CHAPTER NINETEEN #2
Several hours later they caught up to the caravan, Galen and his men having set up camp in the middle of a small glen.
When Laoghaire’s gaze landed on the banner that fluttered atop an upright lance, she mouthed a silent prayer of thanks.
Her eyes then moved across the clearing, where half a dozen field tents had been erected, in addition to a makeshift corral having been set up for the horses.
As was to be expected, there were clusters of men-at-arms milling about, more than a few of whom drew their swords when they rode into the encampment.
Wearing a self-important expression, the sheriff announced in a booming voice, “My name is Simon Blàrach, and I am the sheriff of Strathearn. I have urgent business with the Earl of Angus!”
No sooner was the announcement made than Laoghaire caught sight of Piers Burnett, the young squire gaping at her in obvious disbelief before he took off running toward one of the tents.
Like a moth drawn to a flame, her gaze once more gravitated to the banner that waved sharply in the breeze.
Indeed, she thought it passing strange that the sight of that blood-red lion—a sight she used to loathe—now filled her with a burst of pride.
And deep longing as well, the standard causing her heart to pound forcefully with anticipation.
After days of hard riding, I will finally be reunited with Galen!
It was a thought that instantly dispelled the gloom of the day. En route, the skies had malevolently darkened, the moody clouds now holding the threat of a downpour.
Within moments, word of their arrival spread, various men emerging from their tents to gather around their mounted entourage.
Laoghaire tried her best to ignore the slack-jawed expressions and furtive whispering, well aware that her arrival, in the custody of the shire’s sheriff, had to have been a great shock.
At seeing Melisande Jardin in the crowd of onlookers, she inwardly groaned.
Immaculately attired in a dove grey mantle trimmed in white coney, the petite blonde somehow managed to appear pink-cheeked and lovely after days of travel.
In that instant, Laoghaire could not altogether fault Sheriff Blàrach for having mistaken the graceful Melisande for Galen’s wife.
Whereas I look like a villein who’s just come in from the fields. A thought that made her fretfully wonder what Galen would make of her woebegone appearance and mannish attire.
She didn’t have long to find out, the flap of one of the tents opening with a brisk snap of heavy fabric.
As Galen stormed out of the tent, Laoghaire drank in the sight of him.
Outfitted in a chain mail hauberk, over which he wore a scaled leather surcoat, he was an intimidating sight to behold as he strode toward them.
Perhaps it was because Galen cut so fierce a figure, with his dark, windblown hair and narrowed gaze, that when Laoghaire opened her mouth to call out a greeting the words lodged in her throat.
Although she doubted he would have heard them anyway given that a bolt of lightning unexpectedly burst free from the clouds, followed by a stentorian roar of thunder.
In its aftermath, Laoghaire gently patted Aife’s neck, trying to calm the mare as it whinnied and shook its head from side to side.
To her dismay, Galen had no words of welcome for her. In fact, he said nothing at all, and she suddenly worried that leaving Castle Airlie had been a grave mistake.
No! I made the right decision, she told herself, certain that Galen would thank her once he learned the reason for her unexpected arrival.
His eyes as flat at a loch on a windless day, Galen stared at her with a remote expression while he slowly appraised her from head to foot.
Even though Laoghaire surmised that he was furious with her, the impact of that potent stare caused her pulse to quicken and the muscles in her stomach to tighten.
Unwillingly, she recalled their last night together, and the way in which he touched her, kissed her, filled her with his seed.
His nostrils flaring ever so slightly, Galen extended a hand in her direction, wordlessly indicating that he wanted her to dismount.
Just then, another flash of lightning was ripped from the heavens.
“Were you physically harmed?” Galen rasped in a lowered voice as he assisted her from the horse. He smelled of leather and pine and sweet wine, and Laoghaire ached to feel his arms hold her tightly.
When it became apparent that Galen had no intention of embracing her, she desolately shook her head.
“It would seem that I have wed one of the Morrigu.”
“The goddesses of death and destruction,” she murmured, horrified by the comparison.
Galen gestured to her mannish apparel. “And you are she in all her dark glory,” he said before he brusquely took hold of her by the upper arm and unceremoniously pulled her over to where Simon Blàrach stood waiting.
Like opposing foes on a field of battle, the deputies rallied behind Simon Blàrach, while Galen’s men-at-arms formed a line to the rear of their liege lord.
“What is the meaning of this spectacle?” Galen demanded, glaring at Sheriff Blàrach with a questioning look on his face.
“You will be happy to know, my lord, that I foiled a deadly attempt upon your life,” Blàrach boasted.
“Indeed?”
“That is the right of it,” Blàrach asserted with a nod. “This Highland reiver, a she-wolf if ever there was, tried to connive me into believing that she is the countess of Angus. Took me for a fool, she did.”
“God’s wounds. This tale only improves with the telling,” Galen muttered. “And did it escape your notice that the knight riding with this lady is wearing a red rampant lion upon his surcoat?”
Casting a quick glance at Sir William, the sheriff shrugged and said, “I reckoned it a ruse to give credence to the subterfuge. ’Tis obvious the she-wolf and her band of men were plotting some foul mischief.”
“And did my lady wife confess to this plot?”
As the significance of Galen’s question sank in, a bewildered look crept into the sheriff’s eyes. “Then, the wench was telling the truth?” he said, clearly thunderstruck.
“The ‘wench’ is my wife, and you will show her the respect that is her due.” Although he spoke in an eerily calm tone of voice, Galen’s eyes had turned a wintry shade of pewter-gray.
Recovering some of his earlier bluster, Blàrach glanced dismissively at Laoghaire and said, “If she is a countess, then I am—”
“A fool,” Galen stated matter-of-factly. Giving Blàrach no time to react, he unsheathed his sword, the edge of the blade coming to within a hairsbreadth of the sheriff’s throat. “Moreover, if you do not beg my lady wife’s forgiveness, I will cut you down where you stand.”
The threat met with an expectant hush amongst the sheriff’s deputies, as well as Galen’s men-at-arms, the air suddenly rife with a palpable tension.
Despite the fact that Galen appeared remarkably composed, Laoghaire knew that should Simon Blàrach fail to comply, he would soon be looking death in the face.
And though the sheriff stood nearly as tall as Galen, and had about him the bulk of a man accustomed to wielding heavy weapons, she was certain the outcome would not be in his favor.
“Strike down the king’s man, would you?” Blàrach retorted, refusing to yield. “The Bruce would not be pleased.”
Galen gave an unconcerned shrug. “I suspect the king will thank me for removing a villain from his realm. And an incompetent villain, at that.”
Evidently realizing he held an untenable position, Blàrach raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I thought there was mischief afoot, milord. ’Tis my job as sheriff to investigate anyone who breaks the king’s law.”
“And which of those laws did my lady wife break?” When the sheriff made no reply, Galen continued to prod him. “Perhaps she drew a sword on you?”
His eyes having grown round with alarm, the sheriff shook his head. “Nay, she did not.”
“Perhaps she threatened you in some manner?”
“Nay, she . . . she made no threats.”
“Then, why in the name of all that’s holy did you apprehend her?” Galen snarled, his eyes gleaming with a naked, unadulterated fury.
“I thought you would, erm, be pleased that I—”
“You thought wrong!” Galen pressed the tip of his blade into the exposed skin of the sheriff’s neck, drawing forth a glistening drop of blood. “Make amends, knave!”
With a stunned look on his face, Simon Blàrach stepped back from Galen’s sword and went down on bended knee in front of Laoghaire. “I most humbly beg your pardon, milady, and ask that you . . . you forgive me.”
Although the blame for the travesty was the sheriff’s entirely, Laoghaire nevertheless granted him absolution. “Ye are forgiven,” she murmured.
“Now get out of my sight before I change my mind and run you through,” Galen commanded, as he sheathed his sword.
Even though the sheriff’s shoulders sagged with visible relief, there was no mistaking the enmity in his gaze. Lurching to his feet, he stormed toward his horse. His deputies immediately followed suit, the pack of riders making a speedy departure from the camp.
As she watched the humiliated sheriff take his leave, Laoghaire knew that while Simon Blàrach may have begged her forgiveness, she’d made a powerful enemy. One whom she hoped to never again lay eyes upon.
She had no time to ponder the matter further, for Galen took a firm grasp of her arm. When she balked at his roughshod treatment of her, he simply gave a tug and towed her behind him as he stormed toward the tent she’d earlier seen him emerge from.
At the tent entrance, Galen released his hold on her. He then braced his balled fists on his hips and stared at her with a stern expression. “Christ God! What are you doing here?”
To Laoghaire’s shame, her legs shook with such force she feared she might actually crumble before him. “I thought . . . I thought ye’d be happy to see me.”
“Happy?!” Galen bellowed. “Do I look happy to you?”