CHAPTER TEN #2
Galen’s inquiry—and the solicitous tone in which it was made—was so unexpected that Laoghaire stared at him, slack-jawed.
At a loss for words, she began to notice things about Galen that she did not want to notice, such as his finely shaped lips and the intriguing gray color of his eyes.
And it did not escape her notice that a wavy lock of black hair had fallen across his brow and upper cheek, lending him an almost boyish air.
A ridiculous thought, surely, given that his lower jaw was lightly shadowed with dark whiskers.
Rather than answer the question put to her, Laoghaire said, “There was only a three month supply of salted meat, ale and wheat in the castle storeroom. So, I took it upon myself to have the larder doubled. In case of a siege,” she added, not wanting him to think she’d abused her position.
“Excellent,” Galen commended with an approving nod, appearing genuinely impressed with her initiative. “Many a castle has been seized, not by might, but through starvation. Well done, lady wife. No doubt, you are wondering why I invited you here,” he then remarked, abruptly changing the subject.
On the verge of informing Galen that she’d been commanded, not invited, Laoghaire held her tongue at the last. Instead, she wordlessly nodded her head.
“I wish to show you something,” Galen said, as he offered his hand to her.
For several moments Laoghaire stared at Galen’s outstretched hand, unable to discern his motives. She had come to the stable prepared for verbal combat, but in its stead she found herself being treated with great courtesy.
Wondering at his game, Laoghaire tentatively took hold of Galen’s hand and permitted him to usher her to the rear of the stable. As they rounded the corner, her eyes went wide when she caught her first glimpse of a magnificent gray jennet with a deep charcoal-colored mane.
“The mare has an amiable disposition, and I think she will be well-suited to you.” Releasing her hand, he gestured to the horse.
Belatedly realizing that Galen was gazing at her with an expectant look on his face, she gaped at him and said, “Is the jennet intended for me?”
Clearly amused by her reaction, Galen chuckled softly before he replied, “Yea, ’tis a gift.
” He stepped closer to her, so close that Laoghaire could feel his warm breath on her face.
“Because St. Michael is the patron saint of horses, I thought it an appropriate gift for Michaelmas. And though he is also famed for being a dragon slayer, I pray thee not to follow in his footsteps,” Galen added in a teasing voice.
Laoghaire knew that she should say something, if for no other reason than to thank him, but words escaped her. She didn’t know if it was the pulse beating in her ears or that her throat was suddenly thick with emotion, whatever the reason, she was rendered mute.
“Is the horse to your liking?”
Overwhelmed by his generosity, she bobbed her head up and down.
“And what of the lady’s sidesaddle?” Galen gestured to the finely worked leather, which was covered with a decorative inlay of white stag’s horn. “Does it also meet with your approval?”
While the saddle was beautifully crafted, it was not the leather workmanship that Laoghaire noticed. Instead, her attention was drawn to Galen’s hand as he placed it upon the saddle. To her chagrin, she suddenly recalled how only the previous day he’d fondled her breast with that same hand.
Trying desperately to collect her scattered wits, she finally managed to say, “’Tis a lovely saddle.”
“Then, if you are amenable, perhaps we could go for a ride.”
“Together?”
“Mayhap even side-by-side,” he retorted playfully.
“But I have, um . . . never ridden sidesaddle,” she demurred, uncertain how she would even mount the jennet without getting herself twisted in a knot.
“Given that you are such an accomplished horsewoman, I am certain you will have no difficulty managing the feat,” Galen assured her. “Here. I will assist you.” He wrapped his hands around her waist.
Without thinking, Laoghaire placed her hands squarely upon Galen’s shoulders.
Too late, she realized what she’d just done.
Stunned by the intimacy of the moment and the close proximity of their two bodies, she gasped softly.
Then, before she could even register what was happening, her feet suddenly came off the ground.
Within seconds, Laoghaire found herself situated in the saddle as she peered at the top of Galen’s head.
Glancing up at her, Galen placed the reins in her hand. “I will retrieve my horse, and we can be on our way.” That said, he turned toward a nearby stall where a saddled roan palfrey placidly awaited him.
“Wait,” she blurted, reaching down to put a staying hand upon his shoulder.
When he turned back in her direction, Laoghaire saw a flash of what appeared to be hope glimmering in Galen’s pewter-gray eyes.
A change has occurred, she realized in that instant. Although what precisely the change entailed was beyond her ken.
Nevertheless, encouraged by her husband’s rare show of emotion, she found the courage to smile and say, “Thank you, Galen.”
Galen peered at the averted face of the woman who rode beside him. She and the mare are well-matched, majestic creatures the both of them. However, unlike the jennet, his lady wife possessed a streak of wildness, one that he intended to break.
To that end, as he and Laoghaire rode through the main gatehouse, Galen remarked, “You never did tell me whether you enjoy working in the steward’s office.”
Craning her head, Laoghaire peered over at him. “Aye . . . er, I do,” she answered somewhat hesitantly. “But there are days when I stare so long at numbers that—” She left the thought unfinished, waving it away with her hand.
“Other ladies turn squinty-eyed from hours spent with their embroidery,” he teased, if for no other reason than to ensure that an awkward silence didn’t fall between them.
“I am not like other women.” With the speed of a fiery projectile being hurled from a catapult, Laoghaire’s tone turned defensive.
Determined to extinguish the contentious flame, Galen said, “And I am glad of it.”
The compliment achieved the desired effect, a girlish blush materializing on Laoghaire’s elegantly carved cheekbones.
Thus far, the wooing of his Highland bride had achieved notable results.
And though Laoghaire was far from tamed, she was, for the most part, docile.
Because of that Galen had complete faith that when he finally consummated their wedding vows, he would not have to look upon her tight-lipped grimace or peer into scorn-filled eyes while he plowed her woman’s body.
“Hopefully, the abacus will ensure that you don’t become too squinty-eyed,” he added, once more assuming a lighthearted tone.
Laoghaire’s brows instantly furrowed in the middle. “’Twas you who left the device in the steward’s office?”
“I did,” he confirmed with a nod.
“But after what happened last night—”
“I said many things last night that I deeply regret,” he interjected, not wishing to revisit the incidents of the previous day.
Then, because he suspected the battle would not be won without a flanking maneuver, he said, “If, through my words or actions, I hurt you in any way, I beg your forgiveness, lady wife.” While it was not within his nature to apologize for anything—he considered a mea culpa to be a sign of weakness—this was a unique situation that called for an act of contrition.
“In that case, I forgive you,” Laoghaire said quietly.
And what of you, lady wife? Do you regret removing your wedding ring, an act of flagrant rebellion?
Still annoyed by her transgression, Galen’s gaze automatically dropped to Laoghaire’s bare ring finger.
For the last two centuries the amethyst ring that Laoghaire so willfully spurned had adorned the finger of each and every countess of Angus.
That she refused to wear it was a personal slight, as well as an insult to the House of Ogilvy.
But I will make her want to wear it, he silently affirmed, determined to win the bout.
Just then, Laoghaire peered up at the sky, her attention drawn to a large flock of starlings moving in graceful, perfect formation as they swooped and turned en masse, first one way, then the other, creating iridescent patterns against the sky.
“How I envy them their freedom,” Laoghaire murmured, while her gaze continued to track the birds’ winged flight.
Worried that the conversation had again veered onto dangerous ground, Galen said, “Those birds are far from free.” Raising his arm, he pointed to the flock, which suddenly dipped to one side in a flawlessly executed arabesque.
“As you can see, there is not a rebel among them.” Strongly tempted to add that there was a lesson for her in that, Galen kept the thought to himself, suspecting the addendum would only serve to antagonize her.
While they rode down the hillside—Castle Airlie to the rear of them and the Grampian Mountains dominating the horizon in front of them—Galen’s attention was drawn to the way in which the sunlight caused the coppery strands of Laoghaire’s braided hair to shimmer brightly.
The lady of the flames, he thought, her red woolen kirtle adding to the illusion.
With her back ramrod straight, Laoghaire certainly made for a regal sight.
And a highly provocative one as well, for each time the breeze swept past, the woolen fabric was plastered against her long legs.
All too easily, Galen could envision those shapely limbs wrapped around his haunches as Laoghaire, caught in passion’s undertow, clung fiercely to him.
By the blood of Christ! I will do whatever is necessary to bring that tantalizing image to fruition.