CHAPTER TWELVE
“The devil take ye, Galen de Ogilvy!”
Flinging open the door that led to the battlements above the keep, Laoghaire drew in a ragged breath.
Determined to escape Galen’s clutches, she’d run up the circular staircase as fast as she could.
There was no doubt in her mind that after what transpired between them in their bedchamber, Galen would go on the rampage.
And though she willed it otherwise, an unwanted image of her husband, in all his naked glory, with water dripping from his bronzed, muscular body, flashed across her mind’s eye.
Have I ever set my gaze upon so brawny and handsome a warrior?
Laoghaire flattened her hands against a stone merlon and tightly closed her eyes, desperate to purge Galen from her thoughts. But instead she found herself recalling how he looked in the throes of passion, the intensity and power of that moment having affected her deeply.
Had Galen asked to rut on me, I would have willingly—nay, gladly—consented, she thought bleakly, furious that she’d been so moved by the passionate interlude. Despite having cleverly tricked her into kissing him, it had proved an utterly sublime experience.
’Twas a guilty pleasure, to be certain. Particularly since I have no intention of staying married to the knave.
Struggling against what she perceived as a flaw in her character, Laoghaire was confounded as to why she was so attracted to Galen. Only days ago she could hardly stand the sight of him.
Am I so shallow that it took only a few gifts and several beguiling smiles to soften my heart?
Desolate at the thought, Laoghaire walked to the end of the walkway and peered at the loch that was situated below the bluffs to the rear of the castle.
Gray clouds hung low in the sky, the shades of eventide marked by a strong westerly wind that churned the water below, whipping up frothy whitecaps in its wake.
A storm brewed menacingly on the near horizon, one that threatened to inundate the surrounding countryside.
To heighten the dark and foreboding scene, the winds were laced with a bone-chilling dampness.
Too late, Laoghaire wished that she’d brought a mantle with her.
’Tis a perfect accompaniment to my turbulent humors. And though she recognized it as such, she did not like being consumed by rage, as it tilted her world on its side. Even more distressing, within her fury there lurked an underlying fear, Laoghaire terrified that she was now tethered to the place.
This colossus of stone and mortar. This prison.
No!
Though she willed it otherwise, Laoghaire’s eyes filled with tears.
Wedging herself between two merlons, she peered at the imposing landscape through watery eyes. Homesick, she found herself yearning for a glimpse of blue sea and to hear the squall of gulls in the distance. The knowledge that her beloved misty isle was so far distant intensified her heartache.
“I would give anything to return to the land of my birth,” she murmured, worried that the longer she stayed at Castle Airlie, the more her resistance to Galen would weaken.
I am tired of doing battle with him, she acknowledged, even as she worriedly peered over her shoulder at the wooden door at the end of the walkway. Galen de Ogilvy was such a fierce warrior, she’d wager he did battle even in his dreams, his heart as dark as a moonless night.
But if that is true, why am I so attracted to him?
Perhaps the attraction came about when Galen showed a different side of himself, one that he went to great lengths to keep hidden.
When Galen had spoken of his brother Hector, she’d seen a depth of emotion in his eyes that she’d not thought him capable of.
But she’d seen something else as well—a grief that mirrored her own heartache at having lost a beloved brother.
In that shared sorrow she realized, much to her shock, they were not so different from one another.
Torn between loathing and longing, Laoghaire felt as though her heart was being pulled in two different directions. And all the while, time was passing her by. Soon it would be too late to seek an annulment.
Suddenly hearing a bird screech in the distance, Laoghaire craned her neck and peered through the gloom.
’Tis a raven, she realized, with no small measure of unease at seeing the black bird soar across the leaden skies.
As the bird disappeared from sight, the wind began to blow with a greater ferocity, moaning as it came down from the mountains and whipped across the glen.
In the next instant, lightning illuminated the dark skies, the formidable flash accompanied by a bone-shuddering boom of thunder.
Before Laoghaire could even catch her breath, another bolt was hurled from the heavens as the skies opened up and the rain suddenly fell in a massive torrent.
With a muttered oath, she rushed toward the doorway, her progress slowed by the shrieking wind that caught at her woolen kirtle, causing folds of fabric to tangle about her legs.
Impeded by the pelting rain, she placed a stabilizing hand on the stones while she groped her way to the door at the end of the walkway. Nearly blinded by the deluge, she lost her balance, crying aloud when her boots slipped on the wet stones, causing her to fall to her knees.
Soaked to the skin, Laoghaire shoved herself upright. The rain lashed against her face and body, coming down with such ferocity that it was as though she were striding through a barrage of pellets.
Finally reaching the door, she breathed a sigh of relief as she reached for the latch.
“God’s teeth!” she yelled, infuriated that the door would not open.
Again, she tugged on the latch. But to no avail.
’Tis locked from the inside!
Darting over to the nearest crenellation, she waved her arms in the air, trying to garner the attention of the watchmen who stood sentry inside the gatehouse on the other side of the bailey.
Moments later, with a sinking heart, Laoghaire lowered her arms. Just as she could not see the guards through the heavy rain and growing darkness, she realized that the opposite was also true.
All of a sudden another bolt of lightning flashed across the skies, followed by a deafening roar of thunder.
Seized with a heart-gripping fear, Laoghaire charged back to the entryway. She then began to frantically pound on the wooden door, all the while screaming one name, over and over.
“Galen!”
“ . . . sanctificúe nomen tuum . . .”
Head bowed, Galen cast a sidelong glance at Father Giroldus who, with a raised right hand, made the sign of the cross and concluded the Pater Noster with, “Et nomine patre, e et filis, e et spiritus sancti.”
Upon hearing those words, everyone in the great hall murmured a collective “Amen.” That being the signal, the feast officially commenced with a loud trumpet fanfare, followed by the clamor of those assembled therein.
It did not escape Galen’s notice that before reseating himself at the high table, the priest looked pointedly at Laoghaire’s vacant chair.
“Damn the wench!” Galen bellowed, banging his fist against the table and causing a nearby goblet to precariously rock to and fro. The furious outburst was drowned out by the rambunctious round of cheers that greeted the entrance of servers bearing trays piled high with steaming dishes.
At that moment, Galen would preferred to have been anywhere else. But because Michaelmas was a feast marked with much celebration, it was his duty, as earl, to host the festivities.
With my lady wife, he fumed, while he shot a glance at the empty chair to the left of him.
Just then, Piers Burnett, along with three other squires, approached the dais with a massive silver platter borne atop their shoulders.
On it was an equally massive boar’s head trimmed with leafy greenery and aromatic herbs.
As was the custom, they placed the first course on the high table, just to the right of where the lord of the castle sat in his seigneurial chair.
Unable to summon the least bit of interest, Galen acknowledged the presentation with a weary nod.
Rather than take his leave, Piers glanced at Laoghaire’s empty chair. “Has the countess taken ill, my lord?” the youth asked, appearing mystified by the noteworthy absence.
“In a manner of speaking,” Galen growled, equally mystified by his lady wife’s nonattendance. “Her humors this day are not as they should be.”
“Then, I wish her a speedy recovery.” With a bow of the head, his squire backed away from the table.
His own humors in a miserable state, Galen peered at the unusually large number of diners, all of whom were pressed together in two lines of trestle tables that extended from the high table all the way to the wooden screen at the far end of the hall.
From his vantage point in the center of the dais, he had an unobstructed view of the upper gallery, where a group of troubadours had just begun to play.
It was a scene of much merriment, and yet he took no joy in any of it.
Too annoyed to eat, Galen instead reached for his tankard of ale. For several moments he stared pensively into its depths.
I truly thought I had her tamed.
No sooner did the thought pass through his mind than Galen snorted derisively, Laoghaire’s fiery temper fast becoming the bane of his existence.
That he would now have to punish Laoghaire for her willful behavior left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He knew that any form of reprimand—whether physical or verbal—would only calcify the enmity that had arisen between them.
“I do not want to punish the wench,” he mumbled to himself, still staring into his tankard. “I want to make love to her.”
But I must punish her, he affirmed in the next instant, his wife having gone too far this time. If Laoghaire had only restrained herself, if she had behaved in a docile, ladylike fashion, he would not now be trapped in an untenable position.