CHAPTER THIRTEEN #2
He’d come to the gatehouse armory ostensibly to take stock of the weapons store; but, in truth, he simply wanted a valid reason for escaping the keep.
Earlier, the joy he experienced upon being informed that Laoghaire was finally out of her sickbed had been shattered when he happened upon her in the arms of another man.
However, much to his chagrin, he mistook Diarmid MacKinnon for his wife’s lover, and in a jealous rage he nearly severed the Highlander’s head from his shoulders.
Trying to put the incident from his mind, Galen nocked the arrow to the bowstring.
“Ye’re a hard man to find,” a voice boomed from the doorway.
Pulling the string to his ear, Galen turned toward the unwelcome intruder. “What are you doing here?” he growled at Diarmid MacKinnon, having had his fill of the meddlesome Scot.
Not appearing the least bit concerned that there was a deadly arrow pointed at his heart, Diarmid glanced dismissively at the longbow and said, “The bodkin on that arrow appears sharp enough to pierce a suit of mail.”
“That remains to be seen. However, I am quite certain it will pierce a bit of woolen plaid,” Galen snarled, feeling less than hospitable.
The other man’s gaze narrowed, and he placed his right hand on his sword hilt. “Is that a threat?”
Galen lowered the longbow. “Had it been, you would now be dead.”
Turning his back on the Highlander, Galen stepped over to a nearby table and set down the longbow and arrow. He then dismissed the guard with a brusque nod of the head.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he inquired mockingly, once they were alone.
Diarmid stepped forward, coming to a halt on the opposite side of the table. “I wager ye’ll find little pleasure in the conversation, for I’ve come to discuss the reason why ye have refused to consummate yer marriage to my cousin.”
“That is a topic that does not warrant discussion,” Galen informed the Highlander, the words underlined with the sharp edge of annoyance. He did not take kindly to any man telling him how to manage his affairs.
“What ye have done is a grave insult to Clan MacKinnon, one which I will personally avenge.”
God save me from thin-skinned Highlanders, Galen fumed, his irritation such that it wouldn’t require much prodding for him to draw his sword.
“What exactly has my lady wife told you?” he growled, wondering how many intimate details Laoghaire revealed.
“Enough for me to know that ye falsely believe Laoghaire is not a virgin.”
“Christ on the cross! She has no maidenhead,” Galen told Diarmid pointblank, refusing to mince words.
Stubbornly folding his arms over his chest, Diarmid looked him directly in the eye and said, “And there is a very good reason for that.”
“Yea, I know,” Galen jeered. “It usually occurs when a man penetrates a virgin with his cock. Or are things done differently in the Highlands?”
Diarmid’s right hand immediately went for his sword, the man clearly taking offense.
“And it can also happen when a young girl rides astride like a man. Which Laoghaire has done since she was old enough to clamber onto a horse. She is a virgin,” he stated adamantly.
“And if ye dinna believe me, I would be only too happy to settle the matter at sword point.” While he didn’t go so far as to unsheathe his blade, Diarmid nonetheless maintained a firm grasp on the hilt.
Wondering what basis the other man had for his adamancy—the Highlander willing to risk his life in defense of his claim—Galen said, “How can you be so certain that she is chaste?”
“Because her brother is laird of the clan,” Diarmid MacKinnon answered. “Laoghaire could have paraded herself naked on the battlements of Castle Maoil and there’s not a man on the whole of the isle who would have dared to touch, let alone look at her, for fear of the MacKinnon.”
Galen took several moments to ponder the explanation, one which he had to admit had merit. He knew Iain MacKinnon personally, having fought against him in single combat. More recently, he fought alongside the fierce Highlander in defense of Scotland.
And thanks to Iain MacKinnon, I shall take the memory of his well-honed blade to my grave, Galen acknowledged as he reached up and absently rubbed the scar that ran down the left side of his face.
Any man, regardless of how stalwart or worthy an opponent, would be a fool to cross the Highland laird.
“Do you swear upon your life that Laoghaire is chaste?” Galen said, finally breaking his silence.
“I do,” Diarmid answered with a vigorous nod. “As would her brother, the laird.”
Having reached his decision, Galen pushed out a deep breath. “Then, the matter is settled.”
“Well, there is one other small thing that I wish to discuss with ye.” Appearing noticeably embarrassed, Diarmid shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other. “Because Laoghaire has no knowledge of the marriage bed, I must ask that ye be gentle with her.”
Galen nearly choked on his bile at hearing the other man’s request. “You have some cullions telling me how to act with my wife. I bedded my first wench when I was a lad of thirteen. I do not need you to tell me how to take a woman.”
“Since Laoghaire isn’t clamoring to share yer bed, I’m thinking ye haven’t learned much in the ensuing years,” Diarmid retorted. “She isn’t one of your destriers to be ridden as if the hounds of hell were on yer heels.”
Livid at the other man’s presumption, Galen strode over to an arrow loop and stared moodily through the opening, if for no other reason than to keep from bashing a fist into Diarmid MacKinnon’s face.
Without bothering to turn his head, Galen said, “What I do in my bed is— Suffering hell!” he blurted, having just caught sight of Laoghaire riding her jennet—astride like a man—through the main castle gate. “Where does she think she is going?”
Diarmid stepped over to the arrow loop and good-naturedly shouldered Galen out of the way. “She appears to be traveling light, so I dinna think she’s on her way to the Isle of Skye, in case that’s what ye were thinking.”
Although the Highlander spoke humorously, Galen was not the least bit amused.
Urging his stallion to a faster pace, Galen rode across the glen with a single-minded purpose—to find his wife.
Before some harm comes to her or she again takes ill.
A strong wind had come up suddenly from the west, bringing with it pellets of rain, and Galen now feared a torrent was fast approaching. Laoghaire nearly died from exposure during the last storm; she might not fare so well if caught in another tempest.
Having a fair notion of where he might locate his lady wife, Galen came to a halt at the waterfall where he’d happened upon Laoghaire whilst bathing a sennight ago; whereupon, he caught sight of the jennet secured to a low-hanging limb.
Quickly dismounting, he tied his horse beside the mare before he strode toward the pool of water.
Not seeing any sign of Laoghaire, Galen turned full circle. As he did so, he espied an ancient menhir, the scudding clouds casting ominous shadows upon the carved stone.
In the next breath, those same clouds broke wide open and showered the area with a cold rain. Muttering an oath, Galen pulled the hood of his cloak over his head.
God’s death! Where is she?
Suddenly catching a faint whiff of wood smoke riding pillion on the wind, he again scanned the area, this time searching for a telltale wisp.
Espying a plume of smoke beyond the menhir, Galen strode through the underbrush, wind and rain whipping the edges of his cloak about his legs.
When he came upon the entrance of what appeared to be a large grotto set into a rocky hillside, he breathed a sigh of relief that Laoghaire managed to find dry shelter.
Not only that, as Galen stood at the entrance to the grotto, he could see that his enterprising wife had built an impressive fire in a stone-lined pit.
Standing just inside the entry, Galen watched as Laoghaire, completely unaware of his presence, stared at the roughhewn walls; upon which there was a surfeit of charcoal drawings and carved images.
While the figures and symbols harkened to some ancient tribe that likely used the cavern as a sanctuary, it was not the pagan artwork that garnered Galen’s attention.
His gaze was focused on the woman herself.
Spellbound, he stared at Laoghaire’s unbound tresses, the glorious long strands creating a fiery veil about her body.
For the six days just passed, he’d kept nightly vigil at Laoghaire’s side.
During that time, her condition had deteriorated to such an extent that more than once he feared she’d drawn her last ragged breath.
And though a healer had been summoned, Galen refused to allow the man to apply leeches in order to draw out the excess of ill humors.
Given her weakened state, Galen had been gravely concerned that the loss of blood might prove deadly.
Ultimately, it was Coira’s extensive knowledge of medicinal herbs that reduced Laoghaire’s fever and cleared her lungs.
Still standing in the shadows near the entrance, he continued to watch Laoghaire.
The need to touch her soon grew so powerful that his hands began to tremble, Galen desperate to feel her silky tresses caress his naked body as he kissed her breasts, her lips, the moist slit between her legs.
But more than anything else, he wanted those long, beautiful legs to embrace him while he buried his face between her hips and pleasured her with his tongue, and brought her to a shuddering release.
Then, and only then, would he take his own pleasure.
Like the proverbial moth drawn to the flickering flame, Galen stepped forward, needing to lessen the distance between them.
When a rock suddenly crunched under his boot heel, Laoghaire spun around. Upon seeing him, she gasped softly.