CHAPTER NINE
Laoghaire winced as Coira tightly wrapped the cambric barbette under her chin and over her ears, anchoring the fabric to the top of her head with a handful of bone pins.
“Perhaps ye should wear yer gold headband rather than the fillet,” Coira remarked, cocking her head to one side while she assessed her handiwork. “Do ye not agree, milady?”
Seated on a stool, Laoghaire picked up a hand mirror and peered at her reflected image. She turned her head slightly, enabling her to view the braided chignon at the back of her head, the woven tresses held in place with an emerald-studded crispinette.
In truth, Laoghaire felt as though she’d just been placed into a finely fashioned yoke.
“I do not care for the barbette,” she said after a moment’s consideration, fingering the bit of white fabric. “It makes me look—” she paused, searching her mind for the right word—“staid.”
Coira chuckled softly, bobbing her head in agreement.
“Aye, it does lend a solemn air that is ill-suited to one so young and bonny.” Pronouncement made, she began to pluck out the very pins she’d just inserted.
“Ye have a lovely long neck and firm chin. ’Tis no reason why ye shouldn’t flaunt yer beauty. ”
As the other woman began to remove the barbette, Laoghaire suddenly wondered if she’d unwittingly made a crucial misstep.
I do not want Galen to think me the least bit attractive.
Not when she was determined to seek an annulment.
As it was, time was not on her side. Three days from now, when she was finished with her menses, Galen would consummate the marriage.
When that happened, she would be bound to him until the day she died.
But I will make him see reason before that occurs. Then, with the annulment secured, she could return to the Isle of Skye with Diarmid, her cousin having promised to stop at Castle Airlie once his business in Perth was concluded.
Finished removing the barbette, Coira took hold of Laoghaire’s hand and began to gently rub a lotion infused with fragrant primrose onto her skin. “The earl will think ye quite alluring when he sees ye garbed in the damask.”
Laoghaire glanced at her new green kirtle with its undergown of vivid saffron silk. “’Tis a lovely gown, but—” she stopped abruptly in mid-sentence.
It doesn’t matter what I wear, Galen will still think me a whore, she thought glumly, certain that even sack cloth and ashes wouldn’t change his opinion of her. There was nothing she could say or do to change his conviction that she came to the marriage an unchaste maid.
But if he thinks that of me, why will he not agree to an annulment? she wondered, baffled by the illogic of how Galen could denounce her on the one hand, yet refuse to sever his tie to her on the other. Particularly since she knew that he would much prefer being wed to Lady Melisande.
“There now. Yer hands are as soft as a wee bairn’s backside,” Coira announced before she reached for the ornate amethyst ring that Laoghaire had earlier placed in the wooden coffer that held her jewels.
After she and Galen had returned to the castle, in a fit of rage she had defiantly removed the amethyst wedding ring and placed it in the coffer. The weight of it on her finger was an oppressive reminder that she was tethered to a man who considered her little more than a receptacle for his seed.
“I don’t want to wear it,” Laoghaire said with a stubborn shake of the head, refusing to take the proffered ring.
Long moments passed as Coira stared her. Then, in an uncharacteristically subdued tone of voice, the canny Scotswoman said, “The earl will be displeased should ye not wear it.”
“I don’t care what he— Sweet Jesu!” Laoghaire exclaimed in the next instant as she snatched the ring from Coira’s outstretched hand. Telling herself that it would be better for her purposes not to incite Galen’s ire, she shoved the ring onto her finger.
Gesturing to the glittering purple jewel, the other woman’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “The auld ones believe there is a vein in a woman’s ring finger that runs directly to the heart. Wearing the ring means that ye and Lord Angus have joined yer hearts as well as yer destinies.”
Worried that her destiny might forever be linked to Galen’s, Laoghaire wordlessly rose to her feet and with a leaden heart she took her leave.
Holding her trailing skirts aloft, Laoghaire made her way down the circular stairwell. She already dreaded the banquet to come, knowing she would have to sit beside a husband she did not want and feign a connubial bliss she did not feel.
Damn ye, Galen de Ogilvy!
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she strode toward the great hall. At her approach, the pair of armed sentries who stood guard outside the main entry made haste to open the heavy pair of wooden doors.
About to enter the chamber, Laoghaire was stopped in mid-step when Galen’s squire, Piers Burnett, rushed toward her.
“The earl would like for you to join him in the steward’s office,” the young man informed her.
Although Laoghaire nodded her assent, she was hit with an uneasy sense of foreboding. Galen had undoubtedly been apprised that for the last sennight she’d been maintaining the household accounts. Now I will have to listen to his infernal carping, she thought, certain he would disapprove.
As she hurried through the great hall on her way to the steward’s office, Laoghaire noticed there was an air of barely repressed excitement on every face she passed, attributable no doubt to the fact that the lord of the castle had returned.
Not only had minstrels been hired for the evening, but she caught a strong whiff of lavender, the fresh sprigs having been added to the rushes earlier in the day.
“Ye’d think the king had arrived,” she muttered under her breath.
Moments later, standing in front of the steward’s office, Laoghaire took a deep, fortifying breath before she banged on the closed door. The fact that she was nervous vexed her considerably.
“Come!”
At hearing that deep, masculine voice, Laoghaire threw the door wide open and strode across the threshold. Refusing to be intimidated, she held her head high as she approached the desk where Galen sat waiting for her. Upon her entrance, he immediately rose to his feet.
Uncertain what to say, Laoghaire stood silent.
Taking her husband’s measure, she thought Galen looked every inch the haughty nobleman.
Attired in a dark gray woolen tunic, the garment emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and powerful torso.
As her eyes shifted downward, she saw that his lower legs were encased in boots made of the finest Spanish leather.
The polished sword that dangled from his belt only added to the image of command and virility.
Although even without his finery, his face, dominated by high cheekbones and the slash of his nose and hard lips, bespoke his noble lineage.
There was no softness about him. He was a man born to rule.
Laoghaire braced herself, certain that Galen had summoned her to the office so that he could personally admonish her for overstepping her bounds. Not that I care, she told herself. Once he agrees to the annulment, I will be leaving this place forever.
“Who taught you to read?” Galen demanded to know, his voice cutting through the silence.
Wondering why he would even be interested, Laoghaire replied, “My brother Kenneth taught me.”
His expression inscrutable, Galen folded his arms over his chest. He then leaned against the stone wall behind him while he gave her an appraising stare. Made uncomfortable by his scrutiny, Laoghaire squared her shoulders and forced herself to return his gaze.
“Why do you want the job of household steward?”
Tempted to inform him that all she wanted from him was an annulment, Laoghaire instead said, “I must have some way to bide my time.” Gesturing to the wooden case that was filled with rolled parchments, she added, “Do ye not agree that this is a suitable occupation for me?”
“As to the suitability of a woman becoming household steward, most men would shudder in their boots at the thought.”
“Surely, so brave a knight as ye could never be threatened by a mere woman,” she taunted.
“I am not threatened in the least,” he informed her before he unrolled a parchment. He placed a small stone on each of the four corners to hold the sheet in place as he leaned over the desk and began to examine the entries that she’d made the previous day.
Admittedly anxious, Laoghaire watched as Galen slowly ran his index finger down the middle of the unrolled parchment.
She recalled how, earlier in the day at the waterfall, that same hand had gently massaged her breasts, causing her nipples to harden into tight, achy knots.
It was an unwanted and illicit thought, one that caused her to shiver ever so slightly.
Suddenly ill-at-ease, Laoghaire shifted her gaze to a nearby candle and watched as a rivulet of melting wax dribbled over the edge of the holder.
“I can see that not only do you write a fine, neat hand, your tallies are impressively accurate,” Galen commented, as he raised his head to glance over at her. “And here you led me to believe that you had no talents.”
“I told ye that I couldn’t embroider or play the harp. I never said I had no talents,” Laoghaire was quick to state in her defense.
“According to Robbie Guthrie, you have considerable talent. Indeed, my reeve highly sings your praises.” Appearing noticeably bemused, he added, “Forsooth, I will sleep better knowing that you are armed with a pen rather than a sharp blade.”
In the wake of his remark, Laoghaire felt her lips begin to quiver with mirth. Then, suddenly realizing that they were about to share a congenial moment, she bit down on her lower lip in order to maintain her composure.