up, Talorc turned to the baron with the full force of his displeasure. "I am neither civilized nor am I English. We leave as soon as my wife is garbed appropriately."
"There was nothing wrong with her dress. Her clothes are the height of fashion."
Lady Hamilton looked mortally offended.
"Niall, inform this woman who thinks nothing of beating her daughter into submission how close to death she came."
Niall said the appropriate words in English.
The woman started shrieking at her husband to take exception to such an insult.
Talorc turned to the baron. "You allowed her to harm what belongs to me. You live only because your daughter pled for your life."
Niall started to translate into English, but the baron waved the words away. "I speak your language," he said in English. "I was led to believe you speak English as well."
"Our laird does not allow the language of traitors to pass his lips," Niall said with harsh anger.
Instead of getting angry, as Talorc would have expected, Sir Reuben merely looked thoughtful. "Your father married Lady Tamara of Oborek."
Talorc nodded.
"I would not wish such a match on my worst enemy."
It was Talorc's turn to be shocked, but he did not allow his surprise to show on his face.
"Sybil can be a grasping shrew, but she would not betray her house," the baron said in Gaelic.
"That shrew will never see her daughter again."
"I supposed as much."
The woman in question was still complaining, but no one paid her any heed, not even her husband. She moved from complaint to wheedling, trying to talk Talorc into staying so Abigail could share a last meal with her family.
Since she continued to utter the profanity to his ears that was English, he made no attempt to answer. Or even acknowledge she was speaking.
A few minutes later, Talorc's attention was drawn to Abigail coming from the cottage.
She wore a pale yellow blouse under his plaid. She looked worried, her lower lip caught between her teeth and her gaze flitting from one person to another so quickly it was like a butterfly lighting.
He put his hand out again and she seemed to relax a bit. She started walking toward him with a faster gait.
Her mother went to grab her arm rather than let her pass.
Talorc let out a subvocal growl, and the only thing that saved the abusive witch from his wolf was the MacDonald's wife slapping the Englishwoman's hand aside.
"No one touches a laird's wife without his permission," she spit out in heavily accented English. The glare she gave the Englishwoman indicated she had seen Abigail's bruises and either guessed their cause or had asked Abigail and learned the truth.
"Sybil," the baron barked. "Come here, now."
"You would let him deny me my final good-bye to my daughter?" Lady Hamilton asked with furiously offended dignity.
"If she touches what is mine, she dies," Talorc said in a tone that promised he made no threats, only promises.
"I deny it," the baron said furiously. "You reneged your rights as her mother on too many occasions to count. She is no longer your daughter. She is a Sinclair."
His willingness to marry such a viper put his wisdom in question, but Talorc thought the Englishman might actually have some marginal intelligence after all.
"His king promised proof of the consummation," the woman shrieked. "How are we to get that if he leaves with her now?"
"He can send the bloodied sheet by messenger."
"What if he doesn't?" She scooted around her husband and stood in front of Talorc.
"You promised your king. Are you a man of honor or not?"
Talorc's fury burned so bright, his wolf literally itched under his skin to get out and tear out the bitch's throat. "You dare question my honor?"
He didn't wait for the baron to translate Talorc's words for the stupid woman. His king had made the requirement, and Talorc had no intention of wasting a messenger on sending bloodied sheets to the grasping Englishwoman.
He marched forward, grabbed his bride and dragged
"There was nothing wrong with her dress. Her clothes are the height of fashion."
Lady Hamilton looked mortally offended.
"Niall, inform this woman who thinks nothing of beating her daughter into submission how close to death she came."
Niall said the appropriate words in English.
The woman started shrieking at her husband to take exception to such an insult.
Talorc turned to the baron. "You allowed her to harm what belongs to me. You live only because your daughter pled for your life."
Niall started to translate into English, but the baron waved the words away. "I speak your language," he said in English. "I was led to believe you speak English as well."
"Our laird does not allow the language of traitors to pass his lips," Niall said with harsh anger.
Instead of getting angry, as Talorc would have expected, Sir Reuben merely looked thoughtful. "Your father married Lady Tamara of Oborek."
Talorc nodded.
"I would not wish such a match on my worst enemy."
It was Talorc's turn to be shocked, but he did not allow his surprise to show on his face.
"Sybil can be a grasping shrew, but she would not betray her house," the baron said in Gaelic.
"That shrew will never see her daughter again."
"I supposed as much."
The woman in question was still complaining, but no one paid her any heed, not even her husband. She moved from complaint to wheedling, trying to talk Talorc into staying so Abigail could share a last meal with her family.
Since she continued to utter the profanity to his ears that was English, he made no attempt to answer. Or even acknowledge she was speaking.
A few minutes later, Talorc's attention was drawn to Abigail coming from the cottage.
She wore a pale yellow blouse under his plaid. She looked worried, her lower lip caught between her teeth and her gaze flitting from one person to another so quickly it was like a butterfly lighting.
He put his hand out again and she seemed to relax a bit. She started walking toward him with a faster gait.
Her mother went to grab her arm rather than let her pass.
Talorc let out a subvocal growl, and the only thing that saved the abusive witch from his wolf was the MacDonald's wife slapping the Englishwoman's hand aside.
"No one touches a laird's wife without his permission," she spit out in heavily accented English. The glare she gave the Englishwoman indicated she had seen Abigail's bruises and either guessed their cause or had asked Abigail and learned the truth.
"Sybil," the baron barked. "Come here, now."
"You would let him deny me my final good-bye to my daughter?" Lady Hamilton asked with furiously offended dignity.
"If she touches what is mine, she dies," Talorc said in a tone that promised he made no threats, only promises.
"I deny it," the baron said furiously. "You reneged your rights as her mother on too many occasions to count. She is no longer your daughter. She is a Sinclair."
His willingness to marry such a viper put his wisdom in question, but Talorc thought the Englishman might actually have some marginal intelligence after all.
"His king promised proof of the consummation," the woman shrieked. "How are we to get that if he leaves with her now?"
"He can send the bloodied sheet by messenger."
"What if he doesn't?" She scooted around her husband and stood in front of Talorc.
"You promised your king. Are you a man of honor or not?"
Talorc's fury burned so bright, his wolf literally itched under his skin to get out and tear out the bitch's throat. "You dare question my honor?"
He didn't wait for the baron to translate Talorc's words for the stupid woman. His king had made the requirement, and Talorc had no intention of wasting a messenger on sending bloodied sheets to the grasping Englishwoman.
He marched forward, grabbed his bride and dragged
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