“That is well and good,” Galen told her, just before he clamped a hand onto Laoghaire’s shoulder to hold her in place. Giving her no time to protest the intrusion, he shoved a hand under her chemise and—wedging his fingers between her upper thighs—he carefully inserted his forefinger into her woman’s chasm.
“What are ye doing?” she screeched as she tried to wiggle free.
“I prefer to verify your condition for myself.”
Despite the fact that Laoghaire had only just emerged from a cold pool of water, her inner chasm was incredibly warm. And it was also wet with blood, he noted with satisfaction after he removed his hand from between her legs.
“When did your flowers begin?” he demanded to know.
The question met with silence. Although Laoghaire stood motionless before him, Galen could see the pulse beat in her throat, inciting a desire to lean forward and press his lips to the throbbing patch of white skin. That errant craving quickly gave way to a vision of Laoghaire lying beneath him, wide-eyed, those magnificent red tresses spread all around her. His very own untamed Highland faery woman, writhing and moaning with unrestrained passion, even as she begged him to thrust deeper, harder, faster.
Aroused by the provocative image, Galen took a steadying breath.
“I refuse to discuss so private a matter with ye,” Laoghaire said at last.
“I can find out easily enough from Coira.”
“My woman’s blood began four days ago,” Laoghaire muttered, while she snatched both the plaid and the leather satchel from off the ground. She then stormed over to a tall, overgrown clump of hawthorn.
“What are you doing?” he called after her.
“I prefer to finish dressing without ye ogling me.”
Acquiescing to her demand for privacy—he knew from experience that a woman’s humors could be quite volatile when she was in the midst of her courses—Galen stepped over to the pool of water to rinse the blood from his hand. As he did so, he heard Laoghaire approach him from behind.
“You, Galen de Ogilvy, are naught but a brute. One who is so black of heart that—”
“Even Satan quakes in my presence,” he interjected. “You are not the first to accuse me of being a heartless knave.” Squatting near the edge of the brook, he dunked his hand into the water. “If you mean to wound me, you will have to do better than that oft-repeated gibe.”
“But I would rather wound ye with steel than with words,” Laoghaire said in a lowered voice.
In the next instant, Galen felt a sharp jab in the side of his neck. Able to see the edge of a dagger out of the corner of his eye, he knew he’d made a very grave mistake.
I should never have turned my back on the wench.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Suffering hell!” Galen hissed on a sharp intake of breath. “What is the meaning of this?”
Rather than reply, Laoghaire pressed the tip of the dagger a bit deeper into his skin.
Galen growled another profane curse before he very slowly turned his neck, enabling him to look his wife directly in the eye. At seeing the fierce determination writ large in Laoghaire’s indigo blue orbs, he said, “I can’t decide if you’re the bravest woman I know or the most foolhardy.”
“I am the woman who holds yer life in her hands,” Laoghaire retorted, her eyes narrowing with defiance.
Hoping to weaken her resolve, Galen glanced contemptuously at the dagger, as though it were a mere trifle. “Do you actually intend to kill me with that?”
“I grant ye the idea has merit, but I think I’ll geld ye instead.” With a mocking smile on her lips, Laoghaire’s gaze momentarily dropped to the area in question. “That way I won’t have to suffer ye rutting on me like some beast in the field.”
“Then, I hope you wield a sharp blade.”
Again, she favored him with another humorless smile. “Ye have nothing to fear on that account. ’Tisverysharp.”
Still crouched beside the pool of water, Galen knew that he was in an awkward position for launching an attack to disarm her. Because of that he thought it best to defuse the situation with words instead. “When next I see the king, I must remember to thank him for saddling me with such a scold. You and your foul humors have become quite the millstone around my neck.”
“And ye are like a noose around mine!” Laoghaire exclaimed heatedly. “I have to wonder what was going through King Robert’s mind when he ordered this farce of a marriage.” As she spoke, Laoghaire removed the dagger from his neck. She then carefully backed several steps away from him.
Rising to his feet, Galen daubed at the trickle of blood that coursed down his neck, while he took the measure of the woman standing opposite him. Although her breasts heaved with the force of her emotions, Laoghaire ably held the dagger with a steady hand, the blade aimed at his midsection. Fortunately, he was garbed in a quilted leather tunic, which would offer some protection if she attacked. Be that as it may, the wench would incur a grave consequence should she make the attempt, Galen not about to permit his own wife to gut him.
