“Surely, so brave a knight as ye could never be threatened by a mere woman,” she taunted.
“I am not threatened in the least,” he informed her before he unrolled a parchment. He placed a small stone on each of the four corners to hold the sheet in place as he leaned over the desk and began to examine the entries that she’d made the previous day.
Admittedly anxious, Laoghaire watched as Galen slowly ran his index finger down the middle of the unrolled parchment. She recalled how, earlier in the day at the waterfall, that same hand had gently massaged her breasts, causing her nipples to harden into tight, achy knots. It was an unwanted and illicit thought, one that caused her to shiver ever so slightly.
Suddenly ill-at-ease, Laoghaire shifted her gaze to a nearby candle and watched as a rivulet of melting wax dribbled over the edge of the holder.
“I can see that not only do you write a fine, neat hand, your tallies are impressively accurate,” Galen commented, as he raised his head to glance over at her. “And here you led me to believe that you had no talents.”
“I told ye that I couldn’t embroider or play the harp. I never said I had no talents,” Laoghaire was quick to state in her defense.
“According to Robbie Guthrie, you have considerable talent. Indeed, my reeve highly sings your praises.” Appearing noticeably bemused, he added, “Forsooth, I will sleep better knowing that you are armed with a pen rather than a sharp blade.”
In the wake of his remark, Laoghaire felt her lips begin to quiver with mirth. Then, suddenly realizing that they were about to share a congenial moment, she bit down on her lower lip in order to maintain her composure.
“When I was a young knight at my uncle’s chateau in Normandy, there was a popular saying,” Galen continued, the hint of a smile still hovering on his lips. “‘Do not choose a wife for her beauty or because she is lettered, for such women are often deceivers.’ It would appear that I am doubly damned.”
The entire time he spoke, Galen stared intently at her, causing the blood to rush to Laoghaire’s face. In the heated interval that followed, his eyes slowly traveled the length of her body, making her feel as though she were about to be devoured by a ravening wolf.
Judas! I should have worn the barbette and my old kirtle, she silently cursed, as she bowed her head and feigned a sudden interest in the unrolled sheet of parchment.
“I just paid you a compliment, sweetings. Have you nothing to say?” Galen asked, as he placed a finger under her chin and lifted her head.
Forced to peer at him, Laoghaire set her gaze on the raised scar that marred his handsome face. It pleased her immensely to know that Galen de Ogilvy would go to his grave with the mark of the MacKinnon literally carved onto his visage. Indeed, she was very tempted to run her finger over the raised welt of scar tissue that bisected his left cheek, so that she could vicariously imagine the pain he suffered when her brother Iain slashed his face.
“Is that how Norman knights court French ladies, by complimenting them in one breath before insulting them in the next?” Laoghaire heatedly spat at him, unable to curb her tongue. “And I do not like being called ‘sweetings.’ It makes me feel like the village trull.” A nameless woman of no consequence that he’d hired for the night to pleasure him.
Clearly annoyed that she would dare to castigate him, Galen’s pewter-gray eyes took on a perceptibly dangerous cast. “Your complaint has been duly noted,” he said in a lowered voice.
In the ensuing silence, Laoghaire could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. The knave had yet to pass verdict on whether she could or could not continue as household steward. And though she knew it was a moot point given that she would soon be leaving Glenclova, Laoghaire was nonetheless on tenterhooks. No doubt that was the reason why the room suddenly felt too small, too quiet, the stone walls seeming to close in upon her.
Unnerved by the disquiet, she sucked in a deep breath. As she did so, Galen’s eyes followed the slight movement of her breasts and they rose and fell, the curve of her bosom momentarily straining against the green damask of her kirtle.
After what seemed an interminably long silence, Galen finally said, “I trust you will play me fair, lady wife.”
“Then, the position is mine?” she asked, incredulous.
When Galen verified with a silent nod, for some reason that she could not fathom, Laoghaire felt a burst of joy ripple through her . . . causing her to almost smile at the knave.
Bored with the evening’s revelry, Galen sprawled languorously in his seigneurial chair, greatly annoyed by a great many things.
That his lady wife would not deign to speak to him—even after he magnanimously gave his consent to her working in the steward’s office—was foremost in the litany of irksome grievances. Indeed, she sat beside him at the high table as stiff and unmoving as a corpse in rigor mortis.
Stewing in his bile, Galen directed his gaze in Laoghaire’s direction. Attired in a green gown of what he knew to be a costly and luxurious fabric, her fiery locks set off by a golden headband and jewel-encrusted crispinette, she appeared magnificently regal. A countess to make any earl proud. Although pride was not what he felt when he earlier discovered his countess frolicking naked in the wild. During that startling episode, he’d been so lust-crazed that he’d been unable to mete out the punishment the wench richly deserved for having blatantly disobeyed his order notto leave the castle.
But Laoghaire’s sins did not stop there, his wife having brazenly drawn a dagger on him.After which, to compound the transgression, she had the gall to demand an annulment. And then, finally, she refused to kiss him. Of all her many offenses, for some unknown reason,thatwas the one that cut the deepest.
And what did he do in response to his wife’s willfulness? He rewarded the wench by making her household steward, lust having clearly gotten the better of him.
’Tis never a good thing when a man thinks with his cock, Galen acknowledged while he reached for his wine goblet, only to be assailed by another maddening thought: That being wed to Laoghaire was no different from taking the cowl. Similar to a monk in an abbey, he’d been forced to spend every night since their wedding alone on his pallet, unable to sleep because of his aching cods.
Damn the wench!
And yet, despite his anger, Galen could not stop thinking about how—during the ride back to the castle when Laoghaire rode pillion behind him on his mount—he’d been able to feel her breasts jostling gently against his backside. It had been a pleasure both sweet and intoxicating; one that reminded him anew that while his lady wife might be in close physical proximity, she was frustratingly out of reach.
Drinking sullenly from his goblet, Galen barely registered the taste of the spiced wine as he peered around the great hall. At a glance he could see that every manner of two-legged and four-legged creature strolled the premises, from a strutting peacock and a pair of dogs fighting over table scraps to the troupe of hired minstrels who were in the midst of merrily singing a bawdy tune.
I should like to hold my Norman knight
