CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
Opening his eyes, Galen craned his neck so that he could peer over his shoulder at her.
Where the neckline of Laoghaire’s kirtle gaped, he could see the soft swell of her breasts.
His mouth went dry as he peered at her beautiful bosom before he redirected his gaze to her face. “And what is that, lady wife?”
“Earlier today you spoke of yer brother.” She paused a moment, her brows knitting together while her hand stilled on his back. “If Hector is the elder brother, why did he not inherit the earldom from yer uncle?”
The question took Galen by surprise. During the course of his life he’d experienced many a dark tempest, and he did not care to revisit those turbulent episodes.
There was always the possibility that if he peered—even in his mind’s eye—into the heart of the raging storm, he might once again be drawn into the vortex.
And yet, even though he never spoke of his brother’s death, he now felt compelled to speak of it to Laoghaire.
“Hector died while I was still in the Holy Land. He was killed in a joust when an opponent’s lance pierced his eye socket.”
“I have heard it said that because the Church has banned tournaments those men who are killed while jousting are condemned to everlasting hell,” Laoghaire said solemnly, her eyes filled with a quiet sympathy.
“While it is true that my brother died unshriven, Hector does not dwell with the damned,” Galen told her, his throat so tight that he could barely give voice to the words.
Nor is Hector barred from heaven’s gate.
Despite the Church’s condemnation, Galen refused to believe that his beloved older brother would be damned to everlasting perdition.
Had it not been for Hector, he would never have emerged from the miserable shell that he’d crawled into when he left the monastery as a young, frightened boy.
Traumatized by what happened there when he was an oblate, for months afterward he refused to speak to anyone save for his brother.
In the end, it was Hector—with his infinite patience and kindness—who finally managed to break down the barrier.
For that reason Galen did not think of Hector as a flesh-and-blood sibling, but as a sheltering angel.
Pushing herself upright, Laoghaire stepped around the tub and retook her seat on the stool. Her lips curved in a mournful smile, she lightly placed a commiserating hand upon Galen’s shoulder.
“Like ye, I also lost a beloved brother.” The shadow of grief flickered across her face. “Even now, more than three years after his murder, the pain of Kenneth’s death still grips at my heart.”
At seeing the anguish that marred Laoghaire’s features, Galen felt a bolt of awareness.
We are more alike than we are different.
It was a thought that resonated with a bruising intensity, and he wondered why he’d not recognized the similarity before now.
Over the course of his life, he’d always felt isolated, an outsider continually peering in at the rest of the world.
And he suspected that it had been the same for Laoghaire.
Because she was a woman, her anguish may have been even more difficult to bear; unlike a man, she had no remedial—such as fighting an enemy in battle—to deflect the grief.
Perhaps the sharing of a similar heartache explained why Galen’s loins suddenly began to throb. In his experience, lust was another powerful curative to ward off the ills of the heart.
His jaw clamped tightly, he gripped the sides of the tub, on the verge of losing his iron control.
So be it, he acquiesced in the next instant. I want her.
His mind made up, Galen looked Laoghaire directly in the eye and said, “Now, I would have you wash my privy parts.”
Judas!
Laoghaire’s breath drew in on a shocked gasp, even as her heart began to beat wildly.
Although a chaste maid, she surmised that Galen’s request had nothing to do with bathing his body.
To emphasize that very fact, she suddenly detected something in the air, an invisible yet potent undercurrent that had not been there previously.
“Ye are perfectly capable of washing yerself,” she finally managed to say, jutting her chin at the folded piece of linen that she’d placed on the bench.
“But you are my wife and I would have you know me.”
As she gaped at Galen, so gloriously virile in his nakedness, Laoghaire felt strangely lightheaded.
His arms and chest were roped with muscles, making her acutely aware that they were constructed very differently.
Their respective bodies were like two pieces of a puzzle—one hard and angular, the other soft and rounded—that were fashioned to fit perfectly together.
An admittedly traitorous thought, it made her realize, too late, that in agreeing to sit beside Galen while he bathed she’d unwittingly placed herself in a precarious situation.
“I ken all that I need to know about ye,” she told him, hoping he would leave it at that.
“Allow me to rephrase the demand: I would have you know my body.”
“Do ye think it will make me like ye any better?”
Galen’s lips curved slightly, the makings of a sinfully compelling smile. “It might.”
Laoghaire made no reply. Her sole purpose in seeking out Galen had been to ask—yet again—for an annulment.
To that end, she’d been determined not to let him detract her with gifts and seductive smiles, as he’d done earlier in the day.
What she had not expected, however, was to find her husband soaking in a tub of hot water.
Unnerved, she cast a quick, furtive glance at Galen.
With his dark locks slightly curled from the steam and his skin glistening with a wet sheen, he appeared as strong and beautiful as Michael .
. . and as beguiling as Lucifer. And like Eve in the Garden, she could not refuse the forbidden fruit, her insides tingling with anticipation.
But in anticipation of what precisely, she could not say.
Without warning, Galen suddenly extended a hand in her direction.
Laoghaire fought the urge to flinch, refusing to show any fear.
Instead, she sat motionless while he very gently brushed his wet fingertips across her cheekbone, before drawing his fingers down the length of her neck.
Almost immediately, a strange sort of warmth began to uncoil at the base of her spine, traveling upward to her breasts, her cheeks, her brow, creating a fevered trail.
When Galen next stroked his thumb across the throbbing pulse at her throat, Laoghaire swayed slightly.
“S’il vous pla?t,” Galen implored, his voice little more than a husky whisper. “I am begging you to do this for me, lady wife.”
In the wake of his impassioned plea, Galen fixed his eyes so intently upon her that his gaze was like a heated caress against her skin.
The intense scrutiny caused Laoghaire’s entire body to tighten, her nipples so hard and achy they visibly protruded against the woolen fabric of her kirtle.
At the juncture between her legs, the tightening was severe enough that it engendered a series of small, pulsating contractions.
What is happening to me? How can his mere gaze wreak such havoc?
When Galen’s eyes dropped to her breasts, the hunger that she saw reflected in that bold stare caused her to whimper softly, leaving her both thrilled and terrified.
“Say yes,” Galen urged in a low, cajoling voice.
The battle lost, Laoghaire glanced at the bar of soap. “Should I lather a cloth?”
“That won’t be necessary,” he informed her, while he shoved the right sleeve of her kirtle to her elbow.
Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. “Why will it not—”
“Shh,” Galen interjected with a slight shake of the head. Taking hold of her hand, he plunged it beneath the water. “You will see.”
Laoghaire made a tiny muffled sound as the warm water lapped about her bare forearm.
Filled with trepidation, she peered downward, but her vision was blocked by the cluster of green lime leaves that swirled on the surface of the water.
“But I can’t see anything with all of the lime leaves floating about. ”
“I meant to say that you will feel. Now, take hold of it.”
In doubt as to what precisely he expected her to do, she was too timid to voice the question. All she could manage was a slight shrug.
Her dilemma was soon resolved when Galen said, “Wrap your fingers around my shaft.”
The instant she touched him, Laoghaire swallowed an astonished exclamation.
His manroot was thick and long and so engorged with blood that she wondered how he could bear having it attached to his body.
For some mistaken reason, she had thought the warm water would have the opposite effect on his organ.
Unsure what to do next, she gripped him like she would a sword hilt.
“Slide your hand up and down the length of it,” Galen instructed, as he leaned against the thick folds of cloth that padded the back of the tub.
No sooner did she comply than she saw a change come over Galen—his breath noticeably harsh, his eyes glazed—as though he were captive to a powerful emotion over which he had no control. While she continued to stroke him, she found it profoundly exciting to watch him in the throes of passion.
If he inserted his fingers into my woman’s place, like he did on our wedding night, would I enjoy it this time? she wondered, somehow thinking that she would.
But if he did so, she thought in the next instant, he might want to rut on me, and all would be lost.
Gripping the sides of the tub, Galen groaned, the sound rumbling deep within his chest. “Faster,” he said in a guttural voice.
She quickened her motions, causing bathwater to slosh all around her forearm, as lime leaves rapidly scudded on the watery surface.
Now, she suddenly realized. Now is the time to ask him for an annulment.