forward of its own volition and his lips sought out the join of her shoulder and neck. He opened his mouth over the sensitive spot, his teeth brushing the skin there, making them both moan in a feral recognition as old as time. He bit down, gently but firmly, worrying the mark he had made the night before.

A keening sound broke from her throat and his body went rigid with pleasure at the recognition of his claiming. His wolf howled so loud inside him that his head reverberated with it. Her entire body bowed, lifting his much-larger form several inches before she collapsed back into the furs.

He shifted his hips until his granite-hard erection pressed into the slick opening to her soft body.

"Do it." Her hands grabbed at him, pulling him down. "Do it. Do it. Do it.
Claim me
."

He could not have stopped himself if he had wanted to. He claimed her with his bite and with his manhood.

As he surged inside, two things happened. The first was an overwhelming sense of coming home, even stronger than he had the night before. So strong, he could not begin to deny it. So strong that it paralyzed him into temporary immobility.

And the second was that he heard her cry out his name.
In his head
.

He recognized the soft cadence of her voice, but there was a timbre to it he had not heard from her before, a richness that her spoken words did not have.

No. It was not possible. She was human. She was his king's choice, not Talorc's.

She was not Chrechte
. She must have said it out loud and he just thought he had heard it in his mind.

That had to be it.

All inner arguments fled as the pleasure built with unprecedented speed between them. She moved under him with wanton sensuality. His hips thrust of their own accord, moving his hardness in and out of her with a speed and strength he would not have thought she could handle, much less rejoice in so clearly.

He slid his forearms under her knees and pulled her legs up so he could thrust more deeply.

"Yes. Yes. Yes . . ." Each affirmative barely whispered past her lips, but the intensity of the demand was more obvious than if she had screamed the words.

He spiraled toward climax. The strange sensation that he could feel her doing the same only increased his pleasure. Building it and building it. Until they reached an orgasm together that was so intense his shy wife screamed out so loud it would have shattered his inner ear.

If the cry had not sounded inside his head.

He put his head back and howled in indescribable pleasure as he planted his seed deep in his wife's body and cried out her name in his mind.

"Abigail."

Her breath seized in her chest and Abigail's body convulsed with another wave of wondrous bliss as she heard her name shouted in her husband's pleasure-drenched voice.

Heard it
.

Heavens above and all the saints besides. Could it be true? Had she truly heard Talorc yell her name as he reached his own pinnacle of gratification? Yet, how could it be anything but real? She who had heard nothing, not even a ringing in her ears, for too many silent years, had heard her own name called out.

She gasped at the sheer miracle of it, tears of joy burning with welcome sting in her eyes.

Grabbing his face with both hands, she demanded, "Say it again. Say my name again."

But as she spoke, cold dread lapped at the edges of her joy. She had not heard her own voice.

He stared at her with satiated pleasure and obligingly complied with her frenzied request. "Abigail."

She watched his lips form the syllables she knew made her name, but no sound penetrated the cocoon of silence she lived in. Desolation choked her even as she begged, "Again. Please?"

Talorc's brows drew together and he asked her a question with his amazing blue eyes.

She could not answer it though, only beg again, "Please." Though each word she uttered eroded the hope that had blossomed at what she had thought was a miracle.

Because she could not hear her own words and now questioned whether she had indeed heard her name. But if not, then what? It had been so long since anything but silence had assailed her, she could not remember sound. She fought the forgetting of normalcy, but each year drew her further into a world that felt as if it had never had sound at all.

Still, how could she have imagined something she never even experienced in her dreams anymore?

"Are you not well?" he asked.

And she read the meaning on his lips, in the concern now masking his features, but she did not hear.

How could she answer?

They had just shared a pleasure beyond belief and she was allowing the imaginings of her mind to ruin it. She was not well, but it was no one's fault but her own.

She forced a smile and pulled his face toward her, intent on hiding behind a kiss.

"How could I be anything else?"

How indeed?

And he cooperated in helping her hide, kissing her with a tenderness and leftover passion that assuaged the pain of her self-delusion.

He did not take her to soak in the hot spring this night, but led her on another sensual journey that did not end with any inexplicable experiences. Then he kissed her after—right into slumber.

Talorc woke with his arms wrapped protectively around his mate. Not just his angel in a flight of fancy, but his
true and sacred mate.
If he could believe the evidence of his mind and senses. How was it possible?

The arguments against the probability of finding a sacred mate the way he had were just as valid as the day before, but none of them mattered in the face of one inescapable fact:
He had heard her voice inside his head
. They were capable of mindspeak. Not all true mates were, but it was an indisputable sign that the mating was blessed.

It also meant that until Abigail or he died, they would be physically capable of mating with only each other. Not that he would have considered doing otherwise. The Sinclairs, particularly the Chrechte among them, placed high importance the physical act of sex. Most members of the clan, warriors and women alike, considered it a sacred bond, not to be broken.

Even more important, the sacred mating bond meant that not only could Abigail have Talorc's children, but most likely she
would
have them. What had seemed an impossibility the night before now had a strong chance of happening. Talorc would send his wolf nature into the next generation if he was blessed with Chrechte offspring rather than human.

It was enough to make him howl in delight. However, his joy was tinged with melancholy.

He could not tell Abigail of his full nature and risk her revealing the secrets of his people to outsiders. Thus he could not share some of the benefits of the true mate bond with her, like mindspeaking. Since he had accepted a while ago that he would most likely not find his true mate, that should not bother him. But it did.

Knowing the mental intimacy they were capable of made him long to participate in the ancient Chrechte act. Yet part of him was relieved he had a reason to avoid it. The true bond was disconcerting enough; the deep intimacy of mindspeak was not something he was comfortable sharing with a woman he had met only a few days before. Particularly a human who had been born and raised in England.

He must be careful not to speak into her mind as he had done when shouting her name during his first climax the night before. He could not risk revealing the true state of their mating before he was ready. If that time ever came.

Abigail's first view of the Sinclair holding was more than a little imposing. Her sister's letters had described a keep similar to their father's, with timber fence surrounding the motte and bailey. Not so now. In the almost three years since her sister had first gone north, that timber had been replaced with stone, and the Sinclair keep looked more like a castle. A solid, impenetrable fortress, to be precise.

A wide moat surrounded the high stone wall. The water was dark, indicating a depth that would prevent easy crossing.

Horse hooves clattered as their party went over the single access point, a narrow bridge that led to the only opening she could see in the wall. Clanspeople had come out of their cottages to welcome their laird home and followed the horses across the bridge.

They were joined by more men and women in the bailey.

Some called out, many cheered and children ran in games of tag around the men mounted on their huge steeds. It was a much different picture than the one Emily had painted of her first view of the Sinclair holding. Both warrior and warhorses showed their superior training because the children were never in danger of being trampled.

Talorc maintained their forward movement, however, crossing the bailey to guide his horse onto a path up the motte. Stone walls rose high on both sides, casting a shadow over them all, those riding and on foot alike.

Abigail could not tell if the steep hill was man-made like her father's motte or a happenstance of nature. The path beneath her horse's feet was composed of dirt and moss-covered stones. It felt solid, indicating the hill had been created many years ago, whether by God or man. No rainstorm would wash away its foundation as tragically happened back in England on occasion.