CHAPTER TWELVE #3
While he never fell in love with Melisande when they were betrothed—only weak men dabbled in love—for a time he lusted after her with great zeal. Certainly, he had considered her the perfect choice for a wife.
But all of that changed with the arrival of his Highland bride.
Now my thoughts are for a fiery-haired, statuesque beauty.
Just then, Piers Burnett charged into the great hall, pushing aside a trio of acrobats in his haste to reach the great table. With his wet hair plastered to his skull and his cheeks red from exertion, the youth looked as though he’d just done battle with the sea gods of old.
Without thinking, Galen shoved Melisande’s hand off his thigh.
“Well?” he demanded to know once his squire reached the great table. “Where is she?”
“The countess is nowhere to be found,” Piers told him, gasping to catch his breath.
Refusing to believe that, Galen said tersely, “Did you search the stable?”
“I did, my lord. Lady Angus’s jennet is in its stall, unsaddled,” the youth added, having correctly deduced Galen’s next question. “I also checked with the gatekeeper, and he verified that the countess has not left the castle.”
In the wake of his squire’s ominous report, it felt as if iron tentacles suddenly gripped Galen’s innards. “And what of the steward’s office? Did you look for her there?”
His squire verified with a nod. “I’ve searched for the countess from chapel to dungeon,” the youth informed him. “’Tis as though the lady vanished into thin air.”
His patience at an end, Galen mounted the stairs, determined to find his wife.
Cursing under his breath, he swung open the door to their bedchamber. The cresset lamps had not yet been lit and the only illumination was the shadowy light cast by the orange flames of the hearth. At a glance he could see that Laoghaire had not retired early.
Stymied, Galen pushed out a deep breath. He’d been certain that his lady wife had taken to her bed in order to avoid attending the feast.
Suffering hell! Where is she?
He’d already questioned Coira and several of the female servants, none of whom could recollect having seen the countess since earlier in the day.
Coira had been particularly distraught over Laoghaire’s mysterious disappearance, having laid out a special gown for her to wear to the feast. A gown that Galen could see—as he charged into the adjacent wardrobe—was still lying across a chest, ready to be donned.
“’Tis as though the lady vanished into thin air.”
Galen had originally dismissed his squire’s fantastical statement, thinking it utterly absurd. But now he began to wonder if there might not be some kernel of—
Sweet Jesu!
At hearing his two wolfhounds suddenly howl in unison, Galen strode out of the bedchamber.
To his surprise he saw Tristan and Iseult—both of whom were positioned at the foot of the stairwell—bark frantically before they lurched to their feet and clambered up the circular stairway.
Their behavior was so strange that Galen unthinkingly followed them up the stairs, despite the fact that it made no sense for the dogs to lead him to the battlements.
A fierce storm raged outside, and neither man nor beast would willingly be on the battlements in such foul weather.
When he reached the top of the stairs, Galen shoved the dogs out of the way, Tristan having begun to claw at the wooden door that led to the outside walkway. Odder still, the door was barred, having been secured from the inside.
“Who would do such thing?” he muttered, as he shoved the heavy plank of wood out of the slots that held it in place. With that done, he swung the door wide open. Bracing himself against the driving rain and fierce wind, Galen stepped onto the battlements.
Only to come to an abrupt halt in the next instant when he espied a figure crouched very near to the door. Ignoring the furious barking of the dogs, he went down on bent knee. At seeing the swath of rain-soaked red hair, his heart slammed against his chest.
“Christ God!” he swore aloud when he realized it was Laoghaire. To his horror, she was attired in naught but a woolen kirtle. Soaking wet, the garment provided little in the way of protection.
Did the woman wish to kill herself?
No sooner did the dire thought pass through his mind than a chill ran down his spine. A chill that had nothing to do with the bitterly cold weather. Galen knew full well that people often died from exposure to the harsh elements.
At feeling his hand upon her shoulder, Laoghaire slowly raised her head. “Dinna be so . . . so verra . . . angry,” she slurred, her accent so thick that Galen could barely comprehend what she said to him.
About to reassure her that he was relieved, and not angry, the words stuck in Galen’s throat when Laoghaire’s entire body suddenly went limp and her head slumped against his chest.
“No,” he rasped, fearing the worst.
Hurriedly pressing his fingertips to the base of her throat, he murmured a grateful prayer at feeling a weak pulse.
Thank God, she is alive! Although just barely, he surmised, with no small measure of worry.
Needing to get her out of her rain, Galen slid one arm under Laoghaire’s knees and the other around her back, pulling her against his chest. He rose to his feet and swiftly made his way to the stairwell. As he began to descend the staircase, Laoghaire’s eyelids suddenly fluttered open.
“I hollered yer name, over and over,” she said in a voice that was little more than a husky whisper.
“I never heard your cries. No one did,” he added, suspecting that between the thunderous rumblings in the night sky and the loud merriment in the great hall, her screams for help had gone unheeded.
“I thought ye had—” barely able to speak, Laoghaire paused to catch her breath—“had abandoned me.”
Christ on the cross! Why didn’t I go and look for her sooner? If she dies on account of my damnable pride—
No! Galen refused to countenance the thought that Laoghaire might die.
When he reached the bottom step, Galen called out in a loud voice, “Coira! Hurry! I have need of you!”
Having evidently been waiting for him in the corridor, Coira bustled into the bedchamber ahead of him. She hurriedly lit the trio of candles in the tall pricket beside the bed. Once she was finished with that she gestured for him to place Laoghaire upon the mattress.
As Galen carefully laid Laoghaire on top of the fur coverlet, the candle threw a golden light onto her prone figure, her garments so wet that the entire outline of her body was visible through the soaked fabric.
Kneeling beside the bed, Galen gently pushed hanks of hair away from Laoghaire’s brow while he peered at her face.
Though alarmed to see that her lips had turned an unnatural shade of blue, he was even more concerned by the glassy, unfocused look in her eyes.
Despite the fact that Laoghaire peered directly at him, he sensed that she could not see him.
It made him think that she was there in body, but not in spirit.
At that moment he felt completely helpless. Over the course of his life, he’d witnessed death on many occasions, and thus he knew how easily a life could be extinguished.
Needing to do something, he clasped Laoghaire’s right hand in his and pressed it against his heart; if for no other reason than to reassure her that she was not alone. “I will never abandon you,” he whispered, the words spoken as a vow.
“Och! By all the saints!” Coira exclaimed worriedly, as she placed the back of her hand to Laoghaire’s flushed cheek. “She’s burning up with the fever.”
“I know,” Galen said quietly, having felt the furnace-like heat emanating from Laoghaire’s body when he carried her to the bedchamber.
’Tis my fault, he acknowledged guiltily, certain that Laoghaire sought sanctuary on the battlements in the aftermath of their heated exchange earlier in the day. Having done so, she could not have foreseen that someone would bar the door, trapping her on the walkway during the violent tempest.
“Ye should leave the room, my lord,” Coira said in a kindly voice, placing a commiserating hand on the top of Galen’s shoulder. “We will make certain she is well taken care of.”
Glancing at the door, Galen saw that two female servants had entered the bedchamber, their arms laden with all manner of items, from woolen blankets to baskets filled with medicinal herbs.
Still holding onto Laoghaire’s hand, Galen placed it on the bed. Though reluctant to leave, he nevertheless rose to his feet. “Should you have need of me, I shall be in the great hall. Please keep me apprised of her condition.”
Upon leaving the bedchamber, Galen made his way to the circular stairwell that led to the battlements. For several moments he stared contemplatively at the stairs.
Why would someone have barred the door? It made no sense unless—
At hearing a rustle of fabric, Galen spun on his heel, surprised to see Melisande step out of the shadows.
But he was even more surprised by the fact that her hair was unbound, the thick, golden-blonde tresses framing her torso.
In the flickering light cast by a nearby wall cresset, she appeared to him like a beautiful, shimmering apparition.
Galen remained silent as she approached, baffled as to why she was there.
Coming to a standstill but a handbreadth from where he stood, Melisande peered up at him with an expectant look on her face. Her cheeks and lips were stained with vermilion, and Galen could smell the scent of roses on her person.
“I will gladly give you all the mercy you need,” Melisande murmured, gracing him with a womanly smile, one that held the promise of shared pleasures.
Staggered by the provocative offer—and tempted despite his best intentions not to be—Galen stared at Melisande, unable to tear his gaze from her.
Without thinking, he very lightly brushed his curled knuckles across her cheekbone. “I pray thee, lady—”
The sentiment went unspoken when Melisande unexpectedly wrapped her arms around Galen’s neck and pressed her lips to his, effectively silencing him.