“Christ on the cross! I thought they’d never leave.”
Relieved to have the bothersome ritual behind them, Galen snatched the wine flagon from the sandalwood table.
“All of this blessing of beds and priestly sanctimony has given me a powerful thirst.” Peering over his shoulder at Laoghaire, he added, “I would have you join me.” If for no other reason than he hoped the wine would ease her rite of passage. In her present state, his bride put him in mind of a sacrificial lamb, and he suspected that lying with her would be akin to rutting on a marble effigy. A thought that did little to enflame his passions.
Where is the wild Highland beauty who hurled a lance at me that day at Castle Maoil?Even now, months later, he could still vividly recall the way in which Laoghaire’s hair, flying behind her in the wind, made it appear as though she were haloed in flames.Thatwas the woman he wanted writhing beneath him this night. Not some cowering virgin. Yes, he would soon take her maidenhead; and, in return, he would feed, clothe, and protect Laoghaire MacKinnon for the rest of her born days. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t take pleasure in the marital bed. Better to burnish his rod in a warm, welcoming vessel than one that was cold and brittle.
While he poured wine into the two goblets which had earlier been placed on the table, Galen glanced at his Highland bride. Wide-eyed, she peered back at him, intently watching his every move.
Clutching the sheet to her chest, Laoghaire said, “I cannot join ye as I am not properly dressed.”
“And I am?”With a wry half-grin, Galen gestured to his braies, worn only for modesty’s sake on account of the bedding ceremony. As with most trained warriors, his body was as much a weapon as his sword; thus, he felt no inhibition about his naked state.
Besides, Laoghaire was now his wife and she must become accustomed to him. He did not wish to share his bedchamber with a cringing female who averted her gaze from his unclothed body.
When Laoghaire showed no inclination of getting out of the bed, Galen stormed over to the wooden chest that was set in the nearby window alcove. Annoyed with her reticence, he grabbed hold of his mantle, the garment having been neatly folded and placed on top of the trunk.
Tossing the mantle at his bride, he said, “Don that, if you must.”
“Dame Winifred was quite correct: Ye are ‘the very model of chivalry,’” Laoghaire grumbled with no small measure of sarcasm. She then threw back the coverlet and scooted to the edge of the feather mattress.
As he observed his new bride maneuver off the bed, the blood instantly rushed to Galen’s groin. Laoghaire’s silken chemise—the garment sinfully sheer—clung to every rounded curve on her body. It was so sheer he could even see the red thatch of hair that covered her woman’s mound.
To his dismay, Galen had only a brief, alluring glimpse, his bride all too quickly enveloping herself in the voluminous cloak before she padded over to the table.
“Have ye no shame?” Laoghaire hissed, casting a furtive glance at Galen’s bare chest.
“Do you mean to ask if I am embarrassed to have you look upon me? I am not,” Galen answered matter-of-factly, while he casually leaned his haunches on the edge of the table. “I am as God intended me to be. As are you, lady wife.” He punctuated the addendum by lightly brushing the tip of his finger across the smooth line of Laoghaire’s jaw. When she flinched slightly, Galen lowered his hand and reached for one of the wine goblets. “Here. Drink this,” he ordered, irritated with her response to the gentle caress. “I pray it will balance your humors, for they are not as they should be this night.”
Laoghaire took the honey-colored goblet from him. As she did so, a rapt expression suddenly came over her. “’Tis made of glass,” she marveled.
Given her awestruck reaction, Galen surmised that Laoghaire had never before seen a glass drinking vessel. No surprise in that, glass a rare commodity.
“The goblets were a wedding gift from the king,” he told her.
All too soon Laoghaire’s expression hardened, the lady clearly taking umbrage. “Does the Bruce think a beautiful goblet will make arrears for his marital decree?”
Suspecting it was best not to answer that particular question, Galen deliberately changed the subject. “I’ve been told that the eyes are a reflection of one’s soul. If that is true, then yours blaze with an emotion ill-suited for a bride on her wedding night.”
A taut silence ensued as Laoghaire wordlessly stared at him, her gaze focused on the scar that ravaged his left cheek. “Aye, it is well known that a hideous appearance mirrors the state of one’s soul,” she said at last, smirking as she did so.
“So you think me hideous, do you?”
She took a measured sip of wine before replying, “No one would claim yer scar a comely sight.”
“You don’t mince words, do you?” Although irked, Galen knew she spoke the truth.
Lifting a shoulder, Laoghaire said airily, “I speak my mind. ’Tis no crime in that.”
Oh, but there is, lady wife.
Laoghaire MacKinnon was now his property, his chattel. And as such, she was not to form an opinion nor have a belief that did not first originate with him. Her days of speaking her mind were now the stuff of memory. While he wanted her to show some spirit in his bed, he expected his countess to display a docile temperament when not engaged in bedsport. Under no circumstance would he abide a wayward woman in his household.
“At Castle AirlieIdecide what is or is not a crime,” he said with quiet emphasis.
“Would ye have me speak falsely, then? To simper and smile as I proclaim ye a chivalrous and handsome knight?”
“’Twould be a welcome change,” Galen muttered, as he took a swig of his wine.
