CHAPTER ELEVEN
At hearing a knock upon the bedchamber door, Galen bellowed, “Enter!”
In the next instant, the hide hinges creaked as the wooden door swung open and Laoghaire briskly stepped across the threshold .
. . only to come to a skidding halt when she saw that he was soaking in a large wooden tub, filled nearly to the brim with steaming hot water.
With a raised hand, he bid her to step forward.
But rather than obey, she balked.
Folding her arms across her breasts, Laoghaire slanted him a nervous glance, one that remained assiduously focused upon his face. “I can see that ye are, er, indisposed. I shall return later.”
“But you are here now and there is no reason why we cannot speak.” When Laoghaire remained rooted in place, he smiled teasingly and said, “Rest assured that I cannot ravish you when I am seated in a tub full of hot water.”
Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, Laoghaire began to giggle. “Not to mention yer privy part would be all shriveled,” she told him, slapping a hand over her mouth to control her mirth.
“There is that,” he said with a good-natured laugh, willing to sacrifice a bit of manly pride for the sake of conversing with his lady wife while he bathed.
And though he could have easily disavowed Laoghaire of the notion—his “privy part” having stiffened at the mere sight of her—there was no fruitful purpose to be had in the revelation.
’Tis better to suffer a joke at my expense if it enables me to subdue her. Earlier, during their ride, he made great strides and he now intended to build upon the goodwill he’d accumulated.
Taking a few tentative steps in his direction, Laoghaire said in a more composed tone of voice, “I have finished the yearly household accounts and they are ready for yer review.”
Still smiling, he gestured to the three-legged stool that had been placed beside the tub. “Please sit, lady wife. It hurts my neck to peer up at you,” he lied, hoping the falsehood would cajole her into compliance.
Gnawing on her lower lip, Laoghaire appraised the stool in question.
Whether or not it was her intention—and he greatly doubted that it was—it made for a highly provocative sight.
Unable to tear his gaze from the sight of those pearly white teeth bearing down on that plump, lower lip, Galen felt his privy part harden further still.
Fortunately there were enough lime leaves floating on the water’s surface to hide the fact that he was sexually aroused.
And though he willed it otherwise, all manner of lewd thoughts began to pass through his mind as he envisioned those lush, pink lips blazing a trail across his body. Caressing . . . licking . . . sucking.
A few moments later, having evidently decided that sitting beside the tub presented no danger, Laoghaire approached the stool, the soft rustle of her skirt hem on the floor rushes like music to his ears.
Averting her gaze from the tub, Laoghaire swept her red woolen skirt to one side as she seated herself.
Neither of them spoke, and the only sound to be heard in the bedchamber was the crackle of fire in the hearth. Galen thought it a strange sort of stillness, one that was imbued with an air of potent expectancy.
Determined to act as natural as possible, Galen picked up the block of Italian made soap that had been set on a nearby bench.
He took an appreciative sniff of the pine-scented bar before he dunked it in the water and began to lather a cloth.
“Now that the accounts have been reckoned, you are free to take your ease at this evening’s feast in the sure knowledge that you have done your duty,” he remarked in a conversational tone of voice while he extended his left arm and proceeded to wash it.
At the mention of the Michaelmas feast, Laoghaire’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Will Struan Mìcheil be served at the banquet?”
Unfamiliar with the Gaelic phrase, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I cannot say. First, I need to know what exactly a Struan Mìcheil is.”
Laoghaire’s lips curved in a girlish smile. “’Tis a special bread made from equal parts of barley, oats, and rye that is only eaten on Michaelmas.”
“And why is that?” he asked.
“Because on this day we remember and honor those family members and clansmen who have passed to the other side.” Laoghaire’s smile dimmed, replaced with a poignant expression. Galen knew without asking that she was remembering the very people of whom she spoke.
Tempted to put a comforting hand upon her shoulder, he curbed the impulse, worried that it would make Laoghaire bolt like a wild mare.
While she is more accustomed to me, she is far from tamed.
Lifting his right arm, Galen began to scrub it from the ball of his shoulder to his fingertips. “Surely, on the Isle of Skye there is some merriment to be had on Michaelmas,” he prodded, hoping to lighten the mood. “’Tis a feast day, after all.”
“Aye, we venerate the greatest of the archangels with a most festive celebration,” she replied, her gaze having yet to dip below his chin.
“Early in the morning, the priest, mounted on a white horse, leads a procession to the seashore, during which everyone sings the Iolach Mìcheili, the song of Michael the Victorious.”
“And I suppose that is to commemorate Michael’s defeat of Lucifer and his minions,” Galen remarked, while he moved the lathered cloth across his upper chest.
“Exactly so,” Laoghaire confirmed with a nod.
“Afterward, there are all manner of games and horse races. But before that happens, the women of the castle go out to search for the Michaelmas daisy. The first one who finds it calls out: ‘The Michaelmas daisies, among dead weeds, bloom for St. Michael’s valorous deeds.’” As she spoke, Laoghaire’s eyes were enlivened with the distinct luster that comes upon a person when recollecting a fond memory, a sheen that had about it a wistful air.
Galen dunked the cloth below the water so he could wash his lower abdomen. “I suspect, lady wife, that you were quite adept at finding this obscure bloom.”
With an expression of mock seriousness, Laoghaire replied, “There were one or two years that the flower eluded me.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
While Galen greatly enjoyed conversing with Laoghaire, he enjoyed even more the opportunity to set his eyes upon her.
Not only were her face and hands fine-boned, her ivory skin was unmarred, imbuing her Celtic beauty with a rare perfection.
And despite being statuesque, his lady wife was endowed with a feminine grace that was most pleasing to him.
We are well matched, and our progeny will be comely and well-fashioned.
Though that was a gratifying thought, Galen was admittedly irked that since entering the chamber, Laoghaire had yet to lower her gaze to his naked torso, or anywhere else below his jaw line.
Deciding to force the issue, Galen wrung out the cloth. “I would have you wash my back, lady wife,” he said without preamble, offering the cloth and bar of soap to her.
Given her wide-eyed expression, he surmised that Laoghaire was startled by the command.
“Surely, ye have a, um, servant who can assist with yer bath,” she stammered.
“I do. But ’tis a wifely duty, is it not?” As he spoke, plumes of steam wafted across the water’s surface in Laoghaire’s direction.
“If so, I am unaware of it,” she argued, refusing to take the proffered items.
Galen inched his hand a few inches closer to her. “’Twould please me greatly to have you wash my back,” he said in a quiet, albeit firm, tone of voice.
Her eyes still big as silver groats, Laoghaire wordlessly took hold of the cloth and bar of soap.
She proceeded to stare, first at one, then the other, as though they were both foreign objects.
Galen watched her, mesmerized by the way in which the light from the nearby wall cresset burnished her locks, creating a radiant nimbus around her head.
Sweet Jesu! She is glorious to behold. There was a fire about her, one that he wanted to feel, to touch, to lose himself in.
Deeply affected by his wife’s beauty, his gaze dropped to Laoghaire’s wide, expressive mouth.
In no time at all he was seized with a mad desire to pull her toward him so that he could kiss her, if for no other reason than to rid himself of the overpowering desire to taste her lips.
One kiss. Is that so much to ask?
Suspecting that it was, Galen quickly raised his gaze back to Laoghaire’s eyes.
Capitulating with a drawn-out sigh, Laoghaire rose from the stool and stepped behind the tub. Galen heard her sink to her knees. Able to smell the aroma of flowers that emanated from her person, he inhaled deeply, filling his nostrils with her sweet scent.
The matter now settled he leaned forward so that Laoghaire could bathe him.
The slight motion caused warm water to slosh gently against his upper chest. The tub was deep and commodious, the shellacked planks copper-banded and lined with a thick cloth that provided a form of padding against his bare skin.
From behind him, Galen sensed rather than saw Laoghaire fold the piece of linen several times before she placed it at the base of his neck. She then began to move the cloth across his skin in a desultory manner.
Annoyed with her halfhearted efforts, Galen said, “I am well-muscled, as you can plainly see. You may scrub harder, lady wife. The linen will not flay me,” he added, half under his breath.
Laoghaire made no reply as she complied with the request, lathering his back with more vigor.
It may have been because he could feel her breath fluttering against his skin, or perhaps it was due to the fact that only the linen cloth separated his naked flesh from her hand, whatever the reason, Galen experienced a sharp-edged desire.
Closing his eyes, he sighed with an intense and deeply felt pleasure.
“There is something that I don’t understand,” Laoghaire said unexpectedly, her voice cutting through his lustful haze.