CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Laoghaire flung open the bedroom window and breathed deeply.
Having been confined to her sick bed for so many days that she’d lost count, she was in dire need of the fresh morning air.
And much like someone who’d been cast into darkness, she instinctively sought the light of the sun.
But to her dismay, instead of sunshine she was met with gray skies.
Gray. Like the color of Galen’s eyes.
During her illness, when she’d been so consumed with fever that she nearly pierced the veil that separated the living from the dead, she’d envisioned Galen continually.
In those vivid dreams, she’d seen him as he had appeared when she first set her gaze upon him at her brother’s castle—the ruthless and formidable Dark Knight, who swore he would raze all in his path.
The same Dark Knight who now holds me in his thrall.
Her lungs filled, Laoghaire stepped over to the table on the other side of the bedchamber and reached for an oatcake.
Having consumed little more than beef broth during her convalescence, she had awakened that morning absolutely ravenous.
Coira, delighted that Laoghaire appeared fully recovered from her malady, had seen to it that oatcakes with honey and a tankard of ale had been brought, so that Laoghaire could finally break her fast.
Bathed, dressed, and now fed, Laoghaire was anxious to leave the bedchamber.
Although she wasn’t the least bit anxious to see her husband.
During the course of her illness, whenever she’d sensed Galen’s presence she’d feigned sleep, not wanting to speak, or even lay her eyes upon him.
Having abandoned her on the battlements during the storm, he obviously had no regard for her.
Or at least that was how it felt to her during those terrifying hours when she’d been lashed by rain and wind.
I screamed his name repeatedly and he never answered.
And yet, for some strange reason that she could not fathom, Galen spent each night on the trundle bed, sleeping only a few feet from her.
No doubt, he feared she would escape Castle Airlie under cover of night and return to the Isle of Skye; thereby making a supreme fool of him.
To prevent that from happening, he kept nightly guard.
There is no other explanation for his odd behavior. Particularly since he could have easily slept in the barracks with his men-at-arms.
Ready to venture forth, Laoghaire opened the door and cautiously peered into the corridor.
Not seeing Galen lurking about, she hurried to the stairwell and descended to the main floor.
Whereupon she was greeted by a trio of servants, all of whom expressed their relief at seeing her up and about.
Touched by their well wishes, Laoghaire continued on her way, having decided to spend the next few hours in the steward’s office.
When she reached the lesser hall, she came to an abrupt halt, stunned to see a tall man dressed in a Highland plaid standing on the far side of the chamber.
Although his back was turned to her, she instantly recognized the tawny-haired visitor.
Her cousin—who had journeyed to Perth in order to purchase imported luxury goods—had promised to stop at Castle Airlie on his return trip to the Isle of Skye.
Overjoyed, Laoghaire grabbed hold of her blue woolen kirtle and rushed forward.
“Diarmid!” she called out, overjoyed to see her kinsman.
Her cousin turned around so quickly that the edges of his kilt swirled about his knees. “Laoghaire! Thank God! I was told ye were ill.”
Giving a cry of sheer delight, Laoghaire threw herself into her cousin’s open arms. Whereupon Diarmid lifted her completely off her feet and twirled her in a circle.
With her arms still wrapped around him, Laoghaire planted a warm kiss on her cousin’s stubbled cheek. “As ye can see, I am now well and am able to—” Laoghaire broke off suddenly when, without warning, a sword swung toward Diarmid, only coming to a halt when the blade was well-nigh of his neck.
Judas!
“Release my wife or I’ll sever your head from your bloody shoulders!” Galen growled. Having entered the lesser hall unseen, he now stood directly behind Diarmid. Garbed in a black surcoat emblazoned with a rampant red lion, he made for a fearsome sight with his massive sword held before him.
Wordlessly, Diarmid obeyed the command, releasing Laoghaire from his embrace.
“Wife in name only,” Laoghaire hissed, outraged that Galen would dare to threaten her kinsman.
Very slowly, the sword still but a finger’s breadth from his neck, Diarmid turned around. The instant that Galen recognized who it was, a look of surprise flashed in his eyes. Almost at once he retracted his sword and sheathed it in the scabbard that dangled from his left hip.
“I was not apprised of your arrival,” Galen said by way of explanation, as if that excused his brutish behavior.
Although Diarmid should rightly have been angered, or at the very least insulted by what just transpired, he seemed bewildered instead. Cocking his head to one side, he took Laoghaire’s measure. “What did ye mean by saying that ye are a ‘wife in name only?’’’
Instantly regretting her rash words, Laoghaire felt a flush warm her cheeks. When she dared a glance at Galen, the glower on his face was so forbidding that she was nearly intimidated into silence.
Somewhat awkwardly, she told her cousin, “If ye must know, the marriage has not yet been, er, consummated.”
At hearing that, a look of utter astonishment—one that bordered on horror—suffused Diarmid’s face. “God’s teeth, woman! How else is Angus to get an heir off ye? Are ye so dimwitted as to think ye can pluck a bairn out of thin air?”
“’Tis not my fault that we have not shared a marriage bed.” Raising a hand, Laoghaire then pointed an accusing finger at Galen. “He is the one who has refused to bed me!”
Diarmid’s gaze immediately swiveled toward Galen. “And why is that?” he demanded to know.
Rather than answer, Galen took a deep breath, his jaw clenched tightly. At that moment he looked very much like a man trying to reign in his emotions. Finally, he snarled at Diarmid, “’Tis not your concern, Highlander.”
It was the last thing Galen said before he stormed from the lesser hall.
Cursing under her breath, Laoghaire strode over to a nearby window seat and sat down. Unable to look her cousin in the eye, she turned her upper body away from him. Upon hearing Diarmid approach, she pretended an interest in the servant who was busy cleaning the hearth on the far side of the hall.
“What has caused this great rift between the two of ye?” Diarmid asked quietly, as he sat down beside her. “Does Angus beat ye?”
Turning to face her cousin, Laoghaire shook her head, quick to disavow him of the notion. “No, he has never raised a hand against me.”
“Have ye ever raised a hand against him?” Diarmid next inquired, the question proving that he knew her all too well.
About to adamantly deny the charge, Laoghaire suddenly remembered the day at the waterfall, when she pulled a dirk on Galen. “Er, not exactly,” she hedged.
Diarmid’s tawny brows drew together. “Then, why is there so much hostility between ye and Angus?”
Suspecting that Diarmid would not cease his prying until he had an answer, Laoghaire sighed wearily before she replied, “On our wedding night, Galen discovered that . . . that I do not have a maidenhead. And because of that, he refused to bed me until after my courses. To ensure that I wasn’t pregnant with another man’s child,” she clarified.
Her revelation met with a look of visible shock on her cousin’s face, two twin splotches of color instantly appearing on Diarmid’s cheeks.
As the silent seconds slipped past—and the implication of her confession took root—her cousin’s shock soon transmuted into a fierce indignation.
“Do ye mean to say that Angus refused to believe ye were a virgin?”
Staring at her lap, Laoghaire desolately nodded her head. “And I am a virgin still.”
Diarmid awkwardly patted her hand. “Ye are blameless, cousin. Angus, on the other hand, has grievously insulted ye.”
“Then will ye help me to secure an annulment?” Laoghaire asked, hopeful that she could garner her cousin’s aid. “I want nothing more than to—”
“I will do no such thing! To do so would be an act of treason.” Appearing apoplectic, Diarmid reached over and grabbed hold of Laoghaire by the upper arms. “And ye will put this foolish notion far, far from yer mind. Do ye understand me?”
When she refused to answer, Diarmid gave her a hard shake.
“I understand ye full well,” Laoghaire spat at him, as she yanked herself free from his grasp. Her throat so constricted with emotion that she could barely speak, she added, “Ye don’t care about me or my happiness. Ye care only that I abide by the king’s marital decree.”
His face etched with a deep scowl, Diarmid rose to his feet. “I want ye to stay in the lesser hall while I go and speak to Angus. Since yer brother is not here, ’tis my duty to see to it that this marriage is put aright. If that does not come to pass, I will ensure yer honor is avenged.”
Laoghaire lurched to her feet and put a staying hand on her cousin’s shoulder to forestall his departure. “Do ye intend to fight Galen over this?”
With a look of steely-eyed determination, Diarmid replied, “If, after speaking to the man, he still refuses to believe ye are a virgin, I will do what I must to defend the honor of our clan.”
“The ironsmith forged the bodkins exactly as you ordered, my lord.”
“So he did,” Galen said approvingly as he picked up one of the newly made arrows and held it aloft. After carefully scrutinizing the shaft and goose fletchings, he held out his free hand, silently bidding the guard to hand him a longbow.