“This is what we, the women of Castle Maoil, think of ye and yer band of cutthroats!” she yelled out . . . just before she hurled the deadly lance.
Raising his shield, Sir Galen easily intercepted the soaring weapon, knocking it asunder with lithe ease, having expended no more energy than if he’d swatted a fly.
“You redheaded hellion! Pray thee I don’t get my hands on you,” Sir Galen threatened in a menacing tone. As he spoke, a lightning bolt suddenly plunged to the ground. And though his black steed reared slightly, the knight did not so much as flinch in the rumbling aftermath.
“Hah! ’Tis unlikely ye’ll ever get yer hands upon me. Or any woman at Castle Maoil,” Laoghaire retorted, peering down at the knight from where she stood atop the gatehouse.
“Bold words for a woman.”
“Bold, mayhap, but true!”
“And what does a Scottish harlot know about truth?” Sir Galen taunted.
Laoghaire glared at the haughty knight. How dare the knave speak of truth when he’d resorted to base trickery in order to lure the laird and most of her kinsmen from the castle. Because of his deviousness, she was certain the devil was now before her in the guise of a black-clad warrior.
While Laoghaire recalled that contentious first meeting—the knight having threatened to not only raze the castle but to also give his men free rein to rape its women—she knew that for good reason Sir Galen de Ogilvy was known throughout Scotland as the Dark Knight.
As it turned out, Laoghaire’s sister-in-law ultimately conceded to the knight’s demands, the castle and its inhabitants having thus been spared. Nevertheless, that ignoble incident had incited a near-deadly blood feud between Clan MacKinnon and the House de Ogilvy; one that only ended when the king himself interceded.
“There are many a bandit between here and Skye,” Sir Galen remarked, directing his comment to Laoghaire. “Given that we expected your arrival several days ago, I feared you met with some calamitous mishap.”
“I would have thought ye’d be glad-hearted had I been felled by a bandit’s blade.”
Placing his right hand over his heart, Sir Galen said with exaggerated politeness, “The lady doth see right through my meager attempt at a solicitous welcome.”
“Aye, I see right through ye,” she retorted with a vigorous nod. “For I know yer heart to be as black as the surcoat that garbs yer ?”
“Laoghaire! Hold yer tongue!” Diarmid admonished sternly. “Sir Galen has done naught this day to earn yer enmity. Soon the two of ye shall belong to the same family through the bonds of marriage. And do not forget that yer betrothed husband is Sir Galen’s uncle. Moreover, the knight fought bravely for King Robert at Methven.”
“Allow me to correct your misassumption,” Sir Galen said. “I am no longer?”
“The Dark Knight?” Laoghaire interjected. “Do ye really think that because ye waved yer sword on the fields at Methven that it would atone for the villainy ye committed against Clan MacKinnon?”
“In threatening to lay siege to the MacKinnon stronghold, I did what was necessary to recapture my uncle’s betrothed bride,” Sir Galen said in his defense, his eyes narrowing with obvious disdain. “My only regret is that I granted you more leniency than you deserved.”
“Although I couldn’t help but notice that ye received a just reward for yer sins.” As she spoke, Laoghaire stared impudently at the scar that ran from Sir Galen’s left temple to the edge of his jaw. While it was not uncommon for knights to bear the scars of combat, few wore the mark of battle in so conspicuous a manner. “I see that Lucifer met his comeuppance at the tip of Michael’s sword,” she remarked to her cousin, pleased to think that the arrogant knight had been brought down a few notches.
Although his jaw visibly tightened—Sir Galen clearly taking umbrage—his reply was made in an eerily calm tone of voice. “’Twas your brother, the laird of Clan MacKinnon, who slashed my face.”
Given that her brother made no mention of the incident, Laoghaire was taken aback by the disclosure. “While it gladdens my heart to know ye’ll carry the MacKinnon’s mark to yer grave, when next we meet, I must chastise my brother for robbing me of the honor.”
Very slowly, Sir Galen turned his head, presenting Laoghaire with a view of the other side of his face. “I have another cheek . . . if you dare,” he added in a lowered voice, as he palmed his sword hilt.
“Ye’re most generous, Sir Galen.” Laoghaire’s lips twisted in a parody of a gay smile. “Some other time mayhap.”
“After the wedding there will be time aplenty.”
Disliking his insolent tone, Laoghaire defiantly jutted her chin at the ill-mannered cur. “I came here to wed the Earl of Angus, not to spar with his lowly knight.”
At hearing that, a flash of emotion flared in Sir Galen’s pewter-gray eyes, only to vanish in the next instant. “Speaking of the upcoming nuptials, the wedding will take place at sunset. Pray thee do not be late.”
“Ye can rot, Sir Knight!”
“Soon, lady, you will be undermydominion,” Sir Galen boldly asserted, no doubt hoping to intimidate her. “And when that happens, you will be made to rue your shrewish tongue.”
Laoghaire swallowed hard, fighting to control her temper. “The only thing I’ll rue is that ye and I will share the same surname.”
“Oh, we’ll share more than that, sweetings.”
