Yet even as he thought it, Galen was guiltily aware that he was supposed to have wed another woman, and that it wasshewho should rightfully be sitting beside him.
Craning his head slightly, Galen peered at Melisande Jardin. The widow of a baron who’d been killed at Earnside, she’d arrived at Castle Airlie nearly a year ago, seeking sanctuary after her manor house at Doune had been razed to the ground by Edward I’s marauding English troops. Her mother, Dame Winifred, was a marital relation of Hugh de Ogilvy’s third wife, and had taken over the running of the castle when the previous countess had been confined to childbed.
Truly, Lady Melisande doth delight the eye, he thought admiringly.
Unlike many of the female guests, Melisande was adorned, not in a gaudy, brightly colored gown, but in a demure shade of dove gray, the sleeves of which were trimmed in white coney. The gown clung softly to her delicate form, her breasts thrust against the silk fabric like two rounded nuts. Her crowning feature, her golden blonde hair, was covered by a sheer white wimple and a pearl-studded crispinette. Admittedly, Galen would have preferred that she not have worn the latter, finding the rounded bulges that protruded from either side of her head a distraction.
But what do I know of fashion?
Lovely to behold, Melisande was, even more impressively, a docile woman, possessed of a serene nature; one that was in stark contrast to her mother, who enjoyed lording her position over others. Gentle of manner and even of temper, Melisande knew her place in the world and would not think to question it.
She would never charge across a battlement and hurl a lance at me.
Despite the fact that they had already plighted their troth when his uncle unexpectedly died in his sleep, Melisande dutifully accepted the king’s marital decree regarding the House of Ogilvy and Clan MacKinnon. And for that Galen was grateful. Feeling a responsibility for the lady, he was determined to find her a suitable husband to marry. Until then, she would remain at Castle Airlie. These were dangerous times and a lone woman was particularly vulnerable.
“While the old earl was known for his hospitality, our new lord is setting an enviable standard,” Dame Winifred suddenly remarked in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone at the high table. As with many, if not most of the guests, copious amounts of wine and ale had loosened her tongue considerably. “Lord Angus is the very model of chivalry, is he not?”
The question met with a hearty consensus, with more than a few guests clanking a tankard against the table.
“Lady Angus, I am most curious about something,” the matron said, as she leaned her torso forward in order to peer down the table at Laoghaire. “I have never met a woman with so unusual a forename. Is it a common one in the Highlands?”
Several moments passed in awkward silence before Laoghaire finally said, “’Tis not so common a name.”
“True enough. But what my cousin failed to mention is that it isn’t a woman’s name at all,” Diarmid MacKinnon chimed in. Ruddy-cheeked, the young Scot appeared to be quite sodden, the wine flagon having come his way with great frequency. “She was named after Laoghaire Odhar Fiosaiche; or as you Lowlanders would have called him, ‘Somber Laoghaire of the Prophecies.’ He was gifted with the Second Sight, and came to Skye from Ireland when—”
“Do you mean to say that Laoghaire is a man’s name?” Galen interjected, stunned by the disclosure.
“Aye, it is,” Diarmid confirmed with a vigorous nod of the head. “The laird’s wife, who’d unexpectedly gone into childbirth whilst walking on a hillside, was so grateful to Laoghaire Odhar Fiosaiche for coming to her aid that she named her newborn daughter after him. It is even rumored that he was the last of the Druid priests.” The addendum was uttered with a heightened air, as though the young Scot were imparting a deep, dark secret.
“You were named for a sorcerer?” Father Giroldus inquired of Laoghaire, the priest’s jaw having slackened with shock.
“He was not a sorcerer,” Laoghaire was quick to clarify, her cheeks flushed with heated color. “He was a seer.”
“There is a difference?” someone at the table inquired.
“Leave be!” Galen commanded, able to see that the conversation was not to Laoghaire’s liking. “Lest my lady wife cast a spell upon you,” he could not help but add, the jest garnering more than a few amused chuckles.
Just then, one of the minstrels began to sing aboutyet anotherlovelorn knight.
Having listened to enough tripe for one night, Galen forcefully banged his fist on the top of the table. “The time has finally arrived,” he stated abruptly, rising to his feet.
The announcement met with an expectant silence, as everyone in the hall suddenly swiveled their head toward the high table.
“The time for what?” Laoghaire asked, clearly unnerved to be the focus of so much avid attention.
Galen did not immediately reply. Instead he stared at his new bride, his gaze drawn to the tresses that curled over her full bosom. In the flickering candlelight, her unbound locks appeared like waves of molten copper. Unbidden, he conjured an image of Laoghaire in his mind’s eye—naked, adorned in nothing save for the golden torc—straddling his equally naked body as she slithered down his torso, before taking him into her mouth.
Feeling his manhood swell with pent-up desire, Galen said at last, “It is time to bed you, lady wife.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Amidst raucous shouting and a trumpet fanfare, Laoghaire had been summarily whisked from the great hall.
Escorted by a bevy of women—the wives of Galen’s most trusted vassals—she’d been taken to the lord’s bedchamber; whereupon she’d been made ready for the bedding ceremony. Overwhelmed by the fact that even the prosaic act of undressing was cause for yet another ritual, Laoghaire had permitted the women to remove all of her garments, anoint her naked body with scented oil, and comb out her hair. Once that was done, she was garbed in a silk chemise.
Although why they even bothered was something of mystery given that the scanty garment was nearly transparent. To Laoghaire’s shame, her nipples, as well as the triangle of hair between her legs, were clearly visible through the sheer fabric. Held in place with a thin strap on either shoulder, the chemise was cut so low in the front that the upper curve of her breasts was on full display. She had no idea where the indecent garment came from, since she did not bring it with her from Skye.
Finally, as though she were a fatted lamb being led to slaughter, she was placed in the lord’s bed. To her surprise—and great annoyance—the gaggle of women did not take their leave, but instead began to animatedly chat amongst themselves in French. While she lay there, stiff and unmoving, it felt as though a heavy, oppressive weight was pressing upon her chest.
