CHAPTER SEVEN #2
Suddenly hearing a gurgling splash of water, Laoghaire quickened her pace.
As she made her way through the verdant brush, she inadvertently frightened a pair of nesting birds, the starlings flying off in a frantic flutter.
Coira, who was well-versed in the legends and lore of Glenclova, had mentioned in passing that there was a waterfall located in the vicinity.
According to her attendant, the site had once been sacred to the Picts, the Celtic tribe that inhabited the region centuries ago.
With each step, the rush of water became louder, beckoning her with its entrancing, almost deafening roar.
When Laoghaire finally caught sight of the linn, her breath caught in her throat, the cascade far more spectacular than she originally imagined.
Slack-jawed, she stood on the bank of the burn and stared in wonderment at the frothy surge of water that rushed over a tumble of massive boulders, falling into a rock-lined pool at its base.
As the light struck the airborne droplets of water, it appeared as though handfuls of precious diamonds were being flung through the air.
“’Tis truly a sacred pool of water,” Laoghaire murmured, awestruck.
In the next instant, she espied a standing stone positioned a few feet from the bank of the burn, nearly hidden from view by a thick tangle of vines.
The stone was as tall as she was; however, it was off-kilter, the enormous slab leaning precariously to one side, as though it had been blown into that position by westerly winds.
Curious, Laoghaire walked over to the ancient relic, surprised to see that the entire surface was carved with strange symbols.
Once, years ago, her brother Kenneth had taken her to see the pair of standing stones that overlooked Loch Eyre, but those majestic stones had been bare, covered only with lichen.
This Pictish monument is a thing of beauty, she marveled, stepping closer to better examine an ornate snake that was incised on the upper-half of the stone.
Wondering at its meaning, her mind was suddenly filled with images of mythical beasts and faery people.
Instinctively she grabbed hold of the gloine nan Druidh—Druid’s glass—that she always wore around her neck, suspended from a thin, golden chain.
The amulet, a round blue stone with a hole in its center, had been given to her mother by the last of the Druids, Laoghaire Odhar Fiosaiche, on the day that he helped Beitiris MacKinnon give birth to her only daughter.
The gloine nan Druidh could reputedly endow whoever wore it with the gift of Second Sight.
However, despite having worn the stone for many years, Laoghaire had yet to have a single prophetic vision.
Although at that particular moment there was something in the air, some mystical, unseen vibration of energy that made her think that maybe, just maybe, she would be able to foresee the future.
Waiting in expectant anticipation, she stood motionless, uncertain how the vision would reveal itself.
Just then, a shadow fell over her as a cluster of slate-gray storm clouds rolled across the sky. Laoghaire peered upward; and saw that the clouds were nearly identical in color to Galen’s eyes.
With that intrusive thought, her shoulders sagged, the magical moment instantly ruined.
Galen is never far from my mind, she inwardly seethed, the realization striking a sour note. That her husband believed her unchaste—and disingenuous as well—infuriated her. Even as it left her feeling strangely bereft.
He will never believe me.
That she came to the marriage without her maidenhead intact would always be divisive. They hailed from different worlds; that alone was challenging enough. But to accuse her of being a liar was a chasm that could not be bridged. Ever.
Needing to purify herself from the leaden weight of those dark thoughts, Laoghaire walked over to the bank of the burn.
Water was one of nature’s gifts, able to not only cleanse the body, but heal the soul.
As she gazed upon the sparkling waterfall and the entrancing pool of water, she quickly unbuckled her belt and removed her boots; after which, she reached up and unpinned the brooch that held her plaid arisaidh in place.
Still keeping her gaze on the shimmering water, she let the length of fabric fall to the ground.
Then, bending slightly at the waist, she reached for the hem of her linen léine and pulled the garment over her head.
Naked, she spread her arms wide before she tipped her head back and peered at the vault of sky above her.
“Everything under the heavens is sacred. Here resides grace, beauty, and the bounty of Your blessing,” she proclaimed, her voice becoming one with the melodious birdsong and the babbling rush of water.
Horse and rider charged across the mead at a breakneck speed.
When I find the wench, she will be made to regret her disobedience, Galen vowed, the heart-pounding gallop fueled by the twin forces of rage and worry.
According to the sentry who’d been manning the western tower, Laoghaire left without an escort.
A lone woman was always vulnerable, but a lone noblewoman would prove rich pickings should a marauding band of thieves—or, worse yet, English troops—happen upon her.
As he considered the possible calamities that could befall his Highland bride, the muscles in Galen’s lower belly painfully tightened. All of a sudden Father Giroldus’s earlier suggestion that he beat his wife into submission seemed an inspired idea.
Approaching the copse of ancient pines that bordered a winding burn, Galen slowed his mount to a trot.
Instinct told him to follow the flow of water.
These environs were unfamiliar to Laoghaire; but if she kept to the brook, she’d be able to navigate her way back to the castle.
Assuming that she intended to return Castle Airlie.
“If she is attempting to escape to the Isle of Skye, I will lock the wench in a tower and only let her out on holy feast days,” Galen grated.
Suddenly hearing the sound of splashing water, Galen peered between the tree trunks.
When, in the next instant, he caught sight of a black and red plaid that appeared to have been haphazardly flung onto the ground, he immediately reined in his horse.
He then stood up in the stirrups to get a better view.
“Christ God!” he uttered on a quick, indrawn breath, stunned to see his wife, naked as a newborn, cavorting beneath a waterfall.
Mesmerized by the sight that greeted his eyes, he slowly sank back into the saddle.
In wanton fascination he stared, unable to tear his gaze from those lovely full breasts that gently bounced as she waded away from the cascading falls.
Her nipples, rosy in hue, were hardened stubs that visibly protruded from each puckered aureole.
Not unsurprisingly, his dormant cock began to stir, quickly stiffening.
He’d been too long without a woman and the thought of rutting on this one had been tormenting him for the last ten days.
Oblivious to his presence on the other side of the pines, Laoghaire emerged from the pool and made her way to the disheveled pile of clothes on the bank.
She is like Venus emerging from the waters of Cythera, he thought, awestruck.
In that instant, his entire body went as taut as a bowstring, Galen suddenly in the grip of a lust unlike any he’d ever known.
This strangely named woman was not simply beautiful, she was fashioned for one reason—to give pleasure.
As Laoghaire bent at the waist to retrieve the plaid, his gaze followed the line of her legs.
Long, shapely, and well-muscled, he could easily imagine them wrapped around his body.
And her buttocks . . . Galen felt his lips curve with an appreciative smile, Laoghaire’s creamy white globes the stuff of dreams.
Christ’s blood! But I want her beneath me, clinging wildly to me as I insert my fingers, my tongue, my rod into her. Then, she will scream my name, not with disdain or anger, but in ecstasy.
Galen waited until after Laoghaire finished drying herself with the plaid before he dismounted from his horse.
In the span of only a few moments, his earlier rage had transmuted into a very different sort of frenzy—a burning desire to not only couple with his wife, but to swive her senseless.
Shoving a hand against the front of his leather tunic, he rearranged his woefully swollen organ, his erection pressing insistently against the front of his braies.
While he made his way toward the waterfall, Galen watched as Laoghaire, her back turned to him, pulled a voluminous white chemise over her head.
“Why did you leave the castle?” he said by way of greeting, lust lending a harsh edge to his voice.
Laoghaire, clearly startled, gasped aloud as she spun toward him. Galen came to a stop several ells from her. He then braced his hands on his hips as he waited for an answer.
Long moments passed as they wordlessly stared at one another. Laoghaire MacKinnon didn’t possess the pale, delicate beauty extolled by the troubadours. Instead, hers was a wild, sensuous sort of splendor, a beauty that was fierce rather than fragile.
As the tense interlude lengthened, Galen’s attention was drawn to his wife’s wide, expressive mouth. Unable to stop himself, he imagined those lush lips clamped around his manhood, sucking the very sap from him.
A woman is simply a vessel for a man’s seed, he told himself in the next instant, worried he was letting lust get the better of him. But, oh, what a glorious vessel she is.
“You have yet to answer my question,” he rasped, refusing to be affected by his wife’s staggering beauty.
Defiantly holding his gaze, Laoghaire’s lower lip curled into a sneer. “I left the castle to go on pilgrimage. But as ye can plainly see, my sojourn was cut short.”
“You are much like a Scottish thistle: lovely to the eye but prickly to the touch,” he countered, annoyed with her insolence. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”
“Are ye blind?” Laoghaire lifted a hank of dripping wet hair. “I came here to bathe.”
Admittedly bewildered, he made haste to point out the obvious. “Why were you bathing in a pool of cold water when you could have taken a hot bath in a proper tub?”
“I did not wish to bathe in a tub,” Laoghaire mumbled, as she abruptly broke eye contact with him.
“Who in their right mind would choose a cold bath rather than a hot one? Is that some strange Highland custom?”
“I am having my flowers and—” her cheeks stained with color, Laoghaire kept her gaze affixed to the ground—“and because of that I did not wish to bathe in a tub.”
At hearing her explanation, it was all Galen could do not to smile. “You are in your courses? I would have proof of it.”
Laoghaire’s head immediately jerked upward. “Proof?! Are ye mad?”
“I will not give my name to a Highland bastard,” he informed her, lest she think otherwise. “I must have proof.”
“Had I known ye were to return today, I would have put a bloody rag on the end of a banner pole and set it atop the castle for ye!”
Galen felt his jaw tighten. This was not the homecoming he’d secretly imagined. I was a fool to think that she would welcome me with open arms and cheerful smiles.
Barely able to keep his temper in check, he stepped closer to her. Then, his voice deepening into a soft growl, he said, “Take heed, Laoghaire. I will not have a defiant wife. I can punish you any number of ways. And trust me . . . you will not like any of them.”
“The proof is in the satchel,” Laoghaire muttered, noticeably subdued. “In it ye will find the moss that I collected. It is used to—” She stopped all of a sudden, evidently too embarrassed to continue.
“It is used to absorb the flow of blood,” he finished for her as he bent over and retrieved the leather satchel. “It is used on the battlefield for the same purpose.”
After verifying that the satchel did indeed contain bunches of moss—along with strips of white linen and several sturdy twigs that had been neatly planed—he tossed the bag back onto the ground.
“That is well and good,” Galen told her, just before he clamped a hand onto Laoghaire’s shoulder to hold her in place.
Giving her no time to protest the intrusion, he shoved a hand under her chemise and—wedging his fingers between her upper thighs—he carefully inserted his forefinger into her woman’s chasm.
“What are ye doing?” she screeched as she tried to wiggle free.
“I prefer to verify your condition for myself.”
Despite the fact that Laoghaire had only just emerged from a cold pool of water, her inner chasm was incredibly warm. And it was also wet with blood, he noted with satisfaction after he removed his hand from between her legs.
“When did your flowers begin?” he demanded to know.
The question met with silence. Although Laoghaire stood motionless before him, Galen could see the pulse beat in her throat, inciting a desire to lean forward and press his lips to the throbbing patch of white skin.
That errant craving quickly gave way to a vision of Laoghaire lying beneath him, wide-eyed, those magnificent red tresses spread all around her.
His very own untamed Highland faery woman, writhing and moaning with unrestrained passion, even as she begged him to thrust deeper, harder, faster.
Aroused by the provocative image, Galen took a steadying breath.
“I refuse to discuss so private a matter with ye,” Laoghaire said at last.
“I can find out easily enough from Coira.”
“My woman’s blood began four days ago,” Laoghaire muttered, while she snatched both the plaid and the leather satchel from off the ground. She then stormed over to a tall, overgrown clump of hawthorn.
“What are you doing?” he called after her.
“I prefer to finish dressing without ye ogling me.”
Acquiescing to her demand for privacy—he knew from experience that a woman’s humors could be quite volatile when she was in the midst of her courses—Galen stepped over to the pool of water to rinse the blood from his hand. As he did so, he heard Laoghaire approach him from behind.
“You, Galen de Ogilvy, are naught but a brute. One who is so black of heart that—”
“Even Satan quakes in my presence,” he interjected. “You are not the first to accuse me of being a heartless knave.” Squatting near the edge of the brook, he dunked his hand into the water. “If you mean to wound me, you will have to do better than that oft-repeated gibe.”
“But I would rather wound ye with steel than with words,” Laoghaire said in a lowered voice.
In the next instant, Galen felt a sharp jab in the side of his neck. Able to see the edge of a dagger out of the corner of his eye, he knew he’d made a very grave mistake.
I should never have turned my back on the wench.