CHAPTER SEVEN
I cannot wait to see the wench, Galen thought with fulsome good cheer when his entourage rode through the gatehouse, their arrival met with welcoming shouts.
Standing atop a lookout tower, a sentry blew on an ivory oliphant, the deep, sonorous sound meant to alert all vassals within hearing range that the lord of the castle had returned.
Moreover, he had returned four days earlier than expected, Galen having made the decision to cut his tour short and leave the military inspection of his other demesnes in the capable hands of his marshal.
Unable to purge Laoghaire’s stormy-eyed image from his mind, his lust for the Highland beauty had become a sort of madness.
A fever of the brain that put her face, her image, at the forefront of every somnolent dream and far too many of his waking thoughts.
“That was the first time that a man’s lips have touched mine and . . . and I liked it not!”
Those had been Laoghaire’s parting words to him, and though Galen was certain that she’d previously been kissed—the lady was not a virgin, after all—the retort had become a taunting refrain over the course of the last ten days.
Indeed, it pricked his manly pride that Laoghaire had taken no pleasure in his kiss.
While it had been his intention to arouse her passions that morning in the bailey, he’d only succeeded in arousing Laoghaire’s enmity.
And though he knew it mattered naught, the memory of the incident nevertheless rankled.
Even more irksome, he’d spurned the temptation to ease the ache in his loins with another woman.
I desire only the one woman, my Highland bride.
On account of the forced abstinence, he’d been made to suffer greatly.
So much so, his manhood now swelled at the thought of seeing his wife, Galen shifting in the saddle to relieve the uncomfortable ache.
He fervently hoped that while he was gone, Laoghaire had undergone her courses.
If so, then he would be able to take his ease with her that very night and finally have his bride beneath him, naked and writhing.
Forsooth, he would ride her well, thrusting into her so deeply, so powerfully, that he would touch her very womb.
And by night’s end, Laoghaire will beg for my kisses, he told himself, intending to use his mouth and tongue to map the whole of her body.
No sooner had the cavalcade entered the inner bailey than Galen reined his horse to a halt. He then anxiously peered around the crowded courtyard. Not seeing a flash of flaming red hair, he tilted his head back so that he could peruse the upper windows of the keep.
Christ on the cross! Where is she?
Just then, his gaze landed upon Melisande, who stood by the solar window with a welcoming smile on her lips.
Although she was demurely garbed in a white wimple that covered her neck and throat, she wore no veil, her blonde hair forming a golden nimbus around the top of her head.
It wasn’t so long ago that Galen would have been dazzled by that soft halo effect, but in recent days he found himself yearning for something fierier, more vibrant and earthy.
Melisande is beautiful, but she is not the woman I want.
Annoyed that the woman he did want was nowhere to be seen, Galen dismounted from his destrier and handed the reins to a waiting groom.
Trying not to appear outwardly vexed—did the woman not know she is supposed to be here to greet me?—Galen turned to his squire and said, “Go find my wife and bring her to me.”
“Yes, my lord,” Piers dutifully replied before he made his way through the throng of villeins and men-at-arms.
Parched from the heat, the weather unseasonably warm, Galen strode over to the nearby well, where he was greeted amiably by a group of vassals. With a grateful nod, he accepted the dipper of cool water that was offered to him.
Well, at least someone is happy to see me.
While he waited impatiently by the well for Laoghaire to answer his summons, Galen wondered why his Highland bride was so determined to yank at the threads of the social fabric. Because he could not countenance a wayward wife, her rebelliousness would have to be met with firm guidance.
“If not the flat of my hand to her bare backside,” Galen muttered beneath his breath, his homecoming now spoiled by Laoghaire’s very noticeable absence.
If that were not exasperating enough, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Father Giroldus rushing toward him, the man moving at such a fast clip his robes flared behind him like a pair of enormous black wings.
Galen had little regard for the rotund priest. Or any priest for that matter.
When he was a child he’d been sent to St. Sulpice, a monastery school in Hampshire.
Unlike his older brother Hector, who was destined to become a knight, Galen was fated for the priesthood, the lot of many younger sons.
But his life took a dark turn at the Benedictine monastery when he was victimized by the prior, a monk who took a cruel delight in flaying the skin from his backside.
Even now, years after the cruel exploitation, the memories still lingered, fueling the occasional nightmare.
It made him wonder if evil ever gave up the ghost.
Or did it continue to thrive, if not in the act itself, then in the memory of it?
Galen had no time to ponder the riddle, for he was soon confronted by the red-cheeked priest.
“My lord, I must urgently speak to you in regards to the countess,” Father Giroldus huffed, winded from his exertions.
“What has she done?” he demanded to know, bracing himself for the worst.
“It is what she has not done that is of grave concern to me.” Folding his hands over his belly, the priest assumed an air of pious indignation. “The countess has been noticeably lax in her attendance at mass.”
Tempted to laugh, Galen instead released a pent-up breath, having imagined Laoghaire committing some outrageous sacrilege. “And I suppose you want me to force her daily attendance at mass?”
“Because of her elevated position, she sets an example for each and every inhabitant of this castle,” the cleric was quick to inform him. “She is your wife, my lord. Thus, you have patria potestas, the power of life and death over Lady Angus.”
“What are you suggesting, priest? That I kill my wife for not attending mass?” This time Galen did laugh, the idea too absurd to even contemplate.
“No! Of course, not,” Father Giroldus protested. “But it is within your right to beat her into obedience. She must be made to realize that—”
“Does she give alms to the poor?” he interjected brusquely.
“With due diligence,” the priest confirmed with a nod. “Indeed, not a day has passed that Lady Angus has not personally stood at the castle gate to distribute food and clothing.”
“As commanded by our Savior, Himself, who if I recall never made mention of attending mass on a daily basis,” Galen remarked, unable to check his sarcasm.
Father Giroldus gaped at him, a look of thinly disguised outrage on his jowly face. “Such blasphemy imperils your soul, my lord.”
“Leave be, priest,” Galen warned in a deceptively calm voice, feeling a sudden lack of good will toward the cleric. “If you wish to continue the easy life here at Castle Airlie, then you would be well advised not to sit in judgment over any of the inhabitants of my demesne.”
Mercifully, the conversation was cut short when Piers charged toward them, the young squire appearing visibly distressed. It didn’t escape Galen’s notice that Laoghaire did not accompany him.
“Where is she?”
His eyes bulging, Piers nervously gulped before he replied, “I’ve been informed that the countess has, er, left the castle.”
The disclosure incited an immediate burst of rage, Galen nearly choking on his fury.
“She did what?!”
It had taken little effort for Laoghaire to escape through the postern door that was located in the middle bailey. She simply demanded the key from one of the garrison sentries, the guard unaware that she’d been ordered not to leave the castle.
The devil take Galen and his commands! I am his wife, not his villein. And besides, she was secure in the knowledge that he would never learn of the transgression, as it would be several days before he returned.
Since her arrival at Glenclova, Laoghaire had been a virtual prisoner in Galen’s castle.
While comfortable enough, if she’d been made to spend one more hour breathing stale air and listening to the cacophony of blacksmiths hammering, men-at-arms clanging their swords, and barking dogs, she would have thrown herself over the parapet.
As she wended her way through the wooded glen, Laoghaire soon became enthralled by the sight of a fast-running burn and the musical sound of leaves rustling in the breeze.
Having spent her entire tenure at Castle Airlie gazing upon the uninspiring sight of gray stone towers and curtain walls, she’d almost forgotten the fertile beauty of God’s green motions.
Detecting a patch of spiky green and red moss, she unsheathed the small dagger that she wore on her belt.
Then, bending at the waist, she cut several clumps and stuffed them into the satchel that she’d brought with her.
Foraging for this special type of moss was the true purpose of her trip to the woodland.
Because she was unfamiliar with the terrain, she’d followed the winding burn, so as not to lose her way.
Having already walked several furlongs, she’d long since lost sight of the castle.
Which was undoubtedly the reason why she began to feel lighter, freer.
Moreover, the air suddenly smelled sweeter, intoxicatingly so, with Laoghaire able to detect the mingled scents of pine and the rich, fecund earth in which the tall trees grew.
While this was not her beloved misty isle, it was nonetheless lovely to behold, the tranquil setting having a soothing effect upon her humors.