“No, not like this, Galen . . .please,” she implored, her eyes filling with tears.
Long moments passed, the desperate plea stretched between them.
Having suddenly gone motionless, Galen peered into her eyes, as though he’d never seen a teardrop before. His gray eyes sparking with a barely concealed rage, he suddenly removed his hand from her hip. After which, he shoved himself off her body and rose to his feet.
Standing above her, Galen continued to stare at her, his face an inscrutable mask.
In that tense and silent interlude, Laoghaire realized that her léine was twisted about her thighs and hips, the white linen fabric pulled snugly across her chest as well. Evidently Galen was also aware of her provocative disarray, for his gaze lingered on her breasts, the rounded curves rising and falling in great erratic bursts as she labored to pull air into her lungs. She then watched as Galen’s pupils dilated, until the irises became little more than a slender rim of pewter. Although tempted to rearrange her garment, she didn’t dare, worried that any movement on her part would only serve to heighten his obvious arousal.
“If you began your courses four days ago, I only to wait three days before I can rut on you,” he said at last, his voice as chill as a cold winter’s morn.
“I’m impressed. Ye can count,” Laoghaire muttered.
Galen’s only response was to bestow upon her a withering glare; one which she presumed had been perfected on countless battlefields. He then thrust an outstretched arm in her direction, silently bidding her to take his hand. Worried that he would rescind the reprieve if she refused, she reluctantly placed her hand in his. In the next instant, Laoghaire felt the sinews of Galen’s arm tighten when he unceremoniously pulled her upright.
As they stood opposite one another, she straightened her shoulders. Mortified by her earlier show of tears, she was now keen to prove that, while she may have bent, she was far from broken.
“Rest assured that I willstand on my rights as your husband, and Iwillbed you,” Galen emphasized in a strained voice.
Laoghaire swallowed the panic that rose in her throat upon hearing that stark affirmation.
“And as long as my heart beats in my chest,” he continued, a sneer curling his lips, “I will be your lord husband and you will serve me, in my bed and out of it. Upon my command, you will make yourself available to me. At which time I expect you to be warm, wet, and ready.”
His last remark—utterly callous and demeaning—enraged Laoghaire. Lest there’d been any misconception, Galen de Ogilvy just confirmed that she was nothing more than a receptacle for his manly lusts.
“Stay here while I retrieve my horse,” Galen ordered, before he turned abruptly on his heel and strode away from her.
As he made his way into the grove, Laoghaire knew that she had only three days to free herself from him. Once their marriage vows were consummated, all would be lost. Because of that, she was determined to do everything in her power to convince Galen to seek an annulment. There was no doubt in her mind that he still yearned for the fragile, blonde-haired Melisande; she just hoped the other woman would prove a powerful enough lure for him.
And why would she not?
Laoghaire was not blind. She could see—as could everyone else—that the lady Melisande was the very embodiment of female grace and beauty. During their wedding feast, she’d been forced to listen to countless songs praising that very type of golden blonde beauty.
I wonder if he ever rutted on Melisande.
Suddenly envisioning the two of them entwined in one another’s arms—Galen’s dark visage a perfect complement to the other’s golden beauty—Laoghaire felt a sickening jolt in the pit of her belly, the thought of their lovemaking provoking a twinge of jealousy.
It matters naught, she told herself, forcing the image from her mind’s eye. All that mattered was obtaining her freedom. By any means possible.
CHAPTER NINE
Laoghaire winced as Coira tightly wrapped the cambric barbette under her chin and over her ears, anchoring the fabric to the top of her head with a handful of bone pins.
“Perhaps ye should wear yer gold headband rather than the fillet,” Coira remarked, cocking her head to one side while she assessed her handiwork. “Do ye not agree, milady?”
Seated on a stool, Laoghaire picked up a hand mirror and peered at her reflected image. She turned her head slightly, enabling her to view the braided chignon at the back of her head, the woven tresses held in place with an emerald-studded crispinette.
In truth, Laoghaire felt as though she’d just been placed into a finely fashioned yoke.
“I do not care for the barbette,” she said after a moment’s consideration, fingering the bit of white fabric. “It makes me look—” she paused, searching her mind for the right word—“staid.”
Coira chuckled softly, bobbing her head in agreement. “Aye, it does lend a solemn air that is ill-suited to one so young and bonny.” Pronouncement made, she began to pluck out the very pins she’d just inserted. “Ye have a lovely long neck and firm chin. ’Tis no reason why ye shouldn’t flaunt yer beauty.”
As the other woman began to remove the barbette, Laoghaire suddenly wondered if she’d unwittingly made a crucial misstep.
I do not want Galen to think me the least bit attractive.Not when she was determined to seek an annulment. As it was, time was not on her side. Three days from now, when she was finished with her menses, Galen would consummate the marriage. When that happened, she would be bound to him until the day she died.
But I will make him see reason before that occurs.Then, with the annulment secured, she could return to the Isle of Skye with Diarmid, her cousin having promised to stop at Castle Airlie once his business in Perth was concluded.
