CHAPTER FIVE
Galen entered the dimly-lit chapel, the draft causing the torchlight to flicker erratically. Anxious to find Laoghaire—his wife having slipped out of their bedchamber before the cock crowed—he’d been informed that she was attending Lauds.
Espying a figure huddled in the corner, completely draped from head to foot in what appeared to be a voluminous red-and-black plaid blanket, Galen grunted with displeasure.
Rather than dressing herself as befitted a noblewoman, his new countess looked like a Highland wench come in from the cold.
And unless I am greatly mistaken, she is fast asleep, having no doubt been lulled into a somnolent state by the droning hum of Latin.
Annoyed, Galen approached his wife. Although kneeling, Laoghaire was hunched over with one shoulder propped against a wall. Peeking under the hood of her plaid garment, he hissed in a lowered voice, “Lo! You are the very picture of a devout and virtuous bride.”
Awakened from her slumbers, Laoghaire jerked gracelessly, nearly toppling over in the process. “God’s teeth! What are ye doing here?”
Rather than answer, Galen knelt beside her. While he needed to speak to his wife, the conversation could wait until after the priest concluded the Morning Office.
’Tis like a tomb in here, Galen thought in the next instant as he peered around the chapel.
All of the stone walls had been plastered over and decorated with painted frescoes, many of which depicted long-faced martyrs who stared at the faithful with dour and castigating expressions.
However, the image that most garnered Galen’s attention was that of the Serpent in converse with Eve.
An alluring siren of sensual beauty, Eve was the embodiment of depraved womanhood.
Indeed, Eve’s actions indelibly proved that women were morally weak, unable to resist the temptations of the flesh.
And because of Eve’s treachery in the Garden, Mankind had been cast out of Paradise.
Just as I was cast out of my wedding bed, Galen fumed, having been forced to spend the previous night sleeping in the adjoining wardrobe chamber.
Not trusting himself to lie in the same bed with Laoghaire—worried that he might be overcome with lust for her and the consequences be damned—he ended up sleeping on a makeshift pallet on the floor.
Christ above! Laoghaire is the one who committed the sin, who did not hold fast to the virtue of chastity, yet I am the one who has been made to suffer.
And though Laoghaire convincingly played the diffident virgin prior to the damning discovery, Galen now knew it had been naught but a pretense.
No doubt she’d had a vial of blood hidden away, which she would have sprinkled on the mattress when his back was turned to make him think the sheets were stained with her maiden’s blood.
Had he not inserted a finger into her warm, wet chasm, he might very well have been duped.
Unable to put the memory from his mind, Galen unwillingly recalled the sense of manly pride he’d felt at the thought that he would be the first and only man to feel, to taste, to enjoy Laoghaire’s body . . . just before he discovered that she had no maidenhead.
Like the hapless Adam, I was entrapped by her wild, seductive beauty. Even now, he could not resist casting a quick sidelong glance at Laoghaire, her extravagant beauty drawing—nay, forcing—one to look upon her with admiring eye. Even bundled in the gaudy plaid, she was a sight to behold.
Relieved when the priest finally gave the concluding benediction, Galen was quick to rise to his feet. He then wordlessly wrapped a hand around Laoghaire’s upper arm and hauled his wife upright.
“Come with me,” he ordered, as he hurriedly ushered her to the door.
“I’m surprised to see ye at Lauds. Ye don’t strike me as a religious man,” Laoghaire remarked once they exited the chapel. Although she was educated—Galen having been informed that she could read and write—his new wife spoke with the distinctive burr of the Highlands, an accent that set her apart.
When they reached the inner bailey, Galen, with Laoghaire still in tow, came to a standstill. All around them were servants and villeins rushing to and fro, intent on starting their day’s labor.
“And what kind of man do I strike you as, sweetings?” he felt compelled to ask.
“I would say ye are a cold-hearted man, but that implies ye have a heart.”
“And here I mistakenly thought that communion with the Divine had tempered your scathing tongue. I came to inform you that I must leave Castle Airlie,” Galen said next, abruptly changing the subject. Having already broken his fast, he was now eager to depart.
Laoghaire’s eyes opened wide. “Are ye leaving on account of what transpired last night?”
“You misspoke, lady wife. Nothing transpired last night.” And I have the aching cullions to prove it. Even now, hours later, Galen still keenly felt his lust for her. “The trip was planned prior to the wedding. I must inspect the fortifications at my other demesnes.”
Although he’d only inherited the earldom two weeks ago, he was fast learning that estate management was a demanding business.
Because his uncle’s steward had been less than honest—the man having been sent packing within hours of his uncle’s death—Galen was having to review not only the defense systems of his various properties, but all of the accounts as well; time that could be better spent preparing his men-at-arms for battle with the English.
Laoghaire pointedly glanced at the rowel spurs attached to his boots, before her gaze took in his coat of mail and the sword scabbard resting against his left hip. “Ye are dressed for battle,” she commented. “How long will ye be gone?”
“Are you hoping I’ll meet my demise skewered on the end of an English sword?” When Laoghaire made no reply—her silence answer enough—he said, “I shall return in two weeks’ time.”
“Pray do not hurry back on my account.”
Laoghaire’s tart rejoinder irked him greatly. “You have an impertinent tongue, lady wife. You would be well advised to curb, if not silence it altogether.”
“If ye want a meek and compliant wife, then ye should have married a—”
“I married you and you will do as I command,” Galen said over the top of Laoghaire’s voice. “And when I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed without argument.”
“Are there any other orders ye wish to give before taking yer leave?”
“As a matter of fact there are. You are now the domina, the lady of the house. I expect you to not only look like a countess, but to act like one. Henceforth, you will only dress in the Lowland fashion.” Extending a hand, Galen fingered the plaid hood that covered Laoghaire’s head, his knuckles grazing the side of her cheek.
“This is not suitable attire. You look like a Highland tavern wench.”
Clearly affronted by the scathing remark, Laoghaire shoved the hood from her head. As she did so, the early-morning sun cast a shimmering light on the copper-colored strands of her unbound hair. “I dress as I please and ye cannot make me do otherwise,” she retorted.
Realizing that she’d just thrown down the gauntlet, Galen felt the iron control that he always maintained over his emotions begin to falter.
Confronted with Laoghaire’s dramatic Celtic beauty, he could not stop himself from remembering the intimate sight that he beheld the previous night, that of her inner female flower, the pink, silken folds moist and alluring.
“Not only can I bend you to my will, lady wife, I will take great delight in doing so,” Galen told her, his voice hoarse with the effort it took to rein in his passions. “Do not push me. Last night I showed restraint when you acted the harridan. The next time I will not be so lenient with you.”
Not appearing the least bit intimidated by the warning, Laoghaire scoffed and said, “I suppose you want me to dress like the lady Melisande.”
He could not help but wonder if it was jealousy or anger that fueled her retort. “Lady Melisande comports herself with grace and dignity. You would do well to copy her example.”
Long moments passed as Laoghaire glowered at him, her spine rigid, her head held high. Finally, she said, “While ye are gone, I’ll have need of a horse. Because my cousin Diarmid will soon be departing for Perth to purchase trade goods for the return trip to Skye, he must take my mount.”
Galen had already been apprised of the young Scot’s planned excursion to Perth—a bustling market town—and his requisitioning of Laoghaire’s mount to use as a pack horse.
Thus, he had a ready reply to his wife’s request. “I will attend to the matter of a horse upon my return. Furthermore, you are not to leave the castle until such time.”
Laoghaire’s indigo blue eyes opened wide with visible surprise. “Am I to be a prisoner, then?”
“In a manner of speaking. At least until our marriage vows are consummated,” he added to soften the blow. “If it helps, think of yourself not as a prisoner but a cherished possession.”
“Possession!” she repeated in a raised voice. “Ye do not own me.”
Annoyed with her impudence, he smiled humorlessly and said, “Oh, but I do own you, lady wife, for I am the lord of this demesne. I could peel you as I would an apple with no one to gainsay me. So if I order you to remain within the walls of this castle until my return, you will do just that.”
“Although it took some effort, I finally escaped my mother’s womb,” Laoghaire retorted. Then, peering at the nearby gatehouse with an appraising eye, she said, “Somehow, I doubt yer stronghold will be as difficult to escape.”
“If you do escape, like a newborn babe you will be completely defenseless,” he told her matter-of-factly, not in the mood to mince words.
“And rest assured I will find you. When that happens, do not expect to receive from me the same doting attention you received at your mother’s breast. Break faith with me, lady wife, and you will rue the consequences. ”