CHAPTER ONE #2
“You are wrong, cousin. They are the ones who are strangely attired,” Laoghaire insisted. About to hoist herself out of the saddle, she curbed her natural tendency and instead permitted Diarmid to assist her in dismounting.
No sooner did her leather boots touch the ground than several grooms rushed through the melee to take their horses to the stables.
“Are they not Scots? Every one of them appears as English as any Norman subject of Longshanks,” Laoghaire griped as she straightened her shoulder-length mantle.
Because the weather had warmed considerably once they’d crossed the Grampian Mountains, the hooded cowl was the only covering she wore over her red woolen kirtle.
The fact that she herself was attired in the Lowland fashion irked her immensely, her brother Iain having insisted upon it.
“Ye’re about to become a nobleman’s wife and ye must look the part. ”
“The Ogilvies are an Anglo-Norman family, true enough.” As he spoke, Diarmid motioned for their kinsmen to follow the grooms to the stables in order to unload the pack horses. “But then, so is the king’s own family. Ye must learn to accept that things will not be as they once were.”
As they once were back home on Skye, Laoghaire silently appended, the thought causing her throat to constrict with emotion as she was struck suddenly with a wave of homesickness.
They’d only just arrived and already she felt like the biblical Ruth, a stranger in a strange land.
She was a Celtic Highlander, and as such she’d been born into an entirely different culture.
It wasn’t that everyone around them spoke English rather than Gaelic, or that they dressed peculiarly.
They were a different race of people, descended from the Norman invaders who arrived from England two hundred years ago.
Despite the invaders having imposed their Norman ways upon the vanquished inhabitants, they had never been able to subjugate the Highlanders.
Though it was not for lack of trying; a fact that had given rise to much distrust and enmity over the years.
Suddenly seeing a tall, broad-shouldered man enter the inner bailey, having emerged from a nearby tower, Laoghaire inwardly braced herself. Unable to tear her eyes from him, her heart began to thump erratically against her breastbone.
Hell and the devil! ’Tis Galen de Ogilvy.
Not only was Sir Galen the earl’s nephew, he was his chevalier, the commander of Angus’s knights and men-at-arms. Despite serving a Scottish earl, the whoreson was English by birth. He was also the man who only a few months ago had threatened to destroy all that Laoghaire knew and loved.
Though she willed it otherwise, in those pulse-pounding moments it was as if her body and mind were seized by a dark foreboding. Hoping to calm the tumult, she took several deep breaths.
“Lo! The Highland bride has finally arrived,” Sir Galen said by way of greeting as he strode toward them.
“And the English knave approaches,” Laoghaire hissed under her breath.
As she did so, she automatically reached for the sword that she customarily wore belted at her waist. Coming away empty-handed, she belatedly remembered that she’d been forced to relinquish custody of the blade to her cousin.
Given the intense hostility that she bore for the knight, Diarmid had been worried that she might be tempted to draw her weapon.
Standing beside her, Diarmid shot her a quelling glance. “Prudence,” he mouthed silently.
When the knight came to a standstill a mere arm’s length from her, Laoghaire refused to nod her head or bend a knee. Even though she was taller than most men, the knight towered over her by a good six inches.
The man is brawny, I’ll give him that, she acknowledged grudgingly.
And despite the scar that marred the left side of his face, he was darkly handsome.
No doubt Sir Galen left scullery maids twittering in his wake, his head capped with thick black hair that curled loosely about his temples and nape.
Were he not a villainous knave, Laoghaire would have found him a compellingly attractive man.
But because her memories of the knight were so dire, she was instead repulsed by his countenance.
He was a cur, possessed of a dark hole where he should have had a heart.
As she fought to control her runaway emotions, Laoghaire noticed that beneath his black surcoat—emblazoned on the chest with a red rampant lion—Sir Galen wore a coat of mail that was very near in color to his pewter-gray eyes.
However, what worriedly garnered her attention was the long scabbard that dangled against his left hip, from which protruded his sword’s copper-gilded cross guard.
While Laoghaire knew that Diarmid would defend her with his life, at that moment she felt extremely vulnerable.
His lips curved in a sneer, Sir Galen appraised Laoghaire’s attire before remarking, “You look vastly different from when first we met. And for the better, I might add.”
“The incident of which ye speak is never far from my mind,” Laoghaire spat at him.
“For I well recall how ye threatened to raze Castle Maoil to the ground.” Indeed, in the months since, Galen de Ogilvy’s fearsome image had routinely haunted her dreams. Even now, the memory replayed in her mind’s eye with a vivid intensity.
At seeing the long line of mounted knights, Laoghaire charged across the battlements. With a lance held at her shoulder, she set her sights upon the black-clad demon who’d led the raid against her brother’s castle.
“This is what we, the women of Castle Maoil, think of ye and yer band of cutthroats!” she yelled out . . . just before she hurled the deadly lance.
Raising his shield, Sir Galen easily intercepted the soaring weapon, knocking it asunder with lithe ease, having expended no more energy than if he’d swatted a fly.
“You redheaded hellion! Pray thee I don’t get my hands on you,” Sir Galen threatened in a menacing tone. As he spoke, a lightning bolt suddenly plunged to the ground. And though his black steed reared slightly, the knight did not so much as flinch in the rumbling aftermath.
“Hah! ’Tis unlikely ye’ll ever get yer hands upon me. Or any woman at Castle Maoil,” Laoghaire retorted, peering down at the knight from where she stood atop the gatehouse.
“Bold words for a woman.”
“Bold, mayhap, but true!”
“And what does a Scottish harlot know about truth?” Sir Galen taunted.
Laoghaire glared at the haughty knight. How dare the knave speak of truth when he’d resorted to base trickery in order to lure the laird and most of her kinsmen from the castle. Because of his deviousness, she was certain the devil was now before her in the guise of a black-clad warrior.
While Laoghaire recalled that contentious first meeting—the knight having threatened to not only raze the castle but to also give his men free rein to rape its women—she knew that for good reason Sir Galen de Ogilvy was known throughout Scotland as the Dark Knight.
As it turned out, Laoghaire’s sister-in-law ultimately conceded to the knight’s demands, the castle and its inhabitants having thus been spared.
Nevertheless, that ignoble incident had incited a near-deadly blood feud between Clan MacKinnon and the House de Ogilvy; one that only ended when the king himself interceded.
“There are many a bandit between here and Skye,” Sir Galen remarked, directing his comment to Laoghaire. “Given that we expected your arrival several days ago, I feared you met with some calamitous mishap.”
“I would have thought ye’d be glad-hearted had I been felled by a bandit’s blade.”
Placing his right hand over his heart, Sir Galen said with exaggerated politeness, “The lady doth see right through my meager attempt at a solicitous welcome.”
“Aye, I see right through ye,” she retorted with a vigorous nod. “For I know yer heart to be as black as the surcoat that garbs yer ―”
“Laoghaire! Hold yer tongue!” Diarmid admonished sternly.
“Sir Galen has done naught this day to earn yer enmity. Soon the two of ye shall belong to the same family through the bonds of marriage. And do not forget that yer betrothed husband is Sir Galen’s uncle.
Moreover, the knight fought bravely for King Robert at Methven. ”
“Allow me to correct your misassumption,” Sir Galen said. “I am no longer―”
“The Dark Knight?” Laoghaire interjected. “Do ye really think that because ye waved yer sword on the fields at Methven that it would atone for the villainy ye committed against Clan MacKinnon?”
“In threatening to lay siege to the MacKinnon stronghold, I did what was necessary to recapture my uncle’s betrothed bride,” Sir Galen said in his defense, his eyes narrowing with obvious disdain. “My only regret is that I granted you more leniency than you deserved.”
“Although I couldn’t help but notice that ye received a just reward for yer sins.
” As she spoke, Laoghaire stared impudently at the scar that ran from Sir Galen’s left temple to the edge of his jaw.
While it was not uncommon for knights to bear the scars of combat, few wore the mark of battle in so conspicuous a manner.
“I see that Lucifer met his comeuppance at the tip of Michael’s sword,” she remarked to her cousin, pleased to think that the arrogant knight had been brought down a few notches.
Although his jaw visibly tightened—Sir Galen clearly taking umbrage—his reply was made in an eerily calm tone of voice. “’Twas your brother, the laird of Clan MacKinnon, who slashed my face.”
Given that her brother made no mention of the incident, Laoghaire was taken aback by the disclosure. “While it gladdens my heart to know ye’ll carry the MacKinnon’s mark to yer grave, when next we meet, I must chastise my brother for robbing me of the honor.”
Very slowly, Sir Galen turned his head, presenting Laoghaire with a view of the other side of his face. “I have another cheek . . . if you dare,” he added in a lowered voice, as he palmed his sword hilt.
“Ye’re most generous, Sir Galen.” Laoghaire’s lips twisted in a parody of a gay smile. “Some other time mayhap.”
“After the wedding there will be time aplenty.”
Disliking his insolent tone, Laoghaire defiantly jutted her chin at the ill-mannered cur. “I came here to wed the Earl of Angus, not to spar with his lowly knight.”
At hearing that, a flash of emotion flared in Sir Galen’s pewter-gray eyes, only to vanish in the next instant. “Speaking of the upcoming nuptials, the wedding will take place at sunset. Pray thee do not be late.”
“Ye can rot, Sir Knight!”
“Soon, lady, you will be under my dominion,” Sir Galen boldly asserted, no doubt hoping to intimidate her. “And when that happens, you will be made to rue your shrewish tongue.”
Laoghaire swallowed hard, fighting to control her temper. “The only thing I’ll rue is that ye and I will share the same surname.”
“Oh, we’ll share more than that, sweetings.”
“Ye would dare to lay a hand upon me?” Laoghaire retorted, well aware that in the castle’s pecking order, the wife of an earl stood head and shoulders above a mere knight. Nephew or not.
Rather than answer the question put to him, Sir Galen looked her directly in the eye and said, “Sunset . . . and don’t keep the earl waiting.
” Admonition given, he then gestured to a middle-aged woman who was slowly making her way down the flight of stairs that led to the expansive, four-story keep.
“The castle chatelaine, Dame Winifred, will now see to your comfort.”
With that, Sir Galen pivoted on his heel and took his leave.
However, he’d taken no more than a dozen steps before he came to a sudden halt; at which point, he very slowly turned his head to peer back at her.
As their eyes met, Laoghaire had a strong urge to make the sign of the cross, to protect herself from that piercing gaze.
“Like ye, I am not particularly fond of the earl’s kinsman,” Diarmid said in a lowered voice. “But ye’d be wise to keep a civil tongue. Sir Galen is a fierce warrior and does not strike me as a man much enamored of spirited women. Do not give the knight a reason to break ye.”
Laoghaire made no reply, annoyed with her cousin’s tiresome fault finding.
Although her brother had also cautioned her to keep her distance from the Dark Knight for an entirely different reason: Until she gave birth to a male child, Sir Galen de Ogilvy was the Earl of Angus’s sole heir.
“The temptation to ensure that he inherits the earldom may be too great,” Iain had warned.
Just then, a dried leaf blew across the bailey. As she turned toward the keep, Laoghaire dismally acknowledged that her life was no different from the fluttering bit of debris.
For I, too, am being blown about by a force over which I have no control.