CHAPTER FOUR #3
If I have to plow her three times a day, I will make certain there is a babe growing in her belly by Christmastide.
“Is this how a gallant knight treats his ladylove?” Laoghaire snickered, even as she shivered in the wake of his caress.
Galen took the quiver of Laoghaire’s body for what he knew it to be—the first stirrings of passion. “Yield to me,” he urged in a lowered voice. “Give yourself over to me and you will be rewarded with great pleasure.”
“I will not fight ye . . . but neither will I yield to ye,” Laoghaire spat at him, her chest heaving with the force of her emotions. “Know this, lord husband: Ye will never truly possess me.”
Maddened by her defiance, Galen grabbed hold of Laoghaire by the upper arms and swung her toward the table.
With a quick yank of the wrist, he whipped the cloak from her shoulders and flung it to the floor.
He then backed her against the table, forcing her to sit on the edge of it.
Recoiling, Laoghaire leaned as far from him as she possibly could, forced to support her upper body on the flat of her hands—which is precisely how Galen wanted her positioned.
Bunching the hem of the chemise in his hands, he shoved the garment to Laoghaire’s waist, exposing her lower body. In the next heartbeat, hit with a powerful burst of lust, Galen was literally felled as he sank to his knees before her.
Enraptured, he stared at his bride’s naked limbs and rounded hips, all the while imagining those shapely legs wrapped around his haunches while he seated himself to the hilt. The vivid image made him want to take her, there, on the sandalwood table.
“Part your legs for me,” he commanded, his voice hoarse with the effort it took to control his unruly passion.
Although Laoghaire obeyed—parting her legs a few timorous inches—Galen required more from her.
Placing a hand on each of her knees, he pried her legs wide open.
For several moments he gazed upon a sight so carnal, so staggeringly beautiful, it rendered him spellbound.
Hidden within a fiery burst of downy hair were folds of pink, succulent flesh.
I am the only man who will ever gaze upon this sight, he thought with manly pride.
Keeping his touch as gentle as possible, Galen slid his middle finger over Laoghaire’s slit, his heart slamming against his chest when he encountered a slick residue.
Almost immediately, Laoghaire bucked as she began to verbally protest the intrusion.
But given that she was pinned to the table, she could do little more than squirm restlessly while he inserted his finger into her narrow chasm.
Slowly, carefully, knowing that she was a chaste maid, Galen breached Laoghaire’s virginal channel.
God’s heart! She is so hot, so tight that I can—
In the very next instant, Galen unceremoniously pulled his finger free of her.
“How many beds have you lain upon?” he demanded to know as he lunged to his feet.
Appearing as though she’d just come out of a deep stupor, Laoghaire shook her head and said, “None save my own.”
Seized with a fierce anger, Galen braced his hands on his hips, all the while glaring at the woman sprawled before him. “Then, allow me to rephrase the question: How many men have shared your bed?”
“Again, the answer is none. And ye are a knave for daring to ask the question!”
Galen’s mouth twisted in the makings of a scornful sneer. “Oh, I dare to ask, lady wife. How else to explain that you have no maidenhead?”
As if he’d just uttered something in a foreign tongue, Laoghaire stared at him with a bewildered expression before she loudly exclaimed, “I have never been with a man!”
“That is as believable as a flying boar,” he jeered. “An honorable woman can be one of only three things: a virgin, a wife, or a widow. The fact that you are not any one of those three means that some Highland bastard has already had a taste of you.”
No sooner was the insult issued than Laoghaire MacKinnon’s blue eyes narrowed with a naked fury.
“You black-hearted cur!”
The shouted expletive was all the warning Galen had before his bride grabbed the nearest object at hand—a glass wine goblet—and hurled it across the room.
“How dare you sully my woman’s honor!” Laoghaire hollered at her near-naked husband as she snatched hold of the second wine goblet. This one she threw at the banner that hung above the bed. Her aim true, the vessel smashed against the red rampant lion, raining the bed with honey-colored glass.
Pushed to her limits, she wanted to scream, to rant, to pound her fists against Galen de Ogilvy’s chest and inflict upon him as much pain as possible. For hours now she’d held her emotions in check, forced to practice the virtue of prudence.
And because of it, I am now ready to burst at the lacings!
Seized with a blind rage, she next grabbed a silver candlestick. On the verge of throwing it at the knave’s head, she was thwarted in the attempt when Galen grasped hold of her chemise and, with one forceful yank, ripped the bodice to her waist, completely exposing her bare breasts.
With a shriek of outrage, Laoghaire flung the candlestick aside. She then cupped both of her breasts in her hands to cover her nakedness.
“Would ye stoop so low as to ravish yer own wife?” Laoghaire demanded to know, certain that he meant to take her by force. Why else would he rip the clothes from my body?
“Now that your hands are full, you won’t be able to hurl that candlestick at my head,” Galen rasped.
His gaze held more than a hint of menace, his eyes changing color from pewter to the deep gray of gathering storm clouds.
“And to answer your question, I have no intention of ravishing you. At least not this night.”
His warrior’s strength on full display, Galen de Ogilvy was a fearsome sight to behold. A towering mass of sun-bronzed muscle and attenuated sinew, he possessed no weakness that Laoghaire could discern.
Holding onto her dignity as best she could—no easy task given that her chemise was in tatters—she said, “Ye besmirched my honor with yer vile accusation. And ye dishonored my clan as well.”
“Honor!” Galen roared contemptuously. “Your family failed to mention that I would be getting another man’s leavings. Is that how the savage inhabitants of the Highlands honor the sanctity of marriage?”
Incensed by his insulting arrogance, Laoghaire held her head high.
“I am the sister of the laird of Clan MacKinnon, the great-granddaughter of the Lord of the Isles, and a direct descendent of the first king of Scotland, Kenneth MacAlpin. You on the other hand are but a lowly Norman knight, who through sheer luck inherited an earldom, even though it was not yer birthright.”
“Forsooth, lady wife, you have certainly put me in my place,” Galen sniggered.
Then, with a mocking bow, he said, “I surrender to your superior bloodline. The son you give me will be a force to be reckoned with. However, I need to verify that he is indeed my son and not some Highlander’s get.
Because I have my own family honor to defend, we will not consummate the marriage until after you’ve had your monthly courses. That is the only way I can be certain.”
Falsely accused of being a liar, Laoghaire glared at him. “Why will ye not believe that I am a virgin?”
Long moments passed as Galen wordlessly returned her stare. He stood so close that Laoghaire could see the dancing flame of a nearby cresset reflected in his gray orbs.
“Because the proof of it does not exist,” he said at last. “And while it vexes me greatly, I am also at fault, as I should have had you examined prior to the wedding. You are a tainted bride. I accept that. But what I will not accept is another man’s bastard child.”
“If I were to give birth in the coming months, ’twould only be the second time in history that a virgin has done so.”
“Do not mock me!” Galen bellowed. “I will not be made a cuckold.”
Grappling with the fact that she stood accused of wanton promiscuity, Laoghaire’s anger gave way to a burning pain in her chest. How can it be that I have no maidenhead? Could it have been torn asunder while riding a horse? Or had it been ripped during some other strenuous activity?
Still clutching the tattered chemise to her bosom, Laoghaire stormed over to the nearby window alcove.
Her emotions in a riotous state, she peered through the window, able to see the flicker of a torch on the tower opposite. Even though their marriage was unconsummated, she was now under Galen’s rod. And if she dared to gainsay him, he would use that rod to beat her into submission.
And none will come to my defense, as he is now my lord and master.
Laoghaire knew that in order for a marriage to be felicitous there must be devotion and trust between husband and wife.
None of which she felt for Galen de Ogilvy.
Secretly, she’d always longed to marry a man who would not only cherish her, but would incite within her a passion, at once wild, yet also loving.
Instead I find myself wed to a man who is as cold and deadly as a well-honed sword.
When, in the next moment, she heard Galen step toward her, Laoghaire’s spine stiffened, and she inwardly braced herself.
To her surprise, he placed the fur-lined mantle upon her shoulders.
Craning her head, she peered at him. Even with the scar that marred his left cheek, he was ungodly handsome.
For some inexplicable reason that infuriated her all the more.
“I despise you,” she told him, her breath hitching in her throat.
“That is inconsequential to me. I only require your obedience. I have no need of your affection.” Leaning close to her—so close she could feel his chest against her backside—Galen then pressed his mouth to her ear.
“And, lady wife, if you ever again raise your hand against me in anger . . . you will live to regret it.”