CHAPTER EIGHT #2
Even as he spoke the words, Galen knew that he should, at the very least, give her a well-deserved thrashing.
And yet he could not bring himself to raise a hand against her in violence.
The fact that he couldn’t was like a thorn imbedded in his skin, irritating, painful even.
No other woman had ever wielded such power over him, and that this one did unnerved him.
While one part of him wanted a serene and placid wife—not unlike Melisande—another part of him found Laoghaire’s proud belligerency highly stimulating. The thought of doing combat with her, even if it was only verbal combat, intensified his lust, giving it a harder, keener edge.
Motivated by a powerful yearning, Galen slid his hand down the smooth column of Laoghaire’s neck.
When he cupped her breast, her nipple instantly beaded against his palm.
Unable to stifle a groan of pleasure, he gave the soft mound a gentle squeeze, the caress meeting with a mewling whimper as Laoghaire peered up at him with a bewildered expression.
“I have been dreaming of rutting on you for ten days now,” he told her, his gaze fixed upon her mouth, the full, rosy lips beckoning him to kiss them. “Yield to me, Laoghaire. You are my wife and it your sacred duty to do so.”
“As if muttering a few vows before a tonsured priest would suddenly make me love ye.”
Peering into his wife’s eyes, Galen was taken aback by the intensity of her scorn. “You don’t have to love me, or even like me for that matter. You simply have to spread your thighs so that I can thrust my rod into you and plant my seed.”
In the next instant, Galen inclined his head forward. Surmising that he meant to kiss her, Laoghaire abruptly turned her head to one side, presenting him with a view of her cheek.
“No! I forbid ye to kiss me!”
“Damn you, Laoghaire,” Galen said roughly, while he grasped hold of her chin and jerked her head so that she was once again facing him.
At that close range she could see that his cheeks and jaw—darkened by several days’ growth of beard—lent him a saturnine appearance. To add to the sinister image, she could feel Galen’s fury in the very marrow of her bones.
“I am your husband,” Galen hissed at her. “I have every right to kiss you. Among other things, I might add.”
At hearing that succinct postscript, Laoghaire bit back a terrified yelp, suddenly intuiting that Galen meant to rut on her in the open.
Like a stallion mounting a mare. That frightening thought—as well as the press of Galen’s arousal against her woman’s mound—subdued her into a frozen immobility.
In those frantic moments, as she desperately grappled with the fact that there was a highly aroused male situated between her legs, she found herself incapable of coherent thought, unable to voice so much as a whimper of protest.
While she feared neither man nor beast, for some inexplicable reason she was terrified that Galen intended to mate with her.
And though she knew what her wifely duty entailed, she nonetheless had a deep-seated fear that once Galen inserted his male organ into her woman’s body, he would then possess her, body and soul.
No different from the devil having dominion over some poor wretch.
Clearly thinking the battle won, Galen slowly, and very purposefully, brushed the backs of his knuckles across her hardened nipples. Upon feeling a burst of sensation, Laoghaire fought the urge to squirm free of him.
“I really should punish you,” Galen remarked in an almost conversational tone, softly kneading her breast.
“Is that not what ye’re doing?” Laoghaire croaked, the words catching in her throat.
Perhaps it was because her breasts were tender and slightly swollen from her menses; whatever the reason, she was stunned that his gentle caresses engendered a strange sort of pleasure.
“Why are ye doing this to me? Ye know full well that I am having my flowers.”
“I care naught if your womb bleeds. I want to rut on you. Right here. Right now,” he informed her, making his desires plainly known. “Furthermore, I intend to map the whole of your body and claim it for my own.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she protested, her voice little more than strained whisper.
Shifting slightly, Galen slid a hand over the curve of her outer hip. “After I fill you with my seed, then you can tell me what I won’t dare to do.”
“No, not like this, Galen . . . please,” she implored, her eyes filling with tears.
Long moments passed, the desperate plea stretched between them.
Having suddenly gone motionless, Galen peered into her eyes, as though he’d never seen a teardrop before. His gray eyes sparking with a barely concealed rage, he suddenly removed his hand from her hip. After which, he shoved himself off her body and rose to his feet.
Standing above her, Galen continued to stare at her, his face an inscrutable mask.
In that tense and silent interlude, Laoghaire realized that her léine was twisted about her thighs and hips, the white linen fabric pulled snugly across her chest as well.
Evidently Galen was also aware of her provocative disarray, for his gaze lingered on her breasts, the rounded curves rising and falling in great erratic bursts as she labored to pull air into her lungs.
She then watched as Galen’s pupils dilated, until the irises became little more than a slender rim of pewter.
Although tempted to rearrange her garment, she didn’t dare, worried that any movement on her part would only serve to heighten his obvious arousal.
“If you began your courses four days ago, I only to wait three days before I can rut on you,” he said at last, his voice as chill as a cold winter’s morn.
“I’m impressed. Ye can count,” Laoghaire muttered.
Galen’s only response was to bestow upon her a withering glare; one which she presumed had been perfected on countless battlefields.
He then thrust an outstretched arm in her direction, silently bidding her to take his hand.
Worried that he would rescind the reprieve if she refused, she reluctantly placed her hand in his.
In the next instant, Laoghaire felt the sinews of Galen’s arm tighten when he unceremoniously pulled her upright.
As they stood opposite one another, she straightened her shoulders. Mortified by her earlier show of tears, she was now keen to prove that, while she may have bent, she was far from broken.
“Rest assured that I will stand on my rights as your husband, and I will bed you,” Galen emphasized in a strained voice.
Laoghaire swallowed the panic that rose in her throat upon hearing that stark affirmation.
“And as long as my heart beats in my chest,” he continued, a sneer curling his lips, “I will be your lord husband and you will serve me, in my bed and out of it. Upon my command, you will make yourself available to me. At which time I expect you to be warm, wet, and ready.”
His last remark—utterly callous and demeaning—enraged Laoghaire. Lest there’d been any misconception, Galen de Ogilvy just confirmed that she was nothing more than a receptacle for his manly lusts.
“Stay here while I retrieve my horse,” Galen ordered, before he turned abruptly on his heel and strode away from her.
As he made his way into the grove, Laoghaire knew that she had only three days to free herself from him.
Once their marriage vows were consummated, all would be lost. Because of that, she was determined to do everything in her power to convince Galen to seek an annulment.
There was no doubt in her mind that he still yearned for the fragile, blonde-haired Melisande; she just hoped the other woman would prove a powerful enough lure for him.
And why would she not?
Laoghaire was not blind. She could see—as could everyone else—that the lady Melisande was the very embodiment of female grace and beauty. During their wedding feast, she’d been forced to listen to countless songs praising that very type of golden blonde beauty.
I wonder if he ever rutted on Melisande.
Suddenly envisioning the two of them entwined in one another’s arms—Galen’s dark visage a perfect complement to the other’s golden beauty—Laoghaire felt a sickening jolt in the pit of her belly, the thought of their lovemaking provoking a twinge of jealousy.
It matters naught, she told herself, forcing the image from her mind’s eye. All that mattered was obtaining her freedom. By any means possible.