But to Laoghaire’s dismay, it was not the endless blue horizon of Skye that she now looked upon; rather it was the slate-gray skies of Glenclova.
The incoming storm clouds are the same color as Galen’s eyes, she thought dully.
His continued absence notwithstanding, Galen’s presence was keenly felt at Castle Airlie. His banner, with its brazen red lion set on a stark black background, seemed to be everywhere, waving above towers, worn on the surcoats of the knights who practiced in the middle bailey, and stitched onto the badges of the household servants. Even when she took her meals, Laoghaire was forced to sit beneath the massive wall hanging that was emblazoned with the much-despised emblem; a stark reminder that only a few months ago Galen de Ogilvy had come very close to destroying everything she held dear.
Now I am married to the knave.
And though she was married in name only, the humiliation she’d been made to suffer on her wedding night was never far from her mind. That Galen had accused her of being little more than a slut was reason enough to resent him. But in truth,hewas the one who acted in a lewd manner on their wedding night, shaming her by suckling her nipple and by forcing her to bare her lower limbs for his perverted and unnatural appraisal. Never in her life had she been so demoralized. Or so thoroughly exposed to a man’s avid gaze.
So why can I not stop thinking about it?
Not for the first time, Laoghaire wondered how it was that the mere touch of Galen’s hand had incited a tumult within her. For that is how it’d felt in those heady moments when he intimately touched her, inserting his finger into that most private of places. And while she knew that his actions had been shameful, if not sinful, she’d barely been able to restrain herself from undulating her hips against his hand.
Surely, husbands and wives do not touch one another in so licentious a manner.The marriage act required only that Galen insert his privy part into her and discharge his seed. That was how God intended it to be between husband and wife. And because that was the Almighty’s intention, she had no choice but to fulfill her marital obligation. But that was allshe would permit. She was not Galen de Ogilvy’s leman. She was his wife.
If only I had not been forced to marry him.
Granted, she’d always known that she would one day have to wed. She just assumed that the chosen groom would be a Highlander. She never imagined she’d be commanded to marry a Lowland nobleman who, until only a few months ago, had been an enemy of her clan.
“And while I am now the lady of the castle, I don’t belong here,” she muttered. Despite the exchange of vows on their wedding day, she did not feel the least bit married. Instead, she felt . . .imprisoned.
“Dinna worry, milady. Clear skies follow even the darkest of storms.”
At hearing that cheerful voice, Laoghaire turned away from the window, surprised to see her attendant, Coira Guthrie, enter the lady’s bower, her arms laden with bolts of colorful fabric. A kindhearted woman, Coira hailed from the Highlands. Having someone to converse with in Gaelic helped somewhat to mitigate Laoghaire’s severe loneliness.
“I can see that ye pine for yer husband,” Coira continued, as she deposited her load onto the top of a wooden chest. “But take heart, he will soon return.”
“Ye are mistaken. I wasn’t thinking about—” Belatedly realizing that shehadbeen thinking about Galen, Laoghaire clamped her mouth shut. Like everyone at Castle Airlie, Coira was always quick to sing Galen’s praises. Although why anyone would do so was a complete mystery to her.
Picking up a bolt of purple samite, Coira said, “Since ye were unable to bring a full wardrobe with ye, I brought these fabrics from the storeroom so that we can have several gowns made.”
“If ye must know, I didn’t wear dresses before coming here,” Laoghaire confessed, not about to fabricate a lie.
Coira’s eyes opened wide, the other woman clearly shocked. “What did ye wear, then?”
“I didn’t run around naked, if that’s what ye’re thinking,” she was quick to assert, amused by the other woman’s startled expression. “Because I like to hunt, I preferred to wear tunic and chausses. ’Twas more suitable attire for such pursuits.” When Coira’s shock visibly deepened—her eyebrows raised high—Laoghaire gestured to her blue woolen kirtle. “My sister-in-law Yvette made this for me.”
“’Tis lovely, and the color suits ye perfectly. But a countess must have more than three dresses in her wardrobe.”
Laoghaire knew that Coira referred to the kirtle she was currently garbed in, the red one that she wore when she first arrived at the castle, and her blue silk wedding gown. On Skye, those three gowns would have been more than ample, sufficient to see her through any social occasion. But as Galen’s wife, she would have to entertain all manner of dignitaries, from fellow nobles to the king, himself.
With a resigned sigh, Laoghaire fingered the luxurious purple fabric, entranced by the way the golden threads caught the light.
Unfurling two ells’ worth of fabric, Coira draped it across Laoghaire’s shoulder and bosom. “The Italian weavers make the most beautiful silk, do they not?”
“Aye, they do,” she readily agreed, as she tried to envision herself garbed in the extravagant cloth. Suddenly remembering that prior to his departure Galen had urged her to look to Lady Melisande as an example of how to properly garb herself, she said, “Perhaps the kirtle could be trimmed in fur. I seem to recall that at the wedding feast, Lady Melisande wore such a gown.”
Snatching the fabric off her shoulders, Coira peered at her suspiciously. “Trust me, milady. Ye have yer husband’s eye. Ye dinna have to dress or act like Lady Melisande to garner Lord Angus’s attention.”
The strange remark made Laoghaire think that she and Coira were discussing two entirely different things. Recalling the covert glances that Galen and Melisande had shared at the wedding feast, she suddenly wondered if they had previously been lovers, and if perhaps that was what Coira slyly referred to.
“No one has said anything to me, but . . . I gather that Angus and Lady Melisande are, er, fond of one another,” Laoghaire said somewhat awkwardly, uncertain how to broach the subject.
With a pitying look in her eyes, Coira gently patted Laoghaire’s arm. “Ye have nothing to fear from Lady Melisande, for she has a gentle heart. When Lord Angus broke off their betrothal after his uncle died, sweet thing that she is, Melisande gracefully accepted the unforeseen change of events.”
They’d been betrothed to one another!At hearing that, Laoghaire’s ire began to percolate.How dare the whoreson order me to dress like the woman he originally intended to marry.
“Her mother, on the other hand, was not nearly so agreeable,” Coira confided in a lowered voice. “Dame Winifred continued to advocate for the marriage right up until yer arrival.”
