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
"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
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